Chapter 6,
Bilbo took a deep breath, his small chest rising and falling rapidly as he scrambled to keep the trolls' attention. His heart pounded so loudly he was certain they could hear it, but he forced himself to stand firm, though his knees trembled beneath him.
"Well… uh…" he stammered, waving his hands slightly as though trying to smooth over an imaginary wrinkle. "The thing about cooking dwarves, you see, is—"
William leaned closer, his massive face looming over Bilbo like a cliff. "You think I don't know what you're up to?" he growled, his voice deep and menacing. "This little ferret is takin' us for fools!"
Bilbo blinked, his brows shooting up in surprise. "Ferret?" he repeated, as if that were the most offensive part of the accusation.
Bert, the largest of the trolls, turned to William with an annoyed grunt. "Fools? What're you on about?"
"I say we squash him now," Tom interrupted, slamming his fist into his palm for emphasis. "Enough of this blabber!"
The trolls' bickering rose to a crescendo, drowning out Bilbo's frantic attempts to keep talking. Suddenly, a sharp voice rang out, loud and clear above the cacophony, cutting through the clearing like a knife.
"The dawn will take you all!"
The trolls whipped around, their massive heads craning upward to locate the source of the voice. There, standing atop a jagged rock on the far side of the clearing, was Gandalf. His staff was raised high, the crystal at its tip glowing with a bright, ethereal light.
"Who's that?" William growled, his piggish eyes squinting in the firelight.
"No idea," Bert muttered. "Longshanks with a stick."
"Can we eat 'im too?" Tom asked, licking his lips.
Gandalf ignored them. With a determined flick of his staff, he brought it crashing down onto the rock beneath him. A sharp, echoing crack split the air as the stone fractured, revealing a narrow shaft of light that spilled through. The trolls recoiled, their eyes widening in panic as the golden rays of dawn poured into the clearing.
"No!" Bert bellowed, throwing his hands up to shield himself. "It's the sun!"
"Quick! Cover it!" William shouted, stumbling toward a large boulder in a futile attempt to block the light.
But it was too late. The sunlight spread across the clearing, its golden glow creeping over the trolls' massive forms. Their gray, stony skin began to harden and crack, their movements slowing as the magic of the dawn took hold. One by one, they froze in place, their grotesque features locked in expressions of panic and anger.
The clearing fell silent, save for the faint rustle of leaves in the breeze. Where the trolls had stood moments before, there were now three enormous stone statues, their rough surfaces glinting faintly in the morning light.
Gandalf stepped down from the rock, brushing dust from his robes as he approached the group. His expression was calm, though there was a faint twinkle of amusement in his eyes.
"Well," he said lightly, "that was a close call."
Bilbo, still standing near the fire, blinked up at him, his face pale and his legs shaking. "I think I need to sit down," he murmured, sinking onto a nearby rock.
The dwarves, still tied up in their sacks and on the spit, began to shout and grumble.
Elena, tied tightly to the tree, coughed, her chest rising and falling in shallow gasps as the ropes pressed painfully against her ribs. Her silver eye closed briefly as she tried to draw a proper breath, but the bindings were too tight.
Thorin, still bound but watching intently, caught the sound of her struggle. His sharp blue eyes darted to her, and his expression darkened with concern. "Gandalf," he called out sharply, his voice firm but edged with urgency. "Get her off that tree, now."
The wizard turned toward Elena, his brow furrowing when he saw the way her breathing was restricted. "Ah, yes," he muttered, striding quickly to her side. "Hold still, my dear."
Raising his staff, Gandalf muttered a quiet incantation. The ropes binding Elena loosened and fell away, dropping to the ground in a heap. Freed at last, Elena stumbled slightly but caught herself, her hand braced against the tree trunk as she took a deep, shuddering breath. The relief was immediate, her lungs filling properly for the first time in hours.
"Better?" Gandalf asked, his voice softer now as he studied her with mild concern.
Elena nodded, her silver eye opening to meet his gaze. "Much," she said hoarsely, her voice still recovering. "Thank you."
