The Elven forces began to set up their camps on the eastern side of the town. Archers built watchtowers from the ruins, while Elven healers helped tend to the wounded from Lake-town.
On a hill to the west of Dale, Arwen and Thalion observed all of this from a distance. The wind ruffled their hair as the morning light illuminated the movements of Elves and Men working side by side.
"Once, Dale was a symbol of cooperation between Men and Dwarves," Arwen whispered. "Now... perhaps the time has changed. Men and Elves."
Thalion nodded. But he remained silent. His eyes were sharply fixed on Erebor.
"The war hasn't begun yet. But the footsteps of destiny are already knocking on the earth."
Dusk slowly descended upon the northern sky. Clouds moved swiftly over the rocky fortresses that silhouetted the approaching shadows of war. Amidst the gusts of wind carrying the scent of damp earth and winter mist, two figures silently left the Dale encampment.
Legolas stood tall atop the ruins of an old wall, his eyes fixed northward, towards the dark towering mountains in the distance—Mount Gundabad. The night wind tugged at his green cloak, and his left hand was never far from his dagger hilt.
Tauriel approached, carrying her long bow and a questioning gaze.
"Are you sure Gundabad will be where the enemy gathers?" she whispered, her voice drifting like the wind through autumn leaves.
Legolas turned slightly, his blue eyes meeting hers with resolve.
"I see darkness gathering there. Ever since father came to Dale, his eyes have been on Erebor... but my heart tells me the enemy comes not just from one direction. Gundabad is an ancient Orc fortress. If Azog still lives, that is where he will raise the banner of war."
Tauriel took a deep breath. "We won't get King Thranduil's blessing for this."
"Then do not wait for blessings," Legolas replied. "We do not fight for crowns or names. We fight to protect those who cannot protect themselves."
Tauriel smiled faintly, then nodded. "In that case... we go tonight."
Without many words, the two of them left the town in silence. There was no thunder of footsteps, only the gentle rustle of light steps over grass and rubble.
From a distance, Thalion, standing on a watchtower, saw them leave. Arwen stood beside him, watching the shadows of the two Elves slowly disappear into the embrace of the night.
"They know the risks," Arwen said softly.
Thalion nodded, his eyes never leaving the direction of their departure. "But they also know what is moving from beyond the northern mist. Destiny doesn't need blessings. It only needs those who dare to step forward."
And night closed the sky over Dale with a curtain of stars, while two forest guardians from Mirkwood stepped into the heart of darkness, towards Mount Gundabad… where the forces of darkness slowly rose from a land long thirsty for blood.
Morning mist hung low over Dale, shrouding the old buildings slowly being rebuilt by human hands. In the quiet town square, only the sound of hammers and clanging metal accompanied the cold wind that swept through the ruins of the past.
Among the pillars blackened by time, a cloaked figure walked slowly. His staff tapped the stone floor, and each step seemed to carry the weight of the world. Gandalf had returned.
From afar, Bard, in a brown cloak and weary eyes, approached him. Beside him, King Thranduil stood haughtily in shimmering emerald green attire, surrounded by his guards. His face was calm, too calm.
Gandalf greeted them with a small nod, then immediately delivered the news he carried from the darkness.
"Orc forces are moving from Gundabad," he said without preamble. His voice was heavy, yet clear. "They come not just for the gold of Erebor, but to seize control of this entire region. They will arrive before the next full moon."
Bard immediately gripped his sword tightly. "How many?"
"More than we can imagine," Gandalf replied. "Led by Bolg, son of Azog. They are not just ordinary Orcs, but a force of darkness trained to destroy, burn, and kill without mercy. If we do not unite, not only Dale or Erebor will fall—but this entire valley will become a graveyard."
Thranduil listened without turning his face. Then he spoke, calm but sharp.
"You come bearing dark tidings as usual, Mithrandir. But I will not sacrifice my people for a war that is not mine. The gold of Erebor is the concern of the Dwarves. This city is not part of our forest."
Gandalf looked at him sharply, silent for a moment, then took a step closer. "This is not about gold, Thranduil. This is about a destruction that will sweep everything away, including your ancient, untouched trees. Will you remain behind the shadows of your forest... while the world burns?"
