Everyone watched as Thorin descended, grabbed a half-burned log as if it were a shield, and charged forward with his sword toward the orc, who looked down at him with a malicious grin from atop his warg, ready to face his old enemy once more.
Thorin's sword, held by weary arms, could do little against the ferocity of Azog's beast. The orc himself barely had to interfere — his warg was enough to overpower the dwarf.
The others — especially Thorin's nieces — wanted to rush to his aid despite their king's orders. But the fire was consuming the trees around them, forcing them to leap from branch to branch. Doubt tore through them: obey him, or try to save him, knowing it meant certain death? As they hesitated, the flames spread, and the orcs' arrows continued to rain down without mercy.
Thorin held out as long as he could, but soon lost his makeshift shield. Azog's mace struck him brutally, leaving him dazed. The white warg lunged, sinking its fangs into his armor, shaking him violently before hurling him against the rocks.
Azog approached slowly, his cold eyes filled with cruel satisfaction. Before him lay the enemy who had taken his arm so many years ago. Now, at last, he could settle that debt.
He raised his mace, ready to order the warg to finish the dwarven prince. But before he could speak, the sound of a blade piercing flesh cut through the chaos. Azog staggered as his mount collapsed beside him, a fatal wound in its neck.
Barely conscious, Thorin saw a gleaming sword embedded in the warg's body. It was Bilbo. He had climbed down from the tree, invisible thanks to the ring, and struck at the perfect moment to save him. But the object — with a will of its own — soon betrayed him. When the hobbit tried to pull back his sword, the force sent him tumbling backward, and the ring slipped off his hand, rolling across the ground before stopping. In an instant, the invisibility vanished.
Azog rose, his face contorted with fury. His warg was dead. His victory stolen. And before him stood the tiny creature responsible. Roaring in rage, he decided to crush him there and then, before turning back to finish Thorin.
Bilbo didn't see him coming — only the hollow ache of loss. The ring. It had fallen. Panic overtook him, desperate and irrational, like that of an addict losing his fix. He dropped to his knees, frantically searching through dirt and embers.
Miquella saw it all, still exhausted. He slipped free from Leda's grasp and whistled as he leapt from the tree, summoning his steed once more. The spectral creature burst through the smoke and bounded toward him.
"My lord!" Leda cried out as she saw him.
Without hesitation, she slid down the trunk, ignoring the arrows whistling past. The other Eldens followed her.
But Miquella paid no attention. He couldn't let it happen. He knew Bilbo mustn't die — worse, that the ring must never fall into the wrong hands. He had to stop it, no matter the cost.
He tried to summon his magic, but his hands trembled uncontrollably. His stomach twisted as if he would vomit his own insides if he forced the ring to obey. He couldn't. So he turned to a more mortal approach: charging forward atop Torrent like a raging bull.
The orc, mace raised to crush the hobbit's skull, barely managed to dodge the steed's horns. He snarled furiously, enraged by yet another "vermin" standing between him and his prey.
The rest of the company couldn't look away. The Eldens advanced, and seeing them, the dwarves and Gandalf descended as well — but they couldn't reach Miquella. The orcs were too many. They didn't interfere in their leader's duel, but they threw themselves at the others, blocking every attempt to advance.
"My lord!" Leda screamed, surrounded. She fought desperately, cutting and bleeding, unable to reach him.
The other Eldens fared no better: for every foe they felled, two more emerged from the smoke. Arrows fell endlessly. The dwarves fought on, barely standing, aided by Gandalf's flaming pinecones — whose power and number were fading fast. His options were running out.
Amid the chaos, Bilbo finally spotted the ring glimmering faintly in the blackened soil. He grabbed it, but as he looked up, his heart sank. Around him was nothing but horror: the orcs closing in, the Eldens falling back, the dwarves staggering, and Thorin lying still on the ground. Before them all, Miquella stood alone against the white orc.
"Run, Bilbo!" shouted Miquella, his fist clenched, the ring shining like a dying star. He gathered every bit of energy he had left, preparing one final strike. He knew it would consume him completely.
Bilbo hesitated for only an instant before Miquella's voice snapped him back. He dashed to Thorin, struggling to lift him. The dwarf's weight nearly broke him, but somehow, strength returned — enough to drag him away from the clash between Azog and the divine steed.
He slipped the ring back on. Invisibility enveloped him just as an arrow grazed his ear. The ring's power seemed to answer his desperation, guiding him through shadow with Thorin in tow. Yet Bilbo felt the ring resisting, sliding off his finger — as if it wanted to flee.