But she didn't linger. Straightening herself, she shook off the lingering discomfort and turned toward the rest of the company. The dwarves were still bound and struggling against their restraints, their grumbling and bickering filling the clearing. Thorin's sharp voice rose above the rest as he barked orders, clearly impatient to be freed.
Elena moved purposefully toward the fire first, the flames still crackling as the remnants of the trolls' crude cooking setup smoldered. Stretching out her hand, she muttered a single word under her breath, and a cold, crystalline mist began to swirl around her fingers. With a smooth motion, she waved her hand, sending a wave of icy magic toward the fire.
The flames hissed and sputtered as they were extinguished, steam rising in a brief, dramatic burst before the clearing fell silent again. The ground where the fire had burned was now covered in a thin layer of frost, the heat completely snuffed out.
The dwarves, watching from their various bindings, blinked in surprise.
"Now that's a useful trick," Bofur said, his voice tinged with admiration. She smirked faintly but didn't reply. She moved toward Thorin next, her hands quick and efficient as she began cutting through the ropes binding him.
"You should've asked the wizard to hurry up sooner," she said lightly to Sable as her friend walked over, though there was a hint of amusement in her tone. "I'm not sure how long I could've held out."
Thorin, still regaining his composure after the ordeal, glanced at her with an expression that was both grateful and slightly exasperated. "You held out well enough," he said gruffly. "But next time, we'll see to it that none of us end up tied like livestock."
"Let's hope there isn't a next time," Elena replied, her silver eye gleaming faintly as she cut through the last of his ropes.
Once Thorin was free, she turned her attention to the rest of the group, working efficiently to untie the remaining dwarves. The clearing, now quiet save for the occasional groans of the recovering company, began to feel less like a battlefield and more like a momentary sanctuary.
Gandalf paced thoughtfully around one of the trolls now frozen in stone, his expression a mix of curiosity and faint amusement. He raised his staff and gave the troll's head a firm tap, a hollow thunk echoing through the clearing. The wizard's lips quirked into a faint chuckle. "Solid as a mountain," he muttered, more to himself than anyone else. "Remarkable."
The dwarves, still gathering their gear and recovering from their ordeal, cast sidelong glances at the wizard as he examined the petrified figures.
"They must have come down from the Ettenmoors," Gandalf said aloud, his tone thoughtful. He turned toward Thorin, who had just finished tightening the straps on his sword belt.
Thorin frowned deeply, his sharp blue eyes narrowing. "Since when do mountain trolls venture this far south?" he asked, his voice low and edged with unease.
"Not for an age," Gandalf replied, straightening as his expression darkened. "Not since a darker power ruled these lands."
The weight of his words hung heavy in the clearing. Thorin's jaw tightened, and he exchanged a grim look with the wizard. Whatever amusement had lingered in Gandalf's tone moments earlier was gone now, replaced by an air of quiet alarm.
Elena, who had been quietly inspecting the now-extinguished fire, looked up sharply at Gandalf's words. Her silver eye flicked toward Thorin, who was visibly unsettled. "Trolls don't move in daylight," she said, her voice calm but carrying a note of concern. "Not unless something… or someone… is driving them."
Gandalf nodded slowly, his gaze sweeping the clearing. "Exactly," he said. "These trolls should not have been able to move in the sun. Which means they must have had shelter."
Thorin's gaze hardened as he looked toward the horizon. "There must be a cave nearby," he said, his tone decisive. "Somewhere they were hiding during the day."
"Likely where they stored their spoils as well," Gandalf added, his tone thoughtful once again. "If we find it, we may find supplies—or worse, signs of what drove them here."
The company, overhearing the exchange, began murmuring among themselves. The thought of entering a troll's cave didn't sit well with most of them, but the potential for supplies—and answers—was too important to ignore.
Thorin turned to the group, his voice cutting through the chatter. "Gather what you need," he commanded. "We'll find the cave and see what's inside. But we don't linger—understood?"
The dwarves nodded, their earlier discomfort replaced by a renewed sense of purpose. Elena adjusted the straps of her twin swords, her silver eye gleaming faintly as she exchanged a glance with Gandalf.
