[150 powerstones Bonus Chapter]
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"We require a road wide enough for an army to pass," Gandalf said solemnly. "And if it is possible, I hope the Woodland Realm will lend its strength to the coming war."
Thranduil, seated in thought, considered the words carefully.
"The first," he said, "I can grant. A path shall be opened. But the second… I must have reason. I will not see my people sacrifice themselves without cause."
"Because war is coming," Gandalf replied, his eyes shadowed with foreboding. "A war brewed in darkness."
He leaned forward, his voice low and grim.
"The Defiler—Azog—ambushed Thorin on the way here. But he is no mere assassin. He is a commander, a general of shadow."
"I ventured north," he continued, "to the tomb of the Witch-king of Angmar. I found it torn open. The corpse was gone."
Gasps echoed faintly through the hall.
"He was the greatest of the Nine Ringwraiths. And the Nazgûl… they have ever served only one master—Sauron, the Lord of Shadows."
"Radagast the Brown has seen them," Gandalf added. "He witnessed their presence in Dol Guldur."
"That necromancer who lurks there," he said coldly, "is Sauron."
"A war is coming—not against the Dwarves, nor the Elves, nor any one race. It is aimed at all the northern lands of the East."
As the words left the wizard's lips, the chamber grew still.
Thranduil's expression darkened. His fingers tapped the carved wood of his chair. For if the north was to be Sauron's target, then the Woodland Realm could not remain neutral.
It was the mightiest realm remaining in the northern East. Should Thorin fail to reclaim Erebor, and the treasure fall into the hands of darkness—should Smaug be turned to Sauron's will—then the Woodland Realm, lying nearest to the mountain, would be the first to fall.
The lesson of history echoed within Thranduil's mind—his father Oropher had once marched to war in the Last Alliance, knowing that silence in the face of evil was to invite doom.
Now, his turn had come.
The army of the Woodland Realm numbered almost Ten thousand Elven soldiers—among them, some were the finest warriors, honed over millennia.
But these elite troops were the kingdom's deepest foundation—hard-earned through the long centuries. Thranduil, who cherished his people as a father his children, would not risk them lightly.
At last, after a long moment of contemplation, Thranduil spoke.
"If this is the truth," he said, voice grave, "then the Woodland Realm shall answer."
Three thousand Elven warriors—trained and tempered—would be dispatched. They were worth thrice their number in Orcs. Their strength would shift the scales of fate.
At this, smiles broke across the faces of those gathered. The addition of Thranduil's host transformed hope from a spark to a flame.
And then, the council turned to the task at hand—the slaying of a dragon.
When Thranduil learned that Lake-town—Esgaroth—was to be the battlefield, he rose in protest.
The River Running, born from the roots of Erebor, flowed through Dale, joined with the Forest River, and fed the long expanse of Long Lake, before twisting eastward to meet the Sea of Rhûn.
That waterway was the kingdom's lifeblood. It brought the sweet wine of Dorwinion, and fine goods from the distant East. Lake-town stood as the north's greatest trading hub—and, since the fall of Dale, it had become home to the survivors who were now major trade partners for the Woodland Realm.
To risk it in a battle with a dragon?
Unthinkable.Thranduil deeply valued the stability Lake town brought to the region.
But the company had foreseen this concern.
Thorin stood and addressed him.
"We will evacuate the town before the battle," he said. "Once Smaug is slain, I will pay to rebuild every home."
"And more than that," Thorin continued, "if Erebor is reclaimed, I will aid the heirs of Girion in restoring Dale. We will bring prosperity back to the North."
The greater the risk, the greater the reward—and Thranduil knew it. In truth, Lake-town was the best field for the coming fight.
He paused in thought. Then nodded.
"Very well," he said. "I shall send Legolas and Tauriel, with one thousand soldiers. They will help evacuate Lake-town and prepare the battlefield."
...
The council lasted the whole night.
When all matters were settled and lodgings arranged, Thranduil left to rally his soldiers.
Kaen, meanwhile, took to wandering.
It had become a habit of his—wherever he went, no matter how grave the business, he would always walk the land afterward. It was his way of learning its soul.
Unlike Rivendell, whose beauty was ethereal, dreamlike, the Woodland Realm radiated a deeper, wilder charm.
Here, the Elves lived in harmony with nature. They took little, cultivated less, and allowed the forest to remain as it had been since the Elder Days. It was beauty in its rawest form—untamed, primal, and free.
As Kaen wandered beneath the green canopy, a sudden rush of movement caught his eye.
A squad of Elven warriors sped past him, swift as starlight.
Confused, Kaen turned—and saw a familiar figure among them.
"Prince Legolas!" he called out, hurrying to catch up. "What's happened?"
Legolas, ever respectful of Kaen's station, paused and gave a formal bow.
"A force of formidable Orcs," he said, "has slipped past our southern defenses, using the cover of darkness to move along the Forest River. Tauriel leads a force to intercept them. We are to reinforce her."
At that, Kaen's thoughts turned sharp.
In the tales he knew, a raiding force had entered the Woodland Realm—led by Bolg, son of Azog, war-chief of the northern Orcs.
And Kaen, now only a few steps from the experience he needed to ascend, saw opportunity in this shadow.
"I'm coming with you," he said quickly.
Legolas frowned. "You are a guest, not a soldier. It would be dishonorable to endanger you."
But Kaen didn't wait. With a sharp breath, he raced off with the soldiers.
Legolas sighed and followed.
...
Along the Forest River's defensive line, the clash had already begun.
Hundreds of Orcs—massive, twisted brutes—were forcing their way toward the heart of the kingdom. They were not like the scattered rabble of old. These were trained, disciplined, driven.
Their eyes were not green, but red—blood red—and they moved without hesitation, without regard for their wounded, ignoring the fallen. Their goal was clear, their path unwavering.
They were cutting through the outer lines, swift and silent as a black tide.
When Kaen and Legolas arrived with the reinforcements, the vanguard had already engaged.
Kaen narrowed his eyes—and knew them at once.
Red-Eye Orcs.
These were no ordinary soldiers of shadow. These were Sauron's elite—the hardened shock troops under his personal banner. They could match the mightiest warriors with numbers alone—two or three to one.
It was this very force, centuries past, that had ambushed Isildur, King of the Dúnedain and second bearer of the One Ring.
Kaen shouted to Legolas across the chaos, "Red-Eyed Orcs! You must not let them reach the inner realm! If they breach your defenses, it will be catastrophe!"
Legolas heard and understood.
He raised his sword, voice ringing like a trumpet blast across the field.
"Stand firm! Face them head-on! Do not let these foul creatures pass!"