[150 powerstones Bonus Chapter]

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Thorin Oakenshield apologized. His tone was humble, his manner sincere.

In the presence of Kaen Eowenríel, he had no pride to cling to, nor any ground to uphold the dwarven haughtiness for which his kin were known. For in over a hundred years, Kaen was the only one who had shown him such profound respect—and extended a hand of true aid.

Even Gandalf the Grey, for all his wisdom and power, had not done as much.

Some might say Kaen's motives were rooted in a share of the treasure beneath the Lonely Mountain. Perhaps that was true—partly. Yet if treasure were all he sought, he would have stood equal to the thirteen dwarves and the hobbit who joined Thorin's quest. Each of them, including Thorin himself, was promised a one-fifteenth share of Erebor's hoard.

But Kaen… Kaen had given far more than any of them.

As a king in his own right, Kaen had not only led his people into danger, but brought with him a retinue of elite warriors. His commitment had gone beyond companionship—it was a pledge of steel, blood, and crown.

And in return, he had asked for almost nothing.

When Kaen spoke of Lord Elrond and Lady Galadriel agreeing to dispatch eight hundred Elven warriors, and of Saruman the White himself offering to descend from his tower and lend his power on the battlefield, Thorin understood instantly—

This was Kaen's doing.

For the Dwarves had pleaded for aid before, time and again, and been met with silence or polite refusals. Only Kaen, as King of Eowenría and Elrond's own protégé, could have swayed such ancient powers into motion.

"Kaen," Thorin said at last, his voice low and laden with emotion, "I can scarce put into words what I feel. Your aid weighs heavily upon my heart, and this debt… this debt is too vast for me to repay."

Gratitude shimmered in his eyes. Around him, the other Dwarves looked upon Kaen not merely with respect, but with the reverence due a true king.

They had wandered long, these sons of Durin, driven from hearth and home. And in all those years, no sovereign had shown them such honor.

Each heart was full.

Kaen met their gaze solemnly.

"I love Men and Elves," he said, his voice echoing through the cold night air, "and I love Dwarves no less. I wish for your people to rise strong once more, unafraid of the dark that threatens all. I wish for you to return—home."

He turned his eyes toward the fog-veiled horizon.

"Middle-earth is beautiful. And I would see every wanderer find his place again, after the frost and storm. This is my blessing to you. This is my purpose. If you must thank me, then let your hearts always turn to the light."

Thorin stepped forward and bowed his head solemnly.

"By the blood of Durin, I swear—my heart shall ever turn to the light and to justice. I shall fight the darkness until death takes me!"

One by one, the other Dwarves added their voices to his vow.

They camped that night in the half-ruined town once held by Goblins, resting their weary bodies beneath broken walls and a starless sky.

The toll of battle was counted.

Though no soldier of Kaen's royal guard had fallen, a dozen had been injured—tossed from bridges, crushed beneath rubble. Yet thanks to their rune-forged armor, none bore wounds grave enough to halt their march.

The next morning dawned shrouded in mist.

The previous night's storm had blanketed the Misty Mountains in a thick, choking fog. Visibility was poor; the air was damp with menace.

Kaen's voice cut through the gloom.

"Move out! Stay sharp—those foul beasts don't sleep in a weather like this."

The company pressed onward, threading their way toward the far side of the mountain range.

But they had barely gone half an hour when the scent of blood and smoke drew forth wargs—forty, perhaps fifty strong.

And atop the lead beast, a great white warg, sat the pale Orc.

Azog the Defiler.

He ran his clawed hand along the beast's fur, a cruel smile curling on his lipless face.

A warg-rider approached, dragging with him a bloodied Orc.

"Master, I captured this one."

Azog turned his cold gaze toward the trembling creature. "Tell me—what happened here?"

"It was Thorin… Thorin Oakenshield," the captive stammered, shaking in fear. "He and his companions—they slew our king…"

Azog, whose power in the Misty Mountains rivaled that of any warlord or dark beast, narrowed his eyes. The sniveling Orc dared not lie.

The truth spilled from him like wine from a shattered goblet.

Azog turned his head, pale eyes scanning the path the company had taken. Then, with a snarl, he gave his command.

"Find them. Summon more wargs. I want the blood of Durin wiped from the face of Middle-earth."

The sun fled westward as the company continued their march.

At twilight, they gathered beneath a rocky overhang, building small fires to ward off the chill. If they kept their pace, three more days would see them free of the mountains.

Night fell.

The moon rose high and cold.

Most had drifted into slumber—Kaen included. Only the sentries kept watch.

Yet Bilbo Baggins could not sleep.

Something gnawed at him, some dark sense of being watched—of something creeping closer, ever so slowly.

There were reasons Hobbits were once called born burglars.

Their feet were wide and silent, their steps light as feathers, their bodies small and nimble. More than that, their senses were sharp. When they stilled their hearts and quieted their breath, they could feel the world itself shift.

Bilbo rose quietly, eyes scanning the shadowy woodland.

Using the pale moonlight to guide him, he crept away from the camp, drawn by the unease in his bones.

His feet made no sound, even on brittle twigs and leaf-strewn ground.

He moved through the trees like a ghost.

At first, he found nothing.

He nearly laughed at himself, blaming the day's fears and battle-born tension for his jumpy nerves.

But just as he turned back, he caught a whisper on the wind.

"Keep your voices down. Circle them slowly. When I give the signal, strike all at once. No survivors."

"Yes, Master."

Bilbo froze.

He lowered himself behind a boulder and peeked beyond it—and what he saw nearly stole the breath from his lungs.

A vast host of Orcs atop snarling wargs had gathered in silence, their armor and teeth glinting beneath the moon.

Hundreds of them.

At their head, tall and terrible, rode the pale Orc on his white beast—Azog himself.

Bilbo nearly cried out, but clamped both hands over his mouth.

Then he turned and ran.

Fast as his little legs could carry him, he darted back to camp, weaving through brush and shadow like a whisper.

Panting, he burst into the firelight.

"Trouble! Terrible trouble!"

"Thorin! Your Majesty Kaen! Orcs—wargs—they're coming!"

His cry roused the sleepers. In a heartbeat, weapons were in hand, eyes wide with alarm.

Kaen strode forward. "Bilbo—are you sure?"

"I swear it, sire! I saw them—hundreds! At least a hundred wargs! And leading them—a white-skinned Orc, riding a white warg!"

The camp fell silent.

Then Thorin snarled, eyes burning with rage.

"Azog. It must be Azog. The Goblin-king we slew must have sent word before his end."

"This is bad," muttered one Dwarf. "Fighting warg-riders in the dark is a death sentence."

"Should we flee?" asked another.

The Dwarves argued, voices overlapping in panic.

But Kaen's royal guard stood silent, unmoved. They waited, eyes steady, for their king to speak.

Thorin turned to him at last.

"Kaen. What now?"

Kaen was silent for a moment.

Then he drew in a slow breath and said, "We cannot run. They've already encircled us. The ring is closing."

Thorin's jaw tightened. "Then what do we do?"

Kaen's eyes burned with quiet fire.

"We fight."