"Let's hope there's more in that cave than bones," she murmured, earning a faint smile from the wizard.
It didn't take long to find the trolls' cave. Sable, her keen nose leading the way, padded silently ahead of the company, her movements deliberate as she tracked the foul stench wafting through the forest. The closer they got, the more the air seemed to grow heavier, the smell becoming a pungent mix of decay and rot.
"Ewww!" Fili exclaimed, pinching his nose shut with one hand as he trailed behind Sable. "That stench is unbearable!"
Kili smirked despite himself, though his own face twisted in mild disgust. "It's not exactly roses, is it?"
Sable came to a halt near a craggy outcrop of rocks, her ears flicking forward as she let out a low huff. Elena approached her companion and crouched slightly, her silver eye scanning the dark entrance that loomed ahead. The smell was nearly overwhelming now, a sour, earthy odor that seemed to cling to everything.
"Here," Elena said, gesturing toward the opening as the rest of the company gathered behind her. "This is it."
Gandalf stepped forward, his staff glowing faintly as he peered into the cave. The light revealed rough stone walls, the floor littered with bones, broken crates, and various debris.
"It's a troll hoard," the wizard said, his voice low and cautious. He glanced back at the group, his expression stern. "Be careful what you touch."
The dwarves exchanged wary glances, their earlier determination tempered by the eerie sight before them. Bombur wrinkled his nose, muttering, "If I never see—or smell—another troll hoard, it'll be too soon."
Thorin was the first to step inside, his sword drawn and his sharp eyes scanning the surroundings. "Stay alert," he said, his voice firm. "We don't know what else might be lurking in here."
Elena followed closely, her twin long-swords sheathed but her hand resting lightly on the hilt of one. Sable moved at her side, her posture low and cautious, her amber eyes flicking between the shadows. The rest of the company trailed in after them, some more hesitant than others.
The hoard was a grim sight. Piles of stolen goods were scattered across the cave—rusted weapons, tarnished silverware, and crates that had been pried open, their contents spilled carelessly. Bones, both animal and otherwise, were strewn about, some still bearing the marks of sharp teeth.
"Ori, don't touch that!" Balin snapped as the younger dwarf reached for a particularly shiny piece of armor.
"I wasn't going to take it," Ori protested, though his wide eyes betrayed his curiosity.
"Elves say troll hoards are cursed," Bofur added ominously, his voice hushed. "Touch the wrong thing, and you might find yourself in a world of trouble."
Kili ignored the warning, picking up a dull silver goblet. "Cursed or not, it's not worth much," he said with a shrug, tossing it back into the pile.
Thorin's gaze hardened as he stepped deeper into the cave, his focus on something at the far end of the chamber. "Enough," he said, his voice cutting through the group's murmurs. "Search quickly. If there's anything useful here, we take it. Then we leave."
Elena, her senses sharp, moved toward a smaller alcove at the side of the cave. Her silver eye caught the faint glimmer of metal among the rubble, and she crouched to inspect it. Sable sniffed at the pile, letting out a low growl of disapproval.
"Careful, girl," Elena murmured, brushing aside some debris to reveal a rusted sword hilt. It was old, far too damaged to be of use, but its craftsmanship hinted at dwarven origin. She glanced back toward Thorin, her brows furrowing. Just how much have these trolls stolen?
As the company spread out cautiously, rummaging through the trolls' grim hoard, Thorin's sharp eyes landed on a barrel tucked against the far wall of the cave. The wood was damp and rotting, its lid askew. Something about it caught his attention, and he stepped closer, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword as he inspected the contents.
Reaching inside, he pulled out a long, elegant sword. The blade, though dulled and tarnished by time, still carried an undeniable beauty. Its craftsmanship was intricate, the hilt adorned with delicate engravings that shimmered faintly in the light of Gandalf's staff.
Thorin held the blade up, turning it in his hands as he examined it. "These swords were not made by any troll," he said, his voice low but firm, a note of admiration sneaking into his tone.
Gandalf stepped closer, his staff casting more light on the blade. The wizard's keen eyes widened slightly as he recognized the weapon. "Nor were they made by any smith among men," he said, his voice reverent. "These were forged in Gondolin, by the High Elves, in the First Age. You could not wish for a finer blade."
