Flames. Flames that devoured rock and flesh alike. That was all there was to see. Charred dwarves, colossal structures toppled by an overwhelming force.
A creature of destruction carved its way toward the inner halls. In its path, only one figure stood against it: a lone man wielding a great and strange sword wreathed in black fire, with which he cleaved, in a single mighty stroke, the blaze that threatened to consume everything.
Behind him, the dwarven royal family barely had enough time to escape…
...
Miquella woke with a start, his head pounding, slightly dizzy. It was still night, but he had no intention of going back to sleep.
Leda, against whom he had been nestled, stirred as well at her lord's sudden movement, but said nothing. She no longer reacted with worry as she had the first times it happened.
The former demigod rose from the bed, crossed the room, and sat at his desk. Lighting the glimstone lamp, he took up a quill and one of the many stacked notebooks: one in particular. He opened its pages and began to write and sketch.
This notebook had a peculiar content. At first glance, anyone might mistake it for the doodles of a bored child… but it held much more. It was a story, fragmented, slowly taking shape.
Miquella had dreamt those strange dreams more than once. In each, more of that story was revealed—one in which he seemed to be the protagonist: himself, in an adult body, wielding the same black sword.
Determined to understand, he began recording each dream. But soon he realized what he saw perhaps should not be shared. Thus, instead of narrating clearly, he opted for drawings and scattered words. That was how this cryptic, secret chronicle was born.
The first sketches were simple: a chibi-like head of Miquella on a muscular body, sword in hand, between two trees and a mountain in the background.
The next page showed a greater mountain, a massive carved door, and several bearded little stick-men, barely half Miquella's size. There was also a throne with one such man wearing a crown, and three figures at his side: two more bearded, and a woman distinguishable only by a pair of circles on her chest representing her breasts.
Then came Miquella inside the outline of a mountain home, smiling as he worked with the bearded little ones. In another scene, he flexed his muscles at a bearded woman.
Subsequent pages repeated similar scenes: Miquella fighting with his sword against varied foes, chatting with dwarves, sharing moments with the bearded woman—drawings decorated with hearts—and more community work.
Later, a different image: the crowned dwarf, this time standing with arms outstretched toward Miquella, who knelt before him, receiving some kind of gift.
Miquella glanced away from the notebook and looked at the wall. There, framed, rested a black metal arrow. Large for someone of his size, though akin to human arrows. Finely crafted, yet visibly aged.
That arrow had appeared with him one morning after one of his dreams. He still found no explanation. Most curious was when Leda saw him holding it and pointing it at her. She closed her eyes, accepting her fate without resistance. Miquella had to explain he had no intention of stabbing her with that arrow… though he did not promise not to stab her with other things in the future. He was never sure if Leda understood the phrase the way he meant.
He returned to the notebook. The next page made him blush and grin like a fool.
It was a stick-figure drawing of himself chasing after a bearded woman who, after several scenes of rejection, finally gave in. Though the drawings lacked technique, the intentions were crystal clear—especially given the sheer number of positions depicted.
Miquella shuddered, letting out a faint moan as he recalled that particular dream. But his expression of joy soon shifted to seriousness as he turned the page.
There it was: a vast figure of flame, eyes and teeth glowing within the fire, with two cartilaginous wings protruding.
A burning town… and the mountain, also aflame.
He frowned and began sketching: dwarves fighting the fire, others fleeing in terror… destruction… death…
Then, the creature attacking, Miquella defending them with his great sword, and, behind him, the crowned dwarf with two others and the bearded woman, running toward a small door.
With that, Miquella closed the notebook and stored it with the rest.
He returned to bed and, since breakfast was still far off, entertained himself with his favorite stress-relief toys… also known as Leda's breasts.
Miquella rose with Leda and the two went to the kitchen, where several were already gathered. Freya sat armed in a chair, ever ready. Near the table, a human woman and her young daughter finished setting the plates, while a hobbit woman with generously sized breasts cooked with surprising energy.
They sat at the table, and soon the hobbit and woman served them. Miquella gently patted the girl's head as she sat by his side. She tensed at first, nervous at the touch, but did not move away. However, Miquella's attention soon wandered. He watched the hobbit as she carried a jug of milk, and while she poured, his thoughts drifted beyond the vessel to other large vessels. He could not help but wonder if hobbit milk would taste as delicious as he imagined… and whether he should find out.
Despite his thoughts, breakfast went by uneventfully. Miquella made little effort to hide his interest in the hobbit and in his loyal Leda. The only ones who escaped his gaze were the human woman and her daughter—not for lack of appeal, but because they were not his. They belonged to Hornsent, one of his most devout followers.
Hornsent had come to him after some time living peacefully in these lands. He knelt before his lord, begging for help to recover what he had lost, willing to give anything in return. Miquella accepted. His ring had already shown what it could do, and this request was not as complex as others he longed to achieve.
