The wind had turned sharp by afternoon, cutting across the open fields like knives of ice. Dark clouds loomed on the horizon, and though Théoden's host pressed onward toward Helm's Deep, unease grew among the riders.
They weren't alone.
It began with a scout's horn—short and frantic—cutting through the sound of hooves and wagon wheels. The line halted.
"They come!" Éomer called from the vanguard. "Wargs—riders from the east!"
Panic rippled through the ranks. Cries rang out as armored orcs astride hulking beasts poured over the ridgeline, snarling and shrieking. Théoden immediately called for the riders to form ranks, blades unsheathed with a steely chorus.
"Protect the flank!" Éomer shouted, keeping Firefoot under control. The horse knew battle, and was anxious to charge. "Keep them from the women and children!"
Yuna was helping a child down from a wagon when the first of the wargs broke through the treeline. It lunged, teeth like daggers, but was brought down by a volley of arrows from the guards.
"They'll be overwhelmed!" Éowyn hissed, gripping her sword, gaze locked on the fray. "Let me fight!"
"You are to stay with the others," a captain snapped, riding past. "The King's command."
Éowyn clenched her jaw but obeyed, though her knuckles were white around her hilt. Nearby, Yuna placed herself between the wagons and the charging beasts. Her breath slowed.
No more hiding.
She raised her staff and stepped forward. The air shimmered around her, heavy with invisible heat. Her staff burst into trails of flames as she spun it, and then she struck the ground. A ring of fire raced from the impact, and an ominous rumble filled the clearing. The ground shook, and everyone nearby, soliders and orcs, struggled to keep their balance. With a loud crack, four large horns broke through the earth. A snarling, shaggy head followed it, and the aeon roared as it burst out, spraying rubble everywhere. Ifrit raised his right arm, catching Yuna on his right bicep as she fell when the land crumbled beneath her, and landed on his massive forearms with a grunt. Snorting warm blasts of steam, he gently let Yuna down before raising his head and giving a ferocious roar. Soldiers screamed and scrambled back—some in awe, others in fear.
"Will you...help us?" Yuna asked the fire aeon.
Ifrit snarled, fire licking off his mane, then lunged at the enemy with blazing claws. One warg was torn in half, another incinerated by a blast of molten energy. The tide turned as panic struck the orc ranks. The thunderous roar of the aeon's arrival echoed across the hills as flame burst into the sky, the ground trembling beneath its weight. Fire rolled outward like a living tide, sending wargs fleeing and orcs stumbling in terror.
From atop a small ridge nearby, Gimli reeled back with wide eyes.
"By Durin's beard!" he bellowed. "It's a Balrog! We're doomed!"
Legolas had already raised his bow, arrow nocked and aimed straight for the blazing beast that now tore through the battlefield.
"Gimli—don't rush in! We've faced one of those before. We barely survived that one!" But then the elf hesitated, squinting through the smoke. "Wait… it's not quite the same…"
"I see flames, I see horns, and I see a bloody mountain of death," Gimli barked, gripping his axe tighter. "If that's not a Balrog, I'll shave my beard!"
Then they both saw her—Yuna, stepping forward from the wagons, calm amid the inferno. Her staff glowed faintly, and the fire creature turned at her command, striking with precise fury rather than blind rage.
"…She's controlling it?" Legolas murmured.
Gimli's jaw dropped. "What is she?"
Legolas lowered his bow. "Not a wizard. Not quite."
The dwarf stared at the smoldering battlefield, the enemy broken by a single girl and her burning god. "Remind me never to get on her bad side."
Yuna moved with him, casting supporting spells—Protect, Cura, shimmering barriers to shield the wounded and empower the defenders.
From the hill, Éomer stared down at her, breathless. "By the Valar…"
Éowyn was still, transfixed by the light dancing off Yuna's skin and the grace with which she moved—gentle yet fierce. The girl who had quietly tended wounds had become something entirely other.
A force.
A priestess, yes—but also a warrior.
Smoke drifted over the field as the last of the wargs fled into the hills, scattered and broken. Ifrit vanished in a swirl of embers, leaving only scorched earth behind. Théoden rode back slowly, eyes scanning the wounded, then turning to Yuna.
"You have powers beyond our understanding," he said carefully. "You command fire like a storm god."
Yuna bowed her head. "I only call on those who aid me. I don't seek power—I use it to protect."
There was a long silence.
"And you've protected us well," the king finally said.
She felt Éomer's gaze on her, searching and thoughtful—but not with fear. With something quieter. Respect. Wonder.
Behind him, Éowyn murmured under her breath, "You were never meant to stay behind the lines, were you?"
"Only until the end," said Yuna, offering a small smile. "But neither were you."
Gimli approached cautiously, smoke curling from the scorched ground where the aeon had one stood. Yuna stood among the soldiers, already tending to the wounded.
"So," he grunted, eyeing her. "Not a Balrog, then."
Yuna gave him a small, apologetic smile. "No. His name is Ifrit. He's… a guardian of sorts."
"Well, he guards very enthusiastically," Gimli said, stroking his beard. "Nearly took ten years off my life."
Legolas quirked a brow. "You say that as if you had ten to spare."
Gimli glared at him. "Keep talking, pointy-ears. We'll see who this guardian likes better next time."
Yuna chuckled quietly. "Don't worry. He doesn't burn allies."
"…Usually," she added, after a pause.
Legolas and Gimli exchanged a look.