Thorin paused, his grip on the sword tightening as he glanced at Gandalf. For a moment, he seemed poised to discard it, his earlier disdain for anything elvish evident in the tightening of his jaw. But Gandalf's words carried weight, and the wizard's tone was not one of idle praise.
Reluctantly, Thorin lowered the blade, inspecting it more closely. The engravings on the hilt were elegant, almost ethereal, and the faint remnants of elven runes trailed along the fuller of the blade. Its balance was perfect, even after years of neglect.
"It doesn't feel like it belongs in a troll's hoard," Thorin admitted grudgingly, his voice quieter now.
"That's because it doesn't," Gandalf replied with a faint smile. "Such weapons are rare and precious. They do not lose their value—or their strength—with time."
Nearby, Fili and Kili leaned in to get a closer look. "That's no ordinary blade," Kili murmured, his earlier bravado replaced with genuine awe.
"It's beautiful," Fili added, his hand reaching out as if to touch it before Thorin pulled it back protectively.
Elena, who had been inspecting another pile of goods nearby, glanced over at the commotion. Her silver eye caught the glint of the sword in Thorin's hand, and she arched a brow. "A weapon forged in Gondolin," she said, her voice carrying a note of curiosity. "That's not something you stumble upon every day."
Thorin glanced at her briefly, his expression unreadable. "Perhaps it's better in the hands of someone who can use it," he said, his tone pragmatic as he sheathed the blade and stepped away from the barrel.
Gandalf, however, wasn't finished. Reaching into the same barrel, he retrieved another blade—shorter, a fine elven dagger that gleamed faintly even in the dim light of the cave. He turned it over in his hands, inspecting it with a nod of approval before handing it to Elena.
"This one," Gandalf said, "would suit someone of your particular… skills."
Elena accepted the blade, her hand closing around the hilt. The weapon was smaller than her usual swords, but its balance and craftsmanship were impeccable. She tested its weight, her lips curving into a faint smile. "A fine gift," she said quietly, glancing at Gandalf. "Thank you."
Gandalf smiled back but turned his attention to the rest of the hoard. "There may be more here than even the trolls understood," Reaching further into the barrel after handing the blade to Elena. His fingers closed around another weapon, and he carefully pulled it free—a sword longer than the one Thorin had claimed, but equally fine in its craftsmanship. Its hilt was adorned with intricate patterns of flowing elven script, and the blade, though tarnished with age, glinted with an undeniable sharpness in the glow of his staff.
The wizard turned it over in his hands, inspecting the balance and weight before giving a satisfied nod. "This," he murmured to himself, "is a weapon worthy of an age long past."
But Gandalf wasn't finished. Digging into the barrel again, he unearthed a smaller blade, more akin to a dagger but still crafted with the same elegance and precision as the others. Its hilt was unadorned save for a simple inlay of what looked like mithril, but the blade itself shimmered faintly as though it held a light of its own.
"This," Gandalf said, holding the smaller blade aloft, "is for our burglar." He glanced around the cave but didn't see Bilbo among the group. "Where is he?"
"Still outside," Dwalin grunted as he examined a pile of rusted axes, none of which seemed worth keeping.
Gandalf gave a faint sigh, then nodded to himself. "Very well. I'll see to him shortly."
The wizard tucked the smaller blade under his arm as he inspected his own sword once more, clearly pleased with his find. "Weapons like these are rare indeed," he said, turning to Thorin, who was still examining his own sword. "They are not just tools of war, but heirlooms of a time when the world was young and unspoiled."
Thorin gave Gandalf a curt nod, his blue eyes betraying his grudging respect for the weapon in his hands. "Even if they are of elven make," he said, his tone low, "they will serve us well."
Elena smirked faintly but said nothing, slipping her newly acquired blade into a sheath at her side. She glanced at Gandalf. "I hope Bilbo appreciates what you're about to hand him."
The wizard's lips twitched into a faint smile. "He may not now," Gandalf admitted, "but in time, he will."
