When Kaen's army stepped into the borderlands between Enedwaith and Minhiriath, he did not rush to rescue anyone.
For now, he didn't actually know how the southern fronts were faring.
only one thing was certain:
The war had already begun.
He ordered the host to make camp in place, then dispatched detachments of Elven Shadow-wardens to fan out across the southern lands and gather intelligence.
The Shadow wardens were a force designed to stand beside the King's Guard as their dark mirror, elite Elves whose bloodline gifts made them terrifying in stealth, reconnaissance, and sudden killing strikes.
It took only three days for them to bring back what Kaen needed.
"Your Majesty, reports from the Shadow Wardens who went out."
Reger pushed open the tent flap, a roll of dispatches in hand. Kaen, Tauriel, and the various Elven and King's Guard captains were already gathered around the war table, waiting.
Reger spread the parchment flat on the table. His deep voice rolled through the tent:
"Battle at Lond Daer began seven days ago. The enemy struck hard, seized the initiative, and held a crushing advantage in numbers. The main harbor has already fallen; the Elves of Doriath were forced to abandon the port."
He continued:
"Prince Legolas and King Elurin have withdrawn with fifty thousand Elven warriors into the forests of Minhiriath, using the terrain to resist the invaders.
Prince Elured led thirty thousand Elven soldiers to shield Elven civilians, and has been forced to fall back into Eagle's Beak Gorge behind the harbor, where they now stand isolated, fighting stubbornly alone.
"The enemy's warships have sealed the bay. Their landing forces are made up of three main hosts:
> Eighty thousand corsairs, holding the port itself.
> Seventy thousand Haradrim, besieging the forests of Minhiriath.
> Fifty thousand Black Númenóreans, advancing straight toward Laurenandë."
"The fires of war now burn across all Minhiriath and Ened. The Light Elves, not yet firmly rooted in Middle-earth, have been driven onto the back foot almost everywhere."
Everything the scouts reported spelled one thing:
The balance of power was heavily tilted against them.
But Kaen had already been thinking several moves ahead.
"Tauriel."
His voice cut cleanly through the tension in the tent. He turned to his wife, the commander of the ten thousand Caladhîn Elven warriors on this campaign.
"You'll take ten thousand Caladhîn warriors and march at speed along the eastern bank of the Gwathló," he said, fingertip tapping the map where forest and river met. "Reinforce the Doriathrim inside the forests of Minhiriath."
Tauriel nodded solemnly.
"I'll make sure the enemy learns exactly how sharp Caladhîn's Elven spears are."
"Reger." Kaen looked to his King's Guard marshal.
"Here, my lord."
Kaen's finger slid along the etched line of the mountain range on the map.
"You'll take three thousand King's Guard and move by the hidden paths along the eastern mountains. You must reach Laurenandë within five days.
"The Vanyar Elves are powerful, Ingwion himself has the strength to slay a Maia, but what they face are Black Númenóreans.
"They are the fallen descendants of the Edain. The Vanyar are not a people bred for war. Against that kind of foe, they will struggle to withstand the assault. This isn't a battle that can be decided by one hero alone."
Reger clasped a fist over his chest. The ring of metal echoed with unshakable resolve.
"I will be your blade, my king, and grind every enemy beneath our hooves."
The next day.
Ten thousand Caladhîn Elven warriors broke away from the main host under Tauriel's command, a silver flood surging over the Gwathló and vanishing into the deep green of Minhiriath' forests.
Three thousand King's Guard turned east. Their golden rune-etched armor burned beneath the sun, a river of living light racing across the barren wilds. Wherever their warhorses passed, even thick briar and thorn were trampled to dust.
Kaen watched the two detachments disappear at the edge of sight, then turned back to the rest of his army and raised his sword.
"The rest of you, come with me. We're going to Eagle's Beak Gorge…"
His gaze hardened.
"…and we're going to drag the Teleri out of the pirates' noose."
Two thousand King's Guard and five thousand Elven Shadow-wardens roared their answer as one. The thunder of their voices shook the morning mist apart.
His Mearh reared high, letting out a shrill, sky-tearing scream, then bolted forward with his rider toward the south—toward lands already drowning in smoke and fire.
The sights along the way grew uglier with every mile.
