The High Pass—from Rivendell in the East to the old ferry-crossing of the Anduin in the West.

In the elder days, the Vala Oromë, the great huntsman of the Valar, had cleft this road through the towering Misty Mountains, so that the Elves might cross to Aman under his guidance.

It remained one of the few traversable paths through the jagged peaks of the range.

But the years had passed like falling leaves, and in that time the road had darkened.

Twisted beasts from the deep had claimed the mountain's heart. Orcs—in dreadful numbers—had built a foul settlement in the very bowels of the pass. What once was a trail of the divine had become the stronghold of a black kingdom: Goblin-town.

By day, the creatures lurked in their tunnels, but come night or shadowed storm, they emerged—preying upon those who dared tread the mountain's edge.

This was the very reason why, months ago, when Kaen had led Caden and the others from the Anduin Valley, they had avoided the High Pass entirely—opting instead to brave the wild slopes themselves.

But now, in haste to reach Erebor before the end of autumn, Thorin and his company had risked the cursed pass.

The Misty Mountains were always damp with mist and shadow, but at summer's end, the weather grew cruel and wild. That night, thunder rolled like a god's drum, and torrents of rain poured from the heavens.

Kaen stood atop a mountain ridge, soaked in storm and silence, his cloak whipping in the wind.

Around him, his Royal Guard—one hundred strong—peered into the storm-dark valley ahead.

By the flash of lightning, they saw them—fourteen small figures pressing forward through the sheeting rain, clinging to narrow ledges and sheer cliffs.

"My lord," one soldier asked, "Shall we pursue the Dwarves?"

Kaen shook his head, eyes fixed on the ridge beyond. His tone was low, grim.

"No. There are spirits stirring... ancient ones. The spirits of nature are waking."

These were not mere beasts nor beasts of legend. They were born of the earth itself—elemental titans birthed when the forces of nature swelled into life.

Kaen could feel it. The raw elemental energy in the range was gathering, spiraling into form.

Then came the tremor. A deep, resounding rumble. The mountain shuddered beneath their feet.

The lightning struck again, and Kaen's eyes widened.

The mountain moved.

What they had thought a peak began to rise, to stand, its mass creaking and cracking like stone giving birth to stone. And in the storm's flashing light, they beheld it:

A giant of living rock, hundreds of feet tall, like a tower of the earth itself—standing proud amid the thunder and rain.

"A... a giant!"

"By the stars, it's real! The Rock Giants—they're real!"

"If that thing wanted to, it could tear down a city like it were a child's toy…"

Even Kaen, though prepared for this sight, felt a chill crawl along his spine.

"Crack… CRACK!"

Another tremor shook the peaks. A second Rock Giant stood up—slowly, as if waking from an age-long slumber.

And clinging to its foot—barely noticeable in scale—were the tiny shapes of Thorin's company.

The two giants faced one another... and without a word, threw a punch.

No warning. No roar. Just titanic fists slamming into stone torsos.

It was war.

They fought like titans in the storm. Their blows echoed like rolling thunder, shaking the cliffs and throwing shards of stone into the sky. The sound of their battle roared through the valley like a thousand drums.

Then came a third.

This one did not speak, did not try to stop them.

Instead, it hefted a massive boulder and hurled it at the battling pair.

CRASH!

The stone struck one of the giants squarely in the head.

Its skull cracked like a mountain splitting, and its massive head toppled from its body.

The fighting ceased.

The remaining giants, as if weary from their brawl, turned and sat down. They settled like resting peaks—and once more became part of the mountain.

Kaen's men stood in stunned silence. Their hearts thundered louder than the storm.

They had witnessed something few mortals ever lived to speak of—the battle of giants.

"My... my lord," one stammered, "Should we still press on? The Dwarves may already be..."

"They live."

Kaen pointed toward a path along the cliff. Another bolt of lightning split the sky—and for a moment, they saw it. The Dwarves had escaped the fighting, and were making their way into a cave.

As the storm began to calm, the magical pressure of the giants faded into the background.

Kaen drew a deep breath and gave his command:

"Forward. The next battle awaits us. We ride to save those stubborn fools."

"Yes, my lord!"

…..

In the cave, Thorin led the company deeper, seeking shelter from the storm.

It was dry—perfect for rest. After a cautious search, they found no signs of life.

Thorin ordered the company to sleep.

But not all was at peace.

Bilbo Baggins, the little Hobbit, stood off to the side, pack in hand. His heart weighed heavy. Moments ago, Thorin had coldly told him that he did not belong in the company.

Now Bilbo meant to leave.

Yet fate would not allow it.

Suddenly, the ground gave way. With a thunderous crack, the floor beneath them collapsed—and they plummeted into a hidden pit.

The cave was a trap.

It had been carefully carved and rigged by Orcs to lure travelers to their doom.

Thorin and his company fell directly into their hands.

Only Bilbo—small and nimble—slipped between the cracks and avoided capture.

He crept forward, desperate to help, but was ambushed by a lone Orc. The two struggled, tumbling through a narrow crevice—falling into the deeper dark.

….

At the heart of goblin-town lay a vast underground cavern, lit by sickly flames and crawling with thousands of Orcs.

Within it, they had built a sprawling city of filth and ruin.

Upon a foul throne of twisted iron and bone sat the Goblin King—a grotesque creature of bloated flesh and brutal strength. His voice was a grating screech, like metal on stone.

When Thorin and the others were dragged before him, he sneered.

"Well, well—look who we have here."

"Isn't this Thorin, son of Thrain, grandson of Thror? King under the Mountain, is it?"

"Oh wait, my mistake… you've got no mountain. No crown. Just a price on your head."

"You know who wants you, don't you? I'll give you a hint…"

He grinned, showing rows of yellow teeth.

"White warg. White Orc."

Thorin's face contorted in fury.

"Azog is dead," he spat. "I severed his arm myself, on the battlefield!"

The Orc King chuckled darkly.

"Did you think I was jesting?"

He leaned forward, eyes glinting with cruel amusement.

"Azog only wants your head, Thorin. Not the rest. You see—your head's worth a thousand gold pieces."

He gestured lazily to the others.

"And your friends? Well, I suppose they're the last loyal pups you've got."

He licked his cracked lips.

"One thousand per head. Azog's quite the rich beast these days—what with his grip on Moria and all."

The Dwarves growled, stepping in front of Thorin, shielding their leader with their bodies. But they were unarmed—defenseless.

The Orc King laughed.

"Send word to Azog! Tell him I've got his prize. And while we wait, cut off their hands and feet. Can't have them scurrying away."

"Oh—and who knows? Dwarf meat might taste just fine!"

Around the cavern walls, thousands of Orcs shrieked with glee, the sound echoing like a chorus of madness.

The Dwarves stood tall, prepared to die with dignity—if death meant shielding Thorin Oakenshield.

Thorin took a long breath, defiant even in the shadow of death.

But in his heart… a flicker of regret.

Why did I not wait for Kaen?

If he were here, this would not have happened.

The dream of reclaiming Erebor now seemed like mist, slipping between his fingers.

For the first time, the proud prince of the Lonely Mountain felt the sting of true regret.

But then—just as all seemed lost—

A voice rang out through the gloom.

Clear. Fierce. Bright as a sword of the West.

"I raise my blade high—

—and bring light back to this land of darkness!"