Upon hearing Kaen's words, a blaze of fury ignited on Thorin's face.
From atop the gate of Erebor, he roared with wrath:
"Blasphemy! I am no oath-breaker! How dare you compare me to them?! Kaen! Halt! I command you!"
But Kaen did not so much as glance back. He turned and walked away, leaving Thorin to stew in his own storm.
The truth was simple—Thorin was gripped by the Dragon-sickness. Reason would not reach him now.
Kaen's act had been deliberate: to cast the Arkenstone away before Thorin's eyes, to discard the treasure he so cherished like refuse, was to strike at the heart of his pride. It was a calculated blow, meant to stir the war within his soul, to provoke the true Thorin to rise.
Would the Arkenstone worsen the madness?
Not if Kaen could help it. He never gambled without a measure of certainty.
When returning the jewel, he had quietly infused it with a sliver of golden light—a trace of sanctified power, meant to dull the gem's sinister allure. While that sacred glimmer endured, the Arkenstone was no more dangerous than a glowing bauble.
Thorin stood in place, hands trembling around the crystal.
Two conflicting tempests surged within him.
Pride swelled—pride in his throne, his reclaimed kingdom, his unyielding will.
But shame crept in too. A bruised ego. A sense that his dignity had been trampled underfoot.
Breathing hard, Thorin clutched the Arkenstone to his chest and turned, disappearing into the shadowed halls of the Lonely Mountain.
The dwarves atop the gate exchanged uneasy glances.
Dwalin stepped forward, concern etched on his brow. But Balin stopped him with a gentle hand.
"There is wisdom in Kaen's act," Balin said, eyes glinting with shrewd light. "He meant to enrage Thorin. And I saw it—just for a moment—in Thorin's eyes... the struggle."
"Perhaps when next he emerges... it will be Thorin Oakenshield who stands before us once more."
….
The wind howled, and winter crept in unnoticed.
The River Running froze beneath its breath. Snow drifted like ash in the pale light of a sunless dawn, and silence blanketed the northern lands.
There was death in the air.
The following day arrived late. No sunrise pierced the sky, hidden beneath a cloak of thick, roiling clouds.
Though only a light snow had fallen in the night, a savage wind whipped it into a frenzy.
….
Southeastern Front
Dáin Ironfoot sat astride his iron-clad boar, flanked by Gandalf and Saruman.
Behind him, the Ironfoot warriors stood in grim silence—three thousand dwarves, clad in steel, lined up in unyielding formation. The war goats were still, snorting clouds into the cold air. Behind them, reserve troops sharpened axes and steeled themselves.
…
Southern Front – Dale
Bard stood upon the ramparts of Dale beside Legolas. Beneath them, the walls were lined with men of Dale and Elven archers, shoulder to shoulder.
Kaen's heavy crossbows had been mounted across the walls. Though they lacked mithril bolts, these monstrous weapons could still fire spears the size of lances—perfect for bringing down trolls.
….
Southwestern Front
Thranduil sat tall upon his great stag, calm as winter's moon. His fifteen hundred warriors moved like water, a silver tide of death. Spears formed an iron forest, shields locked in unison. Elven archers waited in stillness, fingers resting lightly on their bowstrings.
To their fore, across the southwest ridge, the enemy's war platform had been raised upon Ridge. There, they could see the movement of Orcs and Wargs, the stench of corruption thick in the air.
….
Before the gates of Erebor, Kaen stood at the heart of the reserve—five hundred support troops and eighty of his elite royal guards. His gaze stretched far, sweeping over all three fronts.
Beside him stood Tauriel, Kíli, and Bilbo.
Kíli leaned closer to the Elf-maiden, curiosity twinkling in his eyes.
"Do Elven women fight in battle?" he asked.
Tauriel cast him a sidelong glance.
"Why? Do you find that strange?"
"No, no, not at all," Kíli stammered. "It's just… among dwarves, women are… rare, precious. They do not go to war. Not unless the very hills bleed."
"Is that so? How fortunate," Tauriel replied coolly, eyes never leaving the horizon.
There was no warmth between them—no lingering glances or half-spoken regrets. In this tale, fate had chosen a different road for them. Kaen's arrival had rewritten the script, sparing them from the heartbreak that once was.
Tauriel turned her gaze to Kaen.
"Your Majesty," she asked, "from which direction will the dark horde strike?"
Kaen's voice was low. "The southeast."
Tauriel blinked. "Why?"
His eyes sharpened. "Because they are already here."
….
The words had barely left his lips when the earth began to tremble.
A distant rumble echoed from the southeastern ridge, like thunder rolling through stone.
All heads turned.
The mountain shook.
From the rock face emerged three colossal worms, bursting from the cliffside like serpents from a nightmare. Their chitinous maws shattered stone, opening three gaping tunnels in the slope.
Earth-worms—the burrowers of the far north—creatures of evil origin. Though unintelligent and useless in combat, their ability to tunnel swiftly made them ideal for one grim purpose: to dig passages for the dark legions.
With a shriek of stone, the worms withdrew, leaving behind three smoking holes in the mountain.
….
From atop Western Ridge, the horns of the Orcs bellowed.
The Red-Eyes had come.
Black-armored, deathly silent save for their snarls, they poured forth with trolls and Wargs, like a black tide rushing down the slope. Their blades dripped with rot, and their presence soured the very sky above them. Shadows thickened where they marched.
They cared not for order, nor formation. They were beasts unleashed.
Like wolves in the dark, they screamed and charged toward the Ironfoot line.
….
"The nightmares of the Pit have come to defile our homeland!" Dáin bellowed, rising in his saddle.
"Sons of Durin—awaken!"
The Ironfoot dwarves roared as one, forming a shield wall of iron and fury, unmoving as the mountain itself.
There was no declaration. No envoy. No parley.
Good and evil saw each other—and the war had begun.
The staffs of Gandalf and Saruman burst into light.
….
Upon the walls of Dale, Bard and Legolas stood alert, the tension electric.
And then they heard it—not aloud, but within the recesses of their minds.
Kaen's voice.
"This horde will strike at Erebor and Dale both. You must not let them break the line."
Bard unsheathed his blade. "We were born into an age of ruin," he called, "but we shall not bow to it!"
"Elves and Men, brothers in arms! Today, we stand together! We fight to the last breath! Until darkness flees, or we fall upon this field!"
"Stand and fight!"
"STAND AND FIGHT!"
The cry rose across the battlefield—a thunderous roar from the free peoples of Middle-earth.
Elves and Men answered as one.
The Battle of the Three Fronts had begun.