Burned-out Elven villages still belched black smoke. Charred beams and collapsed roofs hung with shredded, soot-stained white banners—the swan-crests of the Teleri, fluttering weakly in the acrid wind.
In the shallows beside the road, bodies bobbed and turned in the current: Orcs, pirates, Elves. The river had been stained to a dirty violet, and every so often, a half-drowned ember drifted past on the surface like a dying firefly.
"Your Majesty."
One Shadow warden reined in beside Kaen. His cloak was streaked with dried blood, and in his hand he carried a severed pirate's head by the hair.
"Prince Elured is almost at his limit in Eagle's Beak Gorge," the scout reported. "The enemy launched five assaults just yesterday. Their arrows are gone. They could be overrun at any moment."
Kaen's gaze went to the distant outline of the gorge.
Black birds wheeled above it in thick circles.
Carrion crows.
Their gathering only ever meant one thing:
Death was spreading there.
He leaned forward and slapped his steed's neck. The warhorse snorted, understanding at once, its four hooves flared with a golden halo, speed surging like a released arrow.
"Pass the command," Kaen's voice cracked like a whip in the wind. "King's Guard to the front in a wedge, Shadow-wardens disperse on the flanks. Full speed.
By dawn tomorrow, we must be at Eagle's Beak Gorge!"
Five thousand Elven Shadow-wardens slipped away at once, like bats diving into the dusk. They melted into the scrub and dead grass on either side of the road, gray cloaks blending with the land, leaving behind only the occasional flash of an arrowhead to prove these hunters existed at all.
Two thousand King's Guard tightened their formation, closing ranks into a massive spearhead. Their burnished armor caught the sun like a mirror, turning the entire formation into a single blazing blade aimed straight at the heart of the dark.
…..
Behind Lond Daer Port, the crystalline lamps set into the gorge walls had been dark for three days.
Prince Elured leaned against cold rock, the edge of his sword jagged and dulled, his armor scored with gashes and burns.
Of the thirty thousand Falmarin and Sindarin warriors who had retreated here with him, fewer than fifteen thousand remained. Their mail was torn, their shields splintered. Many had lips cracked from thirst, but not a single hand had loosened its grip on a spear or sword.
At the mouth of the gorge, the pirates' siege engines continued their pounding barrage. Stone boulders slammed into the cliffs with bone–shaking force, sending shards of rock raining down. Every impact on Elven shields boomed like distant thunder.
Eighty thousand corsairs swarmed outside the valley like starving sharks.
They paced and snarled in the dust, barking curses in their harsh sea-tongue, swearing by every dark god and promise of plunder what they'd do once they broke the gorge and got their hands on Elven gold, Elven wine…..Elven throats.
"Your Highness, the last water-skin is gone."
A Falmarin handmaiden clutched an empty skin in both hands, eyes shining with tears.
"The children… they've started to dehydrate."
Elured looked past her, into the depths of the gorge.
Hidden in the caves further within were more than thousands of Elven civilians, most of them elders and children, the last living root of their people.
"Bring me my water-skin," he rasped.
The handmaiden hesitated, then handed over a skin that still sloshed faintly, barely half a bag left.
The prince uncorked it, poured the remaining water into his helmet, and handed it to the youngest warrior at his side.
"Take it," Elured said softly. "Share it with the children."
"Your Highness!" the warriors cried at once. "We need that water too—!"
Elured just smiled, tired but unwavering. There was no surrender in those eyes.
"I am the prince of the Teleri," he answered quietly. "Son of Dior. In my veins runs the blood of Elves, of the divine, and of the Edain.
As long as I draw breath, I will not let my people down."
He straightened, pushed himself off the rock, and leveled his sword at the gorge's mouth.
"Warriors! Check your weapons."
His voice rolled along the stone like a bell.
"Let those pirates learn that Elven blood is not spilled for nothing. Let the other peoples of Middle-earth see that the Elves who sailed back from Aman are not cowards.
We are worth their respect."
"For the Light!"
"For Justice!"
"For Freedom!"
"For Doriath!"
Fifteen thousand Elven warriors raised their weapons as one. Their voices were hoarse, worn raw by days of battle and thirst, but when their battle cry echoed off the cliffs—
"For Doriath!"
——it still shook the very air.