With that, Gandalf turned toward the cave entrance, stepping carefully around piles of bones and debris. The smaller blade rested easily in his hands as he made his way to find the hobbit, who was likely still recovering from the ordeal with the trolls.
The dwarves continued their search, muttering quietly to one another about the strange discovery of such weapons. Outside the cave, Gandalf emerged into the soft light of morning to find Bilbo sitting on a rock, his shoulders slumped and his face pale but determined.
The hobbit looked up as Gandalf approached, his eyes widening slightly at the sight of the weapon in the wizard's hands.
"What's that?" Bilbo asked hesitantly, his voice still shaky from the events of the night.
Gandalf held out the smaller blade, its faint glow catching the light. "This, Master Baggins, is for you," he said, his tone kind but firm. "A blade of elven make. Light in your hand, but deadly sharp."
Bilbo blinked, staring at the weapon as though it might bite him. "For me?" he asked, incredulous. "I've never used a sword in my life!"
As Gandalf pressed the small elven blade into Bilbo's hands, the hobbit stared at it with a mix of awe and apprehension. The glow of the blade seemed faint yet alive, as if it carried its own quiet strength. Gandalf placed a steady hand on Bilbo's shoulder, his expression softening.
"And I hope you never have to use it," Gandalf said, his tone low and firm. "But if you do, remember this: true courage is about knowing not when to take a life, but when to spare one."
Bilbo swallowed hard, his fingers tightening on the hilt. He opened his mouth to respond, but before he could, Thorin's sharp voice rang out from behind them, cutting through the morning stillness.
"Something's coming!" Thorin shouted, his blue eyes scanning the forest beyond the clearing.
Bilbo's heart leapt, his grip on the blade faltering as he turned toward the commotion. The company had emerged from the trolls' cave, weapons in hand, their postures tense. Even Sable, crouched low at Elena's side, had her fur bristling as a growl rumbled in her throat.
"Gandalf," Bilbo whispered, his voice trembling.
The wizard straightened, his staff glowing faintly as he moved toward the others. "Stay together!" Gandalf commanded, his voice steady and strong. "Hurry now! Arm yourselves!"
The dwarves quickly fell into a defensive formation, their weapons at the ready. Fili and Kili moved to the front, their bows drawn, while Dwalin gripped his axe with a deadly determination. Elena's silver eye scanned the treeline, her twin swords gleaming in the soft light as she crouched slightly, prepared for whatever was coming.
Out of the trees came an unexpected sight—something that caused every member of the company to pause in bewilderment. A sled, crafted from twisted wood and brambles, burst into the clearing at a breakneck pace, pulled by a team of massive, white-furred rabbits with long, powerful legs. The sled skidded to a halt, dirt and leaves scattering as the rabbits huffed and stamped their feet.
Seated on the sled was a man clad in tattered brown robes, his hat tilted precariously to one side and his long beard tangled with twigs and moss. His wide eyes were wild, darting around the clearing as if expecting danger at every turn. A staff rested across his lap, its gnarled top glowing faintly with a strange light.
"Thieves! Fire! Murder!" he cried, his voice carrying an urgent, frantic tone. "I've been chased—hounded!"
The company stared in stunned silence as the rabbits twitched their noses, seemingly unbothered by their rider's panic. Gandalf stepped forward, his expression shifting from surprise to recognition.
"Radagast," Gandalf said, his voice steady despite the strange scene. "It's Radagast the Brown!"
Radagast jumped down with surprising agility for someone of his disheveled appearance. His robes were caked with mud, and his long, tangled beard was adorned with twigs and moss, giving him the look of someone who had lived entirely too close to the forest floor.
Gandalf stepped forward, his staff raised slightly as he regarded his fellow wizard. "Radagast?" he said, his tone a mix of curiosity and concern. "What on earth are you doing here?"
Radagast turned toward Gandalf, his wide eyes filled with a mixture of urgency and confusion. "I was looking for you, Gandalf!" he said, his voice high and frantic. "Something's wrong. Something's terribly wrong."
"Yes?" Gandalf prompted, leaning in slightly.
