"Pile the kindling together—build the fire higher!"

"Form ranks around the flame—prepare to receive the charge!"

Kaen's command split the fog like a blade of sound, and the royal guard moved without hesitation.

Wood and fuel were heaped into a single towering bonfire. The flames leapt skyward, casting long shadows across the rocky mountain pass and driving back the hungry dark.

Shields struck earth with a thunderous clang, raising dust that danced in the firelight. The formation tightened. Gilded armor gleamed in the blaze, and runes etched into steel caught the glow. Warriors stood tall—shining figures born of fire and iron, waiting for war.

Kaen stepped forward, sword in hand, his voice booming with disdain and defiance:

"Azog!"

"Maimed wretch, coward of the dark, licking your wounds in the shadows! You who fear the light—you vermin who knows only ambush!"

"Come forth. We smell your stench. Not even shadow can hide the rot on your breath."

"Thorin Oakenshield is here. Three bloodlines of Durin stand before you."

"Did you not swear to extinguish the House of Durin? Then now, O Defiler, fulfill your oath."

"Tonight we do not flee. Tonight, there is only death—ours or yours."

Kaen's words echoed through the mountains like a herald's cry. A silence fell—deep and breathless.

Then, from the shroud of fog, came a gravelly voice:

"Kaen of Eowenríel... I know you. You slew my riders not long ago."

The Dwarves stiffened. Thorin's eyes blazed with wrath.

From the veil of darkness came low laughter, deep as rolling thunder. Footsteps followed—dozens, then hundreds—accompanied by the guttural snarls of beasts.

From every direction, wargs emerged—hulking, slavering beasts with yellow eyes and blood-flecked fangs. Upon their backs rode orcs clad in black leather and bone-plate.

At their head, astride a white warg, came Azog the Defiler.

His pale flesh was tattooed with dark totems. In his hand he held a long-hafted warhammer, its rounded head gleaming with cruel promise.

He grinned.

"Well met, sons of Durin... and my old foe, Thorin Oakenshield."

"Did you think I perished? That your blade ended me? I live. Stronger than before."

Thorin stepped forward, rage boiling in his chest.

"You survived, yes. But tonight, I shall finish what I began. I'll take your head to match the hand I severed!"

Azog raised his left arm. Where his forearm once was, now stood a crude iron spike—a blade grafted into ruined flesh.

Kaen scoffed.

"Ah, so it was Thorin who lopped off your arm. I assumed your kind had no brains and simply hacked off their own limbs for fun."

Laughter broke out among the Dwarves.

"Aye! A pale orc? More like a one-handed fool."

"They should call you Azog the Amputated!"

Azog's face twisted with fury. He growled low.

"I'll have your hands crushed—every one of you!"

With a savage roar, the wargs charged.

BOOM!

They slammed against the defensive line, the force rippling through the shields. The guards stepped back slightly, holding formation.

Their enchanted armor, light for the tall and mighty men who wore it, was unbreakable by mere claws. Unless the wargs had siege weapons or a cavalry charge, the line would hold.

Kaen shouted, "Advance!"

The royal guards stepped forward, spears lancing through the air.

Thud! Crack! Shlik!

Wargs fell in heaps, impaled before they could retreat. Their orc riders tumbled to the ground, only to be run through seconds later.

Though elite, the warg-riders were no match for Kaen's finest.

But Azog... merely smiled.

"Is this all, human king? If that's your strength, then you will die tonight."

"All units—break their line. I want blood!"

The orcs surged forward—warg-riders and foot soldiers both—screaming war cries and throwing themselves against the defense with suicidal madness.

For this was the orcish way.

They did not fear death.

They were bred fast, raised hard, and lived only to kill. If Azog lost a hundred, he would replace them in a fortnight. That was the orcish advantage—endless numbers.

Even the finest armor wears thin when pressed by a tide of bodies.

Even Kaen's guard began to falter.

These were not the malformed wretches from Goblin-town. These were Azog's chosen—strong, armored, trained in brutality.

A gap opened.

Kaen's eyes narrowed.

"Drop the shield wall. No more defense—we strike now!"

He stepped forward, sword raised high.

"FOR COURAGE AND GLORY!"

"FOR EOWENRÍA!" roared his soldiers.

Thorin stepped beside him.

"SONS OF DURIN!"

"WE NEVER YIELD!" the Dwarves cried.

With that, the defensive ring broke, and the warriors surged forward like a living spear. Steel met flesh. Wargs screamed. Orcs fell in droves.

Kaen was a hurricane.

Where his blade fell, heads flew. Bodies split. Beasts crumbled.

Thorin and his kin fought valiantly—drawing wargs low with traps, then burying axes into their necks. Dwarven unity and rage made them unstoppable in the melee.

All except one—

Bilbo Baggins, who had vanished into thin air.

Somewhere on the battlefield, the Hobbit wore the One Ring once more, invisible amidst the carnage, slipping through shadows, bearing silent witness.

Azog watched from afar, his grin fading.

Then, he saw it—an opening.

Thorin, separated, facing a warg alone.

Azog struck.

He spurred his beast forward, hammer raised.

"DIE, THORIN OAKENSHIELD!"

The orc leader's war cry pierced the night.

The Dwarves screamed.

"THORIN, BEHIND YOU!"

Thorin turned—too late.

He raised his shield—CRACK!

Azog's warhammer smashed into the oaken barrier, splitting it like firewood. Thorin was hurled back, tumbling across the stones, gasping.

His shield was ruined. His arm was numb. Though Dwarven resilience spared him broken bones, his mind reeled.

Azog charged again, warg snarling, hammer drawn back for the killing blow.

Thorin could only watch, dazed.

The Dwarves screamed and surged toward him—but they were too far. They would not reach him in time.

And in that moment, despair gripped every heart.

Azog's face was lit with triumph. At last, the prince of Erebor would die beneath his hammer.

But then—

A voice rose above the roar of battle, clear and defiant:

"I RAISE MY BLADE TO THE SKY—AND BRING LIGHT TO THIS LAND OF SHADOWS!"

It was like the cry of a star being born.

All heads turned.

Kaen leapt through the firelight, his sword blazing like a shard of the sun, streaking through the dark, heading straight for Azog.

And the light he carried—

It banished the fog.