Thus, by his lord's grace, Hornsent regained his wife and daughter. From then on, his loyalty became absolute. No matter what Miquella asked—his death, renouncing his family, anything—he would obey without hesitation. Of course, Miquella was not cruel. During this peaceful stage, he allowed Hornsent to live with his family freely, though with a warning: when the time came, their swords would be called to battle. Hornsent accepted without a doubt.
His family settled in a home beside Miquella's, and when they could, as that morning, they shared meals and other activities. The only thing that slightly bothered Miquella was the excess of reverence the woman and girl showed him. They treated him like a god, hardly raised their eyes, spoke in whispers, and more than once seemed ready to kneel and kiss his feet as if unworthy of even that. At first he found it excessive, but eventually ignored it.
And as for the hobbit preparing breakfast… Miquella simply recognized excellence when he saw it. He hired Dora, a young local cook, to prepare his breakfasts—and occasionally other meals—a few days a week. Her food was delicious, and her presence, to Miquella, a rather pleasant bonus.
...
After breakfast, Miquella went for a walk through the village, observing the calm yet bustling community.
By now he had been there long enough to chat with nearly anyone, be welcomed at communal gatherings, and even participate in important discussions about local development. He had won the appreciation and esteem of many, thanks to his serene beauty and almost hypnotic charisma, so naturally that few even noticed. His followers, however, left quite a different impression. Most were so intimidating that villagers still avoided approaching them too closely. Still, even they had earned some respect, especially after the incident with the risen corpse.
That black root had, apparently, caused the reanimated bodies. One had sprouted in the Shire as well, and though the risen was swiftly destroyed by Ansbach, the town's first reaction had been harsh. Only after a detailed explanation—and proof—were they able to calm the people and dispel the fear of having slain an innocent. Other roots were located, extracted, and carefully stored with the rest.
Now, in a sealed storeroom within his house, Miquella kept several of these black roots, studying them for their origin. For the moment, he had only determined their mysterious spontaneous appearance in various parts of Middle-earth—or at least the nearby regions.
The group formed by Ansbach, Hornsent, and Thillier took responsibility for tracking both the roots and any undead outbreaks. Indeed, their fame had begun to spread nearby, though it also meant they spent long periods away on small skirmishes.
The community, for its part, received basic lessons: how to identify the roots, how to destroy them, and how to defend themselves if confronted by an undead. Miquella knew neither he nor his followers could be everywhere, and better to prepare the village before tragedy struck.
The day passed peacefully. Miquella enjoyed the stroll, joined some children's games, browsed the market, and admired the women with his usual charming air. Something in the atmosphere made him feel it was a day to rest, and he gave in to that impulse. By night, he went to the tavern with Leda and Dora.
Later, they ended up on a hill beneath the starry sky. Dora, utterly unconscious and bare-chested, lay on the grass, having drunk too much under Miquella's discreet encouragement.
Leda sat nearby, watching as her lord gazed at the hobbit's fat globes with a mixture of wonder and childlike curiosity, even indulging in poking, kneading, and softly pinching her nipples as if expecting something magical to happen—until at last, he sighed and pulled away.
"My lord?" asked Leda, sensing a faint sadness in his expression.
"All is well, Leda… only," he sighed again, "I feel a little regret. Do you know why I never go further with you… or with her?" he said, staring at the moon and stars, eyes distant.
"No, my lord. It is not my place to question your decisions," she answered firmly.
"You should. Truly. Every time I see the children running through the village, I just think our children would be beautiful… Honestly, with the time we've been here I'd have already given you fifteen by now," he said in his usually playful tone, though his words carried a deep truth. "And even if not children, I'm dying to know what sounds and gestures you make, my dear Leda, when you're unclothed…"
Leda froze, but her flushed face and a trickle of blood from her nose—something that happened often since they arrived—betrayed her stoic demeanor.
"Thank you… for the compliment," she stammered, not knowing what else to say, heart racing at the thought her lord might take her right there.
"All this is… because I cannot yet. Not with another person, for now," said Miquella, lowering his gaze, his hands trembling slightly. "I decided I would give my first time only to her… I owe her that. So for now, I must restrain myself. But it's also a good incentive to work harder… to bring her to us."
Miquella stood, brushed off his clothes, and extended his hand to Leda. Though he lacked the strength to actually help her up, she played along, pretending he had lifted her.
"So forgive me, Leda. You'll have to wait a little longer, but I promise in the future I'll fill you with love," he said with a look far too determined and innocent for the true meaning of his words.
"Y-yes… my lord," she answered with a trembling voice, her legs just as unsteady.
Thus, Leda carried Dora on her shoulders back to her home. Then the two returned to theirs, lay together, and Miquella, playful as always, forced Leda to bite her lips so as not to let out unseemly moans for a knight.
...
It was a peaceful night, filled with pleasant dreams, and thus a new day began. Only this time, something special was about to happen.
Not only had the undead hunters' group returned that morning from another expedition, but Dane also appeared at an unexpected hour, breaking routine with an urgent message.
"My lord… The wizard has appeared.