Azog the Defiler stood on the cliff, his pale form unmoving as he watched the dragon tear through his armies below.
What was meant to be a controlled assault had turned into chaos. Fire spread across the battlefield, ranks breaking apart as the creature descended again, crushing what remained of his formations.
"Why is the dragon still alive?" Azog demanded, his voice sharp and filled with restrained fury. "Didn't you say it had disappeared?"
The general beside him stiffened, clearly aware that the wrong answer would cost more than just his position.
"It did, my Lord," the general said quickly. "We believed it was gone."
Azog's gaze hardened at once. The mistake was already written across the battlefield below where burning lines of fire cut through his ranks. Too many orcs had fallen because of that assumption.
"Where is Oakenshield?" Azog asked, his voice low, carrying that familiar weight of unfinished vengeance.
The name itself was enough to shift the focus of the moment, because Thorin was not just another enemy—he was the one who had humiliated him, the one who had taken his arm, and the one Azog intended to kill by his own hand.
The general answered immediately.
"He is still within Erebor, behind the walls—"
Azog's attention snapped elsewhere before the sentence could finish.
Movement stirred at the gates as a rider emerged, and even from that distance Azog recognized him, a slow, cold smile spreading across his face.
Without another word, Azog jumped onto the warg and marched toward the battlefield, the beast surging forward.
***
Five minutes earlier, within the Lonely Mountain, Thorin stood among his kin, but the space between them no longer felt the same.
The dwarves were watching him.
And their eyes had changed.
He could see it clearly now, the same look he once gave his grandfather when madness had taken hold, when reason had been replaced by obsession. It was not defiance, not yet, but it was no longer trust either.
Thorin lowered his gaze to the Arkenstone resting in his hand, its glow faint but persistent, reflecting back at him with a cold, almost accusing light.
For a moment, a thought surfaced that he could not immediately silence.
Was he becoming the same?
Was he walking the same path that had destroyed his bloodline?
The weight of it pressed against him, not just the stone, but what it represented. Even his companions were beginning to falter, their loyalty strained by something they could not fully name but could clearly feel.
Then—
A voice.
Low, distant, but unmistakable.
Not spoken aloud, yet impossible to ignore.
"You will also die for your greed."
Thorin's grip tightened around the Arkenstone as his expression hardened, forcing the doubt down before it could take shape. The voice lingered for a moment longer, then faded, leaving only the echo of it behind.
He raised his head.
The weight in his hand felt different now.
For a brief moment, he looked at the Arkenstone—then let it fall from his grasp. It slipped from his fingers and struck the stone, its glow dim against the vast hall.
Outside, the sound of battle echoed through the mountain.
His gaze lifted.
Through the distant opening, he could see them—Dáin Ironfoot and the Dwarves of the Iron Hills, locked in combat, holding the line against an enemy that did not stop coming.
Something shifted in him.
"We go to war," Thorin said.
The words were not loud, but they carried.
The Dwarves around him straightened. The silence broke, replaced by something familiar—something they had followed from the beginning.
Their king.
Their king stood before them, not the one lost in gold but the one who had led them here, and a faint smile passed through a few of them, relief mixing with readiness as armor was secured and weapons were lifted.
Thorin rode out at the front, his company behind him, descending into the battlefield with purpose. The clash below parted as they entered, their arrival striking through the Orc ranks with sudden force.
Axes fell and steel met flesh as the line held stronger, while Thorin did not slow, his eyes moving across the battlefield, searching—not for the flow of war, but for one figure—and he found him, Azog, the pale Orc standing at a distance, watching, and for a brief moment their gazes locked, with no words and no signal, yet both understood.
Azog turned first, pulling his warg away from the main battle, moving toward the ruins beyond.
Thorin followed.
He broke from the battlefield, riding hard, his company moving with him as they left the clash behind. The sounds of war faded with distance, replaced by the hollow silence of the ruined lands beyond.
Azog slowed, turning to face him at last.
Thorin dismounted.
The space between them settled, quiet but heavy.
"At last," Azog said, his voice low and satisfied, the sound of it carrying across the ruined stone. "Thorin Oakenshield."
There was no mockery in it, only hatred, years of it, as Thorin stood still with his gaze locked onto the pale Orc while Azog stepped forward slowly, his weapon dragging slightly against the ground before lifting again.
"You took this from me," Azog said, raising the blade attached to his arm, his voice tightening just enough to hint at what lay beneath. "You left me broken."
"I should have finished it," Thorin replied.
Azog smiled faintly.
"Yes," he said. "You should have."
Then the Goblin-cleaver appeared beside Thorin, lodging into the ground at his feet.
Thorin froze for a moment, surprised—he had lost that sword when he was captured by the Elves.
*****
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