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*****
Night had fallen, and the allied forces of the three races had set up camp south of the Elmers Forest.
Inside the central military tent, the elven princes were deep in discussion over the current situation of the war.
"How is Himring holding out?"
As commander of the allied armies, Fingon was the first to speak.
The second prince, Angrod, stepped forward:
"According to the scouts, Himring has already been surrounded by Gothmog, who has brought with him a host of Balrogs and orcs."
"At our current pace, how long would it take for us to reach there at the fastest?"
Fingon frowned as he asked.
"At the very least, three days."
After some thought, Angrod gave his reply.
Galadriel, however, looked completely unconcerned:
"I don't think we need to rush. Forced marching will only weaken our strength. With Maedhros and his brothers defending, Gothmog won't be able to take Himring in just a few months, even if he tries.
If the sons of Fëanor could be defeated that easily, Gothmog wouldn't have waited until now."
As the strongest of the Noldor elves, the children of Fëanor—the very one who created the Silmarils—the seven brothers together possessed formidable power.
"Galadriel, your words make sense. We indeed don't need to rush. But I can't shake the feeling that this siege on Maedhros carries some deeper purpose."
Fingon did not refute Galadriel, yet a trace of worry showed on his face.
Why had Gothmog not launched a direct assault on Himring before?
On one hand, Maedhros and his brothers were truly a tough bone to crack; even after months, they might not fall, and even if the fortress were taken, Gothmog's side would suffer grievous losses.
On the other hand, he feared that while attacking Himring, reinforcements would arrive—just as they were discussing now.
Even before the three races had allied, the farthest elven city was only a little over ten days' march away if they sent troops.
And now, with the armies united and Gothmog already having been repelled once, he should have known their combined power was not weak.
Under such circumstances, to still dare attack Maedhros…
Even if George hadn't captured the traitor and learned the information in advance, once Himring was besieged for a few days, they would have learned about it and dispatched reinforcements anyway.
Sitting quietly to one side, George listened to the elven princes discuss the matter without interrupting.
In truth, the night before, he had already slipped invisibly into the Balrog encampment to investigate, and he understood perfectly well why Morgoth had chosen this time to let Gothmog besiege Himring.
Yet now, he had no intention of sharing this intelligence with Fingon and the others.
Because if he revealed it, Fingon would surely order the army to march day and night to Himring's aid—and that was not the outcome George wanted.
To put it bluntly, if they rushed to reinforce Himring and clashed head-on with Gothmog, while the sons of Fëanor remained holed up behind their walls to protect themselves, then even if the alliance eventually won, their losses would be devastating.
It was better to stick to the original plan, let Himring's defenders consume more of the enemy's strength, and only then arrive to finish things off.
And even if Himring truly fell, and the sons of Fëanor were slain—so be it. George didn't know them anyway. Besides, according to the original story, once he defeated Morgoth and obtained the Silmarils, the seven sons of Fëanor, bound by their oath, would inevitably become his enemies.
When the council ended, everyone dispersed back to their own tents.
George returned to his own as well. Though it appeared to be a simple tent from the outside, once opened it was as spacious as a villa.
These tents had been specially crafted through the joint effort of elven, dwarven, and human students at the Academy, with George himself teaching them the enchanting techniques and magical methods.
Don't underestimate a tent expanded by the Extension Charm—during wartime, it was of immense value.
Soldiers who ate and slept well would naturally fight at their best.
And since each tent could hold many soldiers, the army's camps appeared smaller, making them easier to conceal and harder for enemies to ambush.
"George! George!"
Just as he had sat down, preparing to close his eyes and study magic, the flap of the tent was pulled open.
George sighed helplessly:
"Princess Galadriel, couldn't you at least announce yourself before barging in? What if I were bathing, or not wearing clothes? Wouldn't that be awkward?"
"What's so awkward about that? Human men and elf men are no different. It's not like I haven't seen before—just an extra bit, that's all."
Galadriel waved dismissively, utterly unconcerned.
George could only rub his forehead at her response.
He had noticed that ever since Galadriel left the kingdom of the Grey Elves and spent more time with the soldiers at the front, she had completely let herself go.
Once, she still carried herself like a princess. Now, although her beauty was undiminished, the moment she opened her mouth, her noble aura vanished entirely.
"All right, then. What did you need from me so urgently?"
"It's not me. Fingon asked me to bring you to the grove up ahead—he said there's something he wishes to ask you in private."
Her eyes flickered mischievously as she spoke.
"The Marshal wants to see me?"
George raised an eyebrow, looking at her with suspicion.
Even without using telepathy, he could tell from her expression that she was lying.
"Yes, yes! Come on, hurry! If Fingon's calling you, it must be important."
Before George could question further, Galadriel grabbed him and pulled him along toward a secluded grove.
George didn't resist. He suspected this was just another of her harmless pranks—something she loved to play ever since realizing she could never defeat him.
Usually, he indulged her, treating it as if humoring a child.
"Lucian?"
When they entered the clearing at the heart of the grove, George saw Lucian standing there, her back to him, bathed in moonlight.
She had changed into a special elven gauze outfit. Under the glow of the moon, her delicate, porcelain-like skin could be faintly glimpsed through the thin fabric.
The tantalizing contrast between concealment and revelation stirred his blood.
"George, you've never seen me dance before, have you?"
Lucian turned gracefully, then began to dance upon the moonlit grass, as light and delicate as a butterfly in flight.
Lucian was the most beautiful and most skilled dancer of the elves. At this moment, her performance, enhanced by the half-transparent gown, radiated both holiness and temptation.
Even George, with all his discipline, found himself struggling to remain composed.
Seeing him captivated, Galadriel revealed a satisfied smile and quietly slipped out of the grove, waiting at its edge.
Having spent so much time among the soldiers of the allied army, she knew all too well the seductive power of Lucian dancing in that gown.
"My dear cousin, this is as much as I can help you. Whether you manage to win George's heart now depends on you. Just don't fumble at the last step.
Still, if it really works out, won't that mean I'll have to start calling George my cousin-in-law? For some reason, that thought makes me a little… annoyed."
(End of Chapter)