[300 powerstones bonus chapter]
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Lake-town burned.
As the final flames licked at its shattered bones, commanders moved quickly, shouting orders to evacuate what remained of the forces.
Kaen issued instructions to the royal guard.
"Recover every mithril-tipped arrow lodged in Smaug's hide. No waste. Each is worth a thousand gold coins."
Though only their arrowheads were forged with mithril, each bolt was a rare and precious artifact. What could be salvaged—must be salvaged.
But as for the dragon's corpse, lying motionless amid the wreckage...
Kaen had no intention of retrieving it.
For in Middle-earth, the dragons were not creatures of nature. They were weapons—crafted in the fires of an older, blacker age. Born in the wars of Morgoth, the Dark Enemy of the World, they were made of shadow, flame, and ruin. Their bodies pulsed with foul sorcery even in death.
"Old man!" Kaen called out across the chaos to Gandalf. "The dragon's body won't burn in ordinary flame. But you—you have the power. We cannot let its evil seep into the waters of the lake."
Gandalf gave a solemn nod. "Leave it to us, Kaen."
Raising his hand, the Grey Wizard called forth the power of Narya—the Ring of Fire, one of the Three Rings of the Elves. It blazed upon his finger, casting forth a crimson light.
A sacred flame suddenly ignited around Smaug's lifeless body.
It was not fire born of this world, but the Flame of Anor—the holy fire gifted by the Valar, purer and more ancient than any spell of darkness. A light that cleansed, rather than consumed.
As Gandalf spoke, his staff, powered by the holy will of the West, shone upon the submerged dragon. The scales, hardened by ancient malice, did not melt like wax, but withered and turned to dust as the corruption holding them together was undone. It was not an act of destruction, but of purification. A final, holy end to Smaug.
Beside him, Saruman began chanting. Words ancient and unspoken in millennia rolled from his tongue. A wave of pure light emanated from him, washing outward.
Wherever it passed, the lingering darkness from the dragon's corpse—its corrupting essence—was undone. Scattered. Made nothing.
The people withdrew from the town and gathered at the shores of the lake, watching the sacred flame consume the monster.
On the banks, the bodies of fallen elven warriors had been laid in rows.
Two hundred and forty brave souls.
Kaen raised his voice, speaking for all to hear.
"All who fell in this battle were heroes. In an age when darkness spreads across the world, those who stand for the light are worthy of eternal honor."
"Their bodies may perish, but their names will endure. Carved into the songs of our age. Placed among the highest halls of remembrance."
The survivors bowed low, in reverent silence, paying homage to the dragon-slayers who would not return.
Smaug the Terrible was no more.
The greatest terror of the Third Age had been slain upon the waters of Lake-town.
But the shadow he cast would linger.
The death of a dragon would not go unnoticed. Power had shifted. The once-ruined kingdoms would rise again. And in the East, armies stirred.
The Battle of the Five Armies would not be five.
It would be more.
….
Three days later.
WOOOOO—
The call of silver horns echoed through the forest paths as a host emerged from the depths of the Woodland Realm.
A great elven army had arrived.
Disciplined and silent, they marched with the grace of wind and the menace of steel.
Five Hundred elven archers.
Five Hundred spearmen.
Two Thousand sword-wielding warriors.
A true host of might—impeccably armed, their banners fluttering like leaves of gold.
They reached the wilds near Lake-town and took position along the shore, waiting quietly.
Not long after, Kaen and his dragon-slaying host appeared on the opposite bank, crossing the remnants of the bridge.
Thranduil, King of the Woodland Realm, rode forward upon a tall white stag. He looked out over the force that had once been his forward vanguard—and saw only half had returned.
A sorrow shadowed his face.
He dismounted and approached the gathered warriors. Bowing his head, he spoke solemnly:
"On behalf of the Woodland Realm, I offer highest honors to the dragon-slayers—and to those heroes who fell in the battle. May their courage shine brighter than the stars."
Kaen stepped forward. "Your Grace need not mourn. To fall in battle against evil is a warrior's highest glory. Their names will become legends, passed from voice to voice in the ages to come."
Thranduil gave a sad smile. "Forgive me. I am a king who loves his people—each and every one of them. I am proud of their valor. But I do not grieve any less for their loss."
….
When the exchange was done, Thranduil gave his orders.
All elves who had taken part in the slaying of Smaug—save for Legolas and Tauriel—were to return to the Woodland Realm.
They had proven themselves beyond question. Survivors of such a battle were no longer mere soldiers—they were the makings of elite forces, and Thranduil would not risk them further.
They would be kept safe, trained, nurtured—for the next war.
The rest waited in silence.
Soon after, Bard emerged from the forest trail, leading a thousand men of Dale.
His forces were not an army of veterans. Two-thirds were new recruits. Only a third were hardened warriors, men who had once served the Master of Lake-town before pledging themselves to Bard.
Yet they came willingly. For Bard was heir to Girion, last lord of Dale. And with the kingdom rebuilt, he had sworn to uphold the ancient alliances.
He would stand with the Dwarves of Erebor.
And reclaim the fallen city of Dale that lay in ruins before the Mountain.
At his side stood Kíli, nephew of Thorin Oakenshield.
And beside him—Bilbo Baggins.
They stepped forward.
"Your Majesty Kaen," Bilbo said, bowing low. "As you instructed, I gave the Arkenstone to Kíli. He has questions for you."
Kaen turned to the young dwarf. "Then ask, Kíli. Speak freely. You need not wait."
Kíli took a deep breath. From within his pack, he carefully withdrew the Arkenstone.
Its light burst forth—mesmerizing and pure. All eyes turned to it. None could look away.
Kíli raised his voice: "Your Majesty Kaen, I must ask... why did you command Bilbo to give the Arkenstone to me, and not to my uncle?"
Kaen's eyes glinted with the weight of history. "Because to Thorin, that jewel is more dangerous than Smaug's flame."
"The kings of the House of Durin—each one—have suffered from the Dragon-sickness. It is a curse. Its origins are lost to time, but it strikes without fail."
"When it takes hold, it drives a Dwarf to madness. To obsession. To greed. They forget kin and crown. They forget themselves."
"Thorin has spent centuries preparing for this day. The day of reclaiming. But now, with Erebor in his grasp, his guard may fall—and the curse may take him."
"The Arkenstone," Kaen said, voice heavy with warning, "is the heart of that curse. The gem of kings. It will devour him from within. That is why it must not return to his hands."
"You, Kíli, are also of Durin's line. But you are untainted. You still see clearly. In your hands, the stone is safe—for now."
A hush fell over the crowd.
Those who had once revered the Arkenstone now looked upon it with unease.
They had seen its light—and felt its pull.
Kíli's brows furrowed with worry. "Then… is my uncle doomed?"
Kaen's gaze softened.
"I believe in Thorin. He stood unflinching before Smaug. And I believe he has the strength to face the dragon within his own heart."
Kíli offered the gem to Kaen then and there. "Then take it. Keep it safe."
But Kaen shook his head.
"Not unless Thorin himself offers it as tribute. Until then, it remains with you. That is the only path that does not shatter his pride."
And so, with the stone in Kíli's care, the host assembled once more.
Elves, men, dwarves, and a hobbit—together they marched for the slopes of the Lonely Mountain.
The storm was coming.