Radagast opened his mouth to continue but paused, his brow furrowing deeply. "Just… just give me a minute," he stammered, waving a hand as though trying to catch an elusive thought. "I had a thought, and now I've lost it. It was… it was right there, on the tip of my tongue!"
The company exchanged bewildered glances. Bilbo looked particularly perplexed, his grip on his new blade faltering slightly, while Fili and Oin both stared at the odd wizard with barely concealed disbelief.
Radagast's face lit up suddenly. "Oh! It's not a thought at all!" he exclaimed, his tone triumphant. "It's a silly old… stick insect."
To everyone's dismay, Radagast stuck out his tongue, revealing a small, wriggling insect clinging to the tip. Gandalf sighed, clearly accustomed to his friend's eccentricities, and plucked the insect delicately from the Wizard's mouth.
"There," Gandalf said, holding the creature away as it scuttled onto his hand. "Better?"
Radagast nodded, seeming entirely unbothered by the company's horrified stares. "Oh, much better," he said cheerfully, brushing his hands against his robes. "Now, where was I?"
Bilbo took a half-step back, his face pale. "What was that?" he asked, his voice a mixture of fascination and revulsion.
Radagast glanced at him as though noticing him for the first time. "That?" he said lightly. "Oh, just a friend. A delightful little chap, really."
Fili turned to Oin, who simply shook his head, muttering something under his breath about wizards and their odd habits.
Gandalf, however, was less amused. He fixed Radagast with a steady gaze, his tone firm as he said, "Radagast, focus. What's happened?"
Pacing back and forth, his wild eyes darting around the clearing as though the trees themselves might be listening. He gripped his staff tightly, his knuckles white, and his usually cheerful demeanor was shadowed by a deep unease.
"The Greenwood is sick, Gandalf," Radagast said, his voice trembling slightly. "A darkness has fallen over it. Nothing grows anymore—at least, nothing good. The air is foul with decay, choking the life out of everything it touches."
Gandalf frowned, his brow furrowing as he listened. "Decay, you say? What kind of decay?"
Radagast stopped pacing, his eyes meeting Gandalf's with a grim intensity. "The worst kind," he said softly. "But the decay isn't the only sign. There are webs, Gandalf. Great, terrible webs. They stretch across the trees like a plague."
Gandalf's eyes sharpened at the word. "Webs?" he asked, his tone low and urgent. "What do you mean?"
Radagast took a deep breath, his voice dropping to a whisper as he continued. "Spiders, Gandalf. Giant ones. Creatures unlike anything I've seen in an age. Some kind of spawn of Ungoliant, or I am no wizard. They infest the Greenwood, their numbers growing every day. I followed their trail." His voice quavered as he added, "They came from Dol Guldur."
Gandalf's expression darkened further, his grip tightening on his staff. "Dol Guldur?" he repeated, his voice heavy with disbelief. "But the old fortress is abandoned."
Radagast shook his head emphatically, his hat bobbing with the motion. "No, Gandalf," he said, his voice resolute. "It is not. A dark power dwells there now… a power such as I have never felt before." His eyes darted around the clearing, as though speaking of it might summon the very darkness he described. "It is the shadow of an ancient horror. One that can summon the spirits of the dead."
The company had fallen silent, their earlier chatter and confusion replaced by a tense stillness. Thorin's blue eyes were fixed on Radagast, his jaw tight as he listened.
"What exactly did you see?" Gandalf pressed, his voice quieter but no less intense.
Radagast shivered slightly, as though recalling a terrible memory. "I saw him, Gandalf," he said, his voice barely above a whisper. "From out of the darkness… a Necromancer has come."
The clearing grew colder at his words, as though the mere mention of such a being had drawn a chill through the air. Gandalf's face was grave, his thoughts clearly racing. He turned his gaze toward the horizon, the shadow of worry deepening in his eyes.
Radagast, his movements still jittery but more deliberate now, reached into the folds of his tattered robes. From within, he withdrew a carefully wrapped bundle, the cloth worn and stained but tightly bound. His fingers trembled slightly as he held it out toward Gandalf.