From afar, the dwarves saw Thorin approaching, staggering, but alive. They didn't know how, and didn't have time to ask. Bifur, Bofur, and Bombur invoked the power granted by troll runes, ignoring the pain and the drain of energy. With a united roar, they tore a path through the orcs, allowing the others — those still standing — to reach their king.
They lifted him together and began the retreat. Each step drew blood, but none stopped. Their king was alive — that was reason enough to keep fighting.
Meanwhile, Miquella's strength was fading. He had bought Bilbo the time he needed to save Thorin, but neither he nor Torrent could fight any longer. They had already endured a brutal battle not long before; now, only fragments of their power remained.
Azog, furious at losing his prey, swung his mace in a blind rage. The blow struck Torrent's neck dead-on, the impact shattering the air.
The divine horse screamed in pain; its radiant form flickered and burst apart into thousands of white motes, scattering like starlight. Miquella crashed to the ground, rolling through dirt and stone.
Dazed, he tried to focus, but the world spun. Before he could react, Azog was upon him. The orc kicked him brutally in the stomach, sending him flying several meters before he hit the scorched ground.
"Miquella!" Leda cried, her voice breaking, as the Eldens threw themselves into a frenzy, fighting without caution, desperate to reach him.
The pain was unbearable. The demigod's mortal body wasn't built for such punishment. His muscles convulsed, his breath failed, blood filled his mouth. It was the worst blow he'd endured since entering this world.
Azog didn't even bother to look again. He seized the reins of a nearby warg and growled to his troops:
"Finish that one."
He didn't care for the fallen stranger — his only goal was to slaughter the line of Durin with his own hands. The rest could die however they pleased.
Barely conscious, Miquella looked up. He saw orcs and wargs closing in, eager to claim his head as a trophy for their master.
His mind was shattered, confused since he'd left the mountain. So he did the only thing left to him: closed his eyes, grasped the ring with what little strength he had, and let go of all restraint — not knowing what would happen.
Then, with the last of his power, Miquella rose and extended the hand bearing the ring toward the sky. Energy surged through him. He couldn't even speak the words forming in his mind, yet the ring answered…
*Swwisshhh…*
The chaos of battle — screams, fire, metal clashing against flesh — froze for an instant. A vast, invisible wave of energy expanded from Miquella's hand, enveloping the entire cliff before collapsing in on itself in a blink.
It was subtle, almost imperceptible — but those who felt it knew. And those who didn't soon saw: every blade of grass within the sphere turned gray, the soil cracked, the very air grew thin and lifeless.
The land itself withered. Deep fissures opened beneath the fighters' feet. Above Miquella, the air rippled and split — a rift tearing through space.
The orcs and wargs who had leapt toward him felt only a sudden, freezing wind… before hitting the ground in pieces.
A heavy stillness fell upon all. And then, from the rift, emerged a woman — tall, radiant in golden armor, with a long, elegant sword and flowing red hair.
"Sister…" whispered Miquella, on the brink of collapse.
Malenia had finally crossed into this world. Drawn by her brother's call from the dark, weakened but resolute, she turned toward him lying motionless — and then, toward the army of orcs before her.
She tightened the joint of her prosthetic arm.
"I am Malenia, Blade of Miquella," she declared, her voice echoing across the cliffs.
"And all of you will meet your end by my sword."
With an explosive leap, she hurled herself forward. Her sword carved the air in a blur — the sound of metal slicing wind and flesh fused into a single, chilling cry. The orcs saw only a flash before they fell, one after another, her strikes flowing like a river through their ranks — a dance of death that painted the shattered ground in blood.
No one had foreseen her arrival — not the orcs, not the wargs, not even the Company. As the Blade of Miquella cut through the horde, the cliff began to crumble.
The ground split apart, dragging warriors down with it — until a thunderous cry filled the sky: giant eagles descended, seizing the falling in their talons and lifting them to safety.
Gandalf exhaled in relief.
"Everyone — jump!" he shouted, as the eagles swept down to rescue the Company one by one.
"Miquella!" cried Leda, refusing to leave him, though the earth fractured beneath her feet. An eagle caught her midair, lifting her away as she reached out helplessly toward her lord.
Miquella, seeing salvation so close, gathered his final breath.
"MALENIA!" he roared.
The warrior turned. Her brother's hand reached out to her as the cliff gave way beneath them. Without hesitation, she spun, cleaving the last foes aside, and sprinted to him.
She caught him effortlessly, holding him close, and ran toward the edge — leaping into the void just as an eagle swept in to catch them.
A rushing wind enveloped them. Malenia, panting, looked back coldly toward the chaos — the orc army torn apart behind her — then down at her brother, unconscious in her arms.
Her gaze softened. She held him tightly, trembling from exhaustion and pain. She had come to this world to answer his call… but now, the toll of her arrival was beginning to show.