From Kaen's sword burst a light so fierce and pure that it swept across the entire battlefield in an instant.

Orcs. Wargs. All alike were forced to screw their eyes shut and reel away.

For a heartbeat, the world seemed frozen. Blades halted mid-swing, snarls faded to silence, and even the cries of the wounded died into stillness. All that remained was the blinding brilliance, and the whimper of beasts who feared it.

When the light ebbed, all eyes beheld a figure standing before Thorin—Kaen, one boot planted firmly upon the neck of a white warg, his frame haloed in the last shreds of radiance.

A short distance away, Azog the Defiler rose from the dirt where he had been hurled, shaking his head, his pale features twisted in cold fury.

"Thorin!"

The Dwarves rushed to their prince's side, hauling him from the ground.

"Are you hurt?"

"By Durin's beard, that was close—thank the King for his magic!"

Thorin's breath came hard, but his voice was steady as he looked to Kaen.

"Once more, you've saved my life."

Kaen's reply was curt but warm.

"So long as you still draw breath, it was worth it."

Yet his gaze stayed fixed on Azog.

His strike had been meant for the pale orc's throat, but at the last instant, Azog had thrown his own mount into the path of the killing blow. The beast lay dead at Kaen's feet.

Top-tier legend.

That was Kaen's judgment of Azog's skill. An equal match. And it was no wonder—he now understood why in the tales, Thorin Oakenshield had been forced to trade his life to defeat him. For though both bore the title of Legend, there were legends... and there were those who stood above them.

Around them, the battle resumed with fresh fury.

Azog's eyes narrowed. He, too, now knew this human king was no lesser foe.

Their gazes locked.

Two rulers. Two predators. And in the next heartbeat, they charged, crashing together in the midst of the melee.

Azog's warhammer swung with brute force, each blow like a boulder hurled by a mountain giant. His strikes were riddled with openings, yet none Kaen could take without paying in blood—he could not meet such power head-on and live.

But Azog could not break him either. Kaen's sword-work was swift, precise, almost elven in its grace, his footwork a dance that kept him just beyond the fatal arc.

Steel rang on steel. Sparks leapt into the smoky air.

Clang!

Clang!

Clang!

In a momentary bind, Azog let out a low laugh.

"You fight well, man-king. As well as the Dwarf-king I once faced. But he was old, and his strength waned. I took his head myself."

Kaen's lips curled into a look reserved for fools.

"You idiot. Did no one tell you I know magic?"

"What—?"

Azog barely had time to feel the shadow of death fall over him before the faint chill of power crept up his arm. Light shimmered along Kaen's blade, condensing into a cold gleam. Where steel met steel, the magic bit deep—rending.

"Hahhh!"

Kaen roared, and with one sweeping strike, he brought his sword crashing down upon the haft of Azog's hammer.

CLANG—SNAP!

Metal screamed and split. The mighty warhammer shattered in two.

A moment ago they had been equals, but Azog's arrogance had cost him—he had slowed his offense to taunt, and Kaen had used those heartbeats to weave the Ancient Noldorin battle-art.

Now disarmed, Azog was forced to defend himself with the jagged haft and the cruel spike grafted to his right arm. Kaen's assault drove him back step by step, each blow raining like the hammer of Mandos himself.

The royal guard, seeing their king press the pale orc into retreat, roared in triumph. Thorin and his kin redoubled their own fury.

The orcs and wargs faltered, their courage bleeding away with each backward step their master took.

Kaen saw the gap—struck.

His sword descended with the force of a landslide. Azog caught it with haft and spike—but both were shorn in twain.

It was enough to twist the blade from his heart, but not enough to spare him pain.

Shlik!

A spray of black blood burst into the air, and Azog's pointed ear spun away into the dust.

The Defiler was hurled across the stones, rolling until he came to his knees, clutching the side of his head. His breath came ragged.

The hunger to kill had fled his eyes, replaced by something rarer—fear.

He wasted no time. Swinging into the saddle of a surviving warg, he barked the order to retreat.

Thorin made to give chase, but Kaen's arm barred his path.

"It is night in the mountains. We will not catch them—and may run straight into their traps."

The Dwarf halted, scowling, but nodded.

The tally came soon after.

Fifty wargs slain. Over two hundred orcs cut down. Twenty royal guards lost. The rest battered but battle-ready.

Kaen ordered the enemy dead burned, and a measure of ash taken away, to deny the dark things their flesh.

Then, at last, he sank down beside the fire. A glance at his panel—

Level: 3 (320 / 400)

So close to the next rise in power.

"Bilbo? Has anyone seen Bilbo?" Balin's voice rang out.

The company paused—then exchanged knowing looks.

Gone again.

Thorin sighed.

"He disappears every time battle's joined."

Kaen shrugged.

"Better so. He's no warrior—better to hide than hinder."

At that, Bilbo emerged from the shadows, cheeks reddening.

"I think His Majesty is right... I'm not much for fighting."

The Dwarves studied him for a moment, then burst into laughter. Even Thorin's stern mask cracked into a smile.

"My dear burglar," Thorin said, "you have my leave to hide. It is, after all, your craft."

"Oh? Truly? Well—thank you! That's a relief."

Their laughter rolled out into the night, lightening the weight of loss.

Yet Kaen felt the ache of his own weariness. His mind, attuned to the elements, had been pushed near its limits. Gandalf's habits made sense now—when facing darkness, light was always the truest weapon.

Closing his eyes, he began to meditate, drawing the threads of his strength back together.

But before his thoughts could sink deep—

A voice, lilting and unmistakably feminine, whispered in his mind:

"Kaen Eowenríel... it has been a long time~."