Ash nickers softly, and Zac soothes his neck with a calming gesture.
"A dragon, then?" Gandalf inquires softly, making sure their conversation is private. "There are few whose names have survived the ages. Which one did you have the honor to slay?"
Zac keeps his eyes fixed on the horizon, where the road disappears into distant woods. Sunlight plays in his black hair, making the silvery and golden glints dance in his eyes. He weighs his words, knowing Gandalf is not easily deceived, but also that some truths are too heavy, too strange to be shared.
"If I were to give you his name, Mithrandir, you would not believe me," he answers at last, his voice carrying that uncanny melody that now feels part of his very being. "Know only this: my blade is poison. No matter the size of the wyrm, if it is pierced, it will die a long and terrible death."
Gandalf studies him closely, searching Zac's expression and posture for signs of boasting or falsehood. He finds none. Instead, he senses a quiet, almost sorrowful certainty, as if Zac bears the weight of a victory that cost him more than he cares to confess.
"You speak in riddles, my friend," the wizard finally replies. "It's a talent I respect, though I sometimes find it… frustrating."
A fleeting smile crosses Zac's face. "A trait we share, then."
Gandalf lets out a small laugh, inclining his head in recognition of the well-placed barb. "Touché. But allow me to remark that your presence among this company is no accident. You seem… prepared. As if you have been awaiting this very journey."
At last, Zac turns from the horizon to meet the wizard's gaze. In his eyes shines ancient knowledge, a wisdom almost out of place on such a young face.
"Perhaps the journey has been awaiting me, Mithrandir."
The mystery around Zac only thickens with every elusive answer, and Gandalf decides to let his questions rest for now. He simply nods and reins back, leaving Zac alone with his thoughts.
The day passes as the company journeys through shifting landscapes, leaving behind the cultivated fields of the Shire for wilder country. As evening falls, they make camp on wind-blown high ground overlooking endless plains.
While Bombur prepares the meal, the others tend to the ponies or arrange their bedding for the night. Zac helps silently, his quiet efficiency and strength not going unnoticed by the dwarves, who now cast him less wary glances.
The meal is simple but hearty, and the company gradually relaxes. Bilbo, exhausted by his first day on the road, falls asleep against a boulder, his handkerchief neatly folded in his hand.
Suddenly, a distant howl tears the night, a chilling sound that startles the hobbit awake.
"What was that?" he asks, now perfectly alert.
"Orcs," Kili answers soberly.
"Orcs?" Bilbo repeats, his voice jumping an octave with fear.
Thorin, who had dozed by the fire, jolts awake, his hand on his sword, eyes scanning the darkness.
"Slashers," Fili adds, a mischievous glint in his eye. "These wild lands are crawling with them. They attack at dawn, when everyone's asleep. No screams, only blood."
Seeing the terror on Bilbo's face, the two young dwarves exchange a conspiratorial glance before bursting into laughter. Their mirth, however, is short-lived.
"You think this is funny?" Thorin's voice slashes the air. "You think an orc attack is a joke?"
"We didn't mean any harm," Kili mumbles, abashed.
"No, you didn't think at all," Thorin snaps back, his restrained anger edged with pain. "You know nothing of the world."
He walks away toward the cliff's edge, his stiff back revealing a fury laced with painful memories. Zac watches, understanding the deep wound pulsing behind that anger.
"Don't worry, lad," Balin murmurs gently to the chastened dwarves, "Thorin has more cause than most to hate orcs."
The old dwarf turns to the rest of the company, his gaze drifting into the fire as he begins his tale. "After the dragon took the Lonely Mountain, King Thror tried to reclaim the old kingdom of the dwarves, Moria." His voice takes on the rhythm of ancient storytelling, weaving images both terrible and grand. "But our enemy was already there. Moria had been seized by orc legions, led by the vilest of their kind: Azog the Defiler."
Zac feels a chill ripple through the company. Even uttered in the relative safety of camp, that name carries the echo of ancient massacres and the promise of fresh blood.
"The giant of Gundabad had sworn to destroy Durin's line. He began by..." Balin's voice falters for a moment, "beheading the King."
A heavy silence settles as Balin goes on, describing the blood-stained battle, the loss of Thrain, Thorin's father, vanished or slain, and finally the moment when the young prince, armed only with an oaken shield, faced the Defiler and hewed off his arm.
"And that's when I thought," Balin concludes, pride shining in his eyes, "that's one I could follow. That's one I could call King."
All the dwarves rise now, watching Thorin with renewed respect as he turns, the newborn dawn haloing his silhouette. The moment hums with a nearly tangible emotion, a devotion far deeper than mere loyalty.
"And the pale orc?" Bilbo asks softly. "What became of him?"
"He crawled back to the filth that spawned him," Thorin answers, his voice like stone. "That wretch died of his wounds long ago."
But in the shadows, Zac and Gandalf exchange a weighty glance. Both know that some darknesses do not die so easily, that some hates weather the ages, biding their time for vengeance.
The night moves on, the company settling to sleep. But Zac sleeps only lightly, his gaze roaming the distant shadows, a silent sentinel forged in a hell deeper than Moria's. In his mind, stories of the past blur with omens of what is to come, and the howling of orcs in the dark is but the first whisper of a gathering storm.