The earth trembled with every step of the First Hollow.
It did not run. It did not roar.
It simply walked—each footfall cracking the land like glass, each breath sucking the light from the sky.
Behind it, the freed orcs stumbled, dazed but no longer enslaved. Some wept. Some fled. None followed.
Aelarion stood beside Darien on the ridge, his silver hair whipping in the unnatural wind.
"It will go to Lyothara," he said. "Not to destroy. To consume. The Great Tree is the last pure source of light in this age. And it hungers."
Darien's ash-hand burned with cold fire. "We can't stop it alone."
"No," Aelarion agreed. "But perhaps… we are not alone."
In Khaz-Dûmhar, deep beneath the Ironfang Mountains, King Borin Stonehand felt the tremors in his bones.
His rune-smiths rushed in, faces pale.
"The Deep Seal is broken, Your Grace! The Void walks!"
Borin slammed his fist on the obsidian table. "Then the elves were right."
He turned to his herald. "Send ravens to Lyothara. Tell them: 'The Stone Halls open their gates. We march at dawn.'"
For the first time in eight hundred years, the Dwarven war-drums began to beat.
In Valeris, Prince Kaelin stood before Queen Elira of the Sundered Crown.
"The elves saved your border villages from orc raids," he urged. "Now they face an enemy that will burn your cities next."
Elira's eyes narrowed. "Why should humans die for elves?"
"Because it won't stop with them," Kaelin said quietly. "It will drain your mages' power. Silence your priests. Turn your children into hollow shells. This thing… it eats worlds."
Silence stretched.
Then the Queen turned to her generals.
"Ready the legions. We ride with the elves."
Back in Lyothara, panic threatened to spill into the streets.
But then—three horns sounded from three directions.
From the west: the deep, rhythmic boom of dwarven stone-drums.
From the south: the sharp, clear call of human war-trumpets.
From the north: the haunting song of elven frost-horns.
King Aerion stepped onto the balcony—and saw them.
Dwarves in iron-forged armor, axes gleaming.
Humans in steel and leather, banners flying.
And behind them all, Darien and Aelarion, riding side by side.
Lira ran to the King's side, tears in her eyes. "They came."
Aerion's voice was thick. "Not for us. For the world."
That night, the Three Crowns met in the Chamber of Roots.
King Borin of the Dwarves placed a black stone on the table—a shard of the original Voidstone seal.
Queen Elira of Humans laid down a scroll—ancient human prophecies of "the Light-Eater."
And Aelarion placed his hand on the Great Tree's root.
"The First Hollow was born when the world first knew fear," he said. "To defeat it, we must show it something it has never seen: unity."
Darien looked at the unlikely alliance before him—elves who distrusted humans, dwarves who hated magic, humans who feared both.
"This won't be easy," he said.
"No," Thorin growled. "But neither was watching our people turn to ash."
Elyar added, "The land itself will fight with us. The dryads have awakened. The stone-giants stir in the north."
Malrik appeared in the shadows. "And I've scouted its path. It moves slow… but it grows stronger with every mile."
Prince Kaelin stood tall. "Then we meet it before it reaches Lyothara. On the Plains of Mourning."
King Aerion nodded. "Let the final stand begin."
As dawn broke, the allied army gathered outside the city walls.
Elves with bows of moonwood.
Dwarves with rune-etched shields.
Humans with fire-lances and war-beasts.
And at their center, Darien raised his ash-hand—not in threat, but in oath.
"We are not just elves," he called. "Not just dwarves. Not just humans.
Today, we are one people."
A roar rose from ten thousand throats.
In the distance, the sky darkened.
The First Hollow was coming.
And for the first time in a thousand years,
the light had allies.