Then Thranduil came to the gates of Erebor, riding his great elk, his presence calm yet commanding as the Elven warriors gathered behind him in silent formation.
Above, on the high walls of the mountain, Thorin stood ready, armored and unyielding, his gaze fixed on the Elvenking below.
"I did not invite you to the Lonely Mountain," Thorin called down, his voice carrying across the stone. "And my kingdom has no love for long ears."
Thranduil did not react to the insult. He looked up at Thorin with the same measured calm.
"I have no love for Dwarves either," he replied evenly. "But I did not come for insults… nor for war, if it can be avoided."
A brief pause followed as his voice turned firmer.
"My offer still stands. Give me the White Gems of Lasgalen—the gems that are mine—and I will take my people and leave this place."
The wind moved through the valley, carrying the tension between them.
Thranduil's gaze did not waver.
"I ask only for what was taken," Thranduil said, his tone steady, but final.
"Nothing was taken," Thorin answered without hesitation, his voice hard as stone. "That treasure belongs to the Lonely Mountain—and I am its king. So no."
A faint shift passed through the Elven ranks behind Thranduil, but he remained unmoved, his gaze fixed on Thorin.
"It seems the new King under the Mountain does not see what stands before him," Thranduil said, his voice calm, but carrying across the valley. "Behind me is an army that could sweep these gates aside and end this swiftly."
His tone did not rise, yet the weight of it pressed against the walls of Erebor.
"If you value the lives of your people," he continued, "you will not force this into bloodshed over what need not be denied."
Thorin stepped forward slightly, his expression tightening, pride and something darker flickering beneath it.
"You speak of bloodshed as if it is mine to fear," he said. "You come to my gates with an army and call it peace."
Thranduil's eyes narrowed slightly.
"I call it restraint," he replied. "Something you would do well to consider."
The space between them tightened, words no longer softening the truth.
"This is your last chance, Thorin Oakenshield," Thranduil said. "Return what is mine, and I will leave."
Thorin did not hesitate.
"You will have nothing," he said.
Thranduil raised his hand.
At once, the Elven ranks behind him moved as one. Bows were lifted, arrows drawn, every point aimed toward the gates of Erebor. The sound of drawn strings filled the air, tight and controlled, a single command holding back a storm.
Above the walls, the Dwarves stiffened.
Balin looked out at the sea of arrows, then turned to Thorin, tension clear in his voice.
"Thorin…"
Before anything could break, Thorin raised his hand.
"Wait."
The moment held, stretched thin, every breath measured as both sides stood on the edge of violence.
Then—
A horn sounded.
Low. Deep. Carried from afar.
It rolled across the valley, cutting through the tension like a blade.
Another followed, louder, closer.
All eyes turned.
Across the plains , movement appeared—dark shapes first, then lines, then ranks. An army advanced, heavy and disciplined, the ground itself seeming to tremble beneath their march.
War horns echoed again.
Thranduil's gaze sharpened.
From the front of that force rode a figure clad in heavy armor, riding a great boar, his presence unmistakable even at a distance.
Dáin Ironfoot.
Behind him, the Dwarves of the Iron Hills marched in full force, war-ready, weapons gleaming, their advance steady and unyielding.
On the walls, a shift ran through Thorin's company.
Reinforcements.
Thranduil slowly lowered his hand, signaling his archers to hold.
The balance had changed.
"Yeah… this is pointless," Luke said as he appeared beside Gandalf, his gaze drifting over the gathered armies below.
Gandalf did not startle easily, but this time he turned sharply, staff tightening in his grip as he studied the stranger who had appeared without warning.
"Who might you be?" Gandalf asked, his tone cautious, eyes narrowing slightly.
Luke didn't answer directly. He kept looking ahead, as if the armies were of little interest to him.
"Someone from beyond your sky," he said casually, then glanced at Gandalf. "So… how did your encounter with the Necromancer go?"
Gandalf's expression changed.
Not visibly to most, but enough.
He studied Luke more carefully now, the question itself far too specific to ignore.
"That is not knowledge freely spoken of," Gandalf said slowly. "Few even know of it."
Luke gave a faint shrug.
"Yeah, well… I know enough," he replied. "Enough to know that whatever you found there isn't something you can ignore."
Gandalf held his gaze, searching for something—intent, threat, truth.
"And what exactly do you think I found?" he asked.
Luke's eyes flicked toward the distant horizon for a moment, then back.
"Something that shouldn't be back yet," he said. "Something that's already moving pieces into place."
The wind passed between them, carrying the distant sounds of marching armies.
Gandalf's grip on his staff tightened slightly.
"You speak as though you understand it," he said.
Luke smirked faintly.
"I don't need to understand it," he replied. "I just need to know it's trouble."
"And one more thing," Luke added, his tone shifting just enough to draw attention. "The One Ring has surfaced again. It's already in someone's hands, and sooner or later it will make its way to the one who truly seeks it. When that happens… you won't be dealing with shadows anymore. You'll be preparing for war."
Gandalf went completely still.
For a moment, he said nothing. The weight of those words settled far deeper than anything spoken before. His eyes searched Luke's face, not for deception, but for confirmation.
"Then, stranger who knows so much," Gandalf said, studying him carefully, "what is your intention? What role do you intend to play in this?"
Luke didn't look at him immediately. His eyes remained on the field below, on the tension stretched between Elves and Dwarves.
"An observer," he said at last, almost casually. "Someone who steps in… when it matters."
He gave a faint shrug.
"I could end this with a snap of my fingers," he added, as if stating something ordinary. "But that would ruin the point. Some things are better left to play out the way they're meant to."
Then the Elves and Dwarves looked at each other, weapons raised, tension snapping into action as both sides began to move.
Lines advanced.
Shields lifted, blades drawn, archers ready to loose. The distance between them closed with every step, the moment of impact seconds away.
Then—
The ground shook.
Not a tremor, but a violent rupture that tore through the valley. The earth rumbled beneath their feet, forcing both armies to halt mid-charge as stone cracked and dust rose into the air.
The clash never came.
Every head turned toward the distant mountains.
A deafening roar followed, and the mountainside split open.
From within, two massive Earth-eaters burst out, their enormous bodies tearing through rock as if it were nothing. Debris cascaded down around them, the very ground collapsing under their weight as they forced their way into the open.
And behind them,
An army.
Orcs poured out in numbers that dwarfed everything before them, black armor, crude blades, ranks stretching wide as they flooded into the valley like a living tide.
For a moment, Elves and Dwarves stood still.
The fight between them no longer mattered.
Because what approached them now… was something neither side could face alone.
*****
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