"I grabbed this from one of the spirits that attacked me," Radagast said, his voice quieter now, heavy with an uncharacteristic seriousness. "It was clutched in their grasp, as though it had followed them from the void itself."
Gandalf's eyes narrowed as he reached out and took the bundle with care. His hands worked swiftly but cautiously, undoing the first knot in the cloth. He loosened one side of the wrapping, pulling it back to reveal the weapon within.
The blade was ancient and foreboding. Dark and weathered, it carried an unnatural sheen, its edges glinting faintly in the dim light. Strange markings etched into the metal seemed to pulse faintly, as though the weapon carried a malevolent life of its own. It radiated an aura of cold that made even Gandalf's practiced hands falter for a moment.
"This," Radagast said, his voice hollow and tinged with unease, "is not from the world of the living."
The company, gathered a short distance away, watched in tense silence. Even Thorin, who rarely placed much stock in the words of Radagast, looked uneasy as his gaze lingered on the blade.
Gandalf studied the weapon carefully, his brow furrowing as he turned it slightly in the light. The runes on the blade were unfamiliar, yet they carried a weight that spoke of dark power and ancient malice. With a deliberate motion, he re-wrapped the blade, securing the cloth tightly before tying the knots again.
"You did well to bring this to me," Gandalf said, his voice low but firm. He took the bundle, much to Radagast's relief. "This is a relic of great evil, Radagast. It should not fall into the wrong hands."
Elena stepped closer, her silver eye narrowing as she regarded the wizards. "What sort of spirit would wield something like that?" she asked
Gandalf shook his head, his expression darkening as he carefully slipped the blade back into the folds of his robes. "An old, evil enemy," he murmured, his voice heavy with foreboding. "One that should have remained dead and forgotten."
His words hung in the air like a cold mist, sending a chill through the group. Elena caught the faraway look in his eyes, a shadow of a memory that seemed to twist his features with unease. She opened her mouth to ask, curiosity and worry battling within her, but before a word could escape, the air seemed to ripple.
A howl, long and unearthly, pierced the stillness. It wasn't the cry of a wolf; it was something deeper, more primal, resonating with an unnatural ferocity that clawed at the nerves.
Bilbo stiffened, his wide eyes darting toward the surrounding darkness. "Was that a wolf? Are there wolves out there?" His voice cracked, and he shifted closer to the fire, as though its flickering warmth could shield him.
"No," Bofur growled, his knuckles whitening as he gripped the hilt of his blade. "That was not a wolf."
The group fell silent, their breath shallow, ears straining against the oppressive quiet that followed. The fire sputtered weakly, casting long, restless shadows that danced across the trees. The woods seemed to lean closer, their branches clawing at the edges of the light like grasping fingers.
The air grew heavier, the silence so sharp it felt like the calm before a storm. Then, from the shadows, a hulking shape burst into view. A brown warg, its fur ragged and clumped with filth, loped down the hill with a guttural snarl that sent shivers through the group. Its eyes burned with a savage fury, and its emaciated frame betrayed both hunger and desperation.
Elena didn't hesitate. Before the creature could lunge, she darted forward, her blade slicing through the dim light. The steel sang as it struck true, silencing the beast mid-leap. Its massive form crumpled to the ground at her feet with a final, guttural rasp.
For a moment, all was still except for the quiet crackle of the fire and Elena's sharp, measured breaths. She stared down at the lifeless warg, her grip tightening on the hilt of her blade before she released it with a quiet exhale.
"This… this would have been Sable, had I not gotten her out of there," she murmured, her voice low but thick with an unspoken weight.
The warg's broken body lay in the dirt, a tragic shadow of what it might have once been. Its fur was matted and unkempt, tangled with burrs and streaked with dried mud and blood. Ribs jutted out from its gaunt sides, evidence of starvation, and its limbs trembled even in death, as though the creature had been running for far too long.
Elena crouched, her eyes tracing the beast's scars. Some were faded and old, but others were fresh, the angry red of newly healed wounds mingling with raw scratches that wept dark streaks. She couldn't look away, a pit forming in her stomach. The warg's suffering was written plainly across its ravaged body—a testament to a life of violence, neglect, and pain.