Thranduil met Gandalf's gaze for a moment. His eyes seemed unyielding, but in his heart, a seed of doubt began to grow.
"We will defend ourselves if attacked," he finally replied. "But I will not march to war to defend Erebor or Men who steal from the dragon's ruins."
Bard wanted to argue, but Gandalf raised his hand, holding him back.
"You do not have to fight for Erebor," Gandalf said slowly. "Fight for tomorrow. For your forest. For the young Elves who do not know how dark the world can become."
Thranduil did not answer. He merely turned, his cloak billowing in the wind, and walked away, followed by his silent guards.
Gandalf took a deep breath, then looked north—to where black clouds were beginning to gather, bringing the shadow of approaching war.
"He will realize... when it is too late," he muttered softly.
Their footsteps touched the snowy ground on the slopes of Gundabad. Legolas and Tauriel hid behind large rocks overlooking a deep valley. From there, they saw it—wave after wave of Orcs, fully armed, marching like a black current flooding the earth. Among them, mountain trolls and Wargs roared as a storm approached. On a rocky hill, the figure of Bolg stood in black armor, gazing south. War had begun to move.
Tauriel swallowed, her face pale. "We must go back now."
Without a word, Legolas nodded, and in an instant, both ran down the slope, riding their horses towards Dale as fast as the winter wind.
On the other side, as morning began to lift the fog, in front of Erebor, a young Hobbit crept down from a large stone wall. He was not from Erebor—he was Bilbo, but today, he carried something that was not his—the Arkenstone.
The noble gem pulsed with light in his embrace, wrapped in thick wool cloth. Bilbo descended slowly, using a rope he had quietly tied the night before. His heart pounded, not from fear of falling, but from the weight of the choice he carried.
In Dale, Bard was standing on the gate wall, looking west where the sunlight was beginning to touch the mountains. It was then that Legolas and Tauriel arrived in haste.
"They are coming," Legolas said curtly.
"An army from Gundabad, larger than we can withstand," Tauriel continued. "Bolg himself leads them."
Bard looked at the sky that was beginning to turn red. His face was stern, full of thought.
"Then we must prepare. Whether Erebor opens its doors or not."
But before the first steps of preparation for the army could be made, a voice from the main gate caught everyone's attention.
A young Dwarf came panting, followed by two human guards who brought him before Bard and Thranduil, who stood on the meeting platform.
"I bring this," Bilbo said, unrolling the cloth.
The light of the Arkenstone blazed like an ancient star reawakened. All eyes turned to it; even Thranduil straightened with renewed attention.
"The King's Stone..." the Elvenking murmured. "I never thought I would see it again."
"I don't understand why gold blinds you all," Bilbo said slowly. "But if this can stop the war, then take it. Just exchange it for what you desire, and let no blood be spilled today."
Thranduil looked at Bilbo for a long time. There was silence in the air, as if time itself held its breath.
"Is this Thorin's will?" Thranduil asked flatly.
"No," Bilbo answered honestly. "He doesn't even know I took it. But I know it is not his... not anyone's. It belongs to the future we wish to save."
Thranduil bowed his head for a moment, touching the Arkenstone with his long fingers. For the first time since arriving in Dale, his eyes reflected not only solemnity, but also doubt.
"You remind me of our youth... when war was not the first path," he said finally.
He looked at Bard.
"If Erebor does not open its doors, perhaps we must devise new options. But with this stone, I can speak. I will go to the mountain gate one last time. If they refuse... let destiny decide the rest."
And with that, their steps moved towards Erebor—with the Arkenstone in hand, and the faint hope that perhaps, blood did not have to be the price of all that was lost.
Dawn swept over Dale valley with a silvery light. A thin mist still lingered among the city's ruins, but the shadows of the Elves had already moved before the sun fully touched Erebor's peak. They came in silence, without shouts of war, yet their steps were synchronized and certain. Bows were ready to be drawn, arrows fitted to their backs, and their eyes were filled with the cold serenity characteristic of Mirkwood forest.
Erebor's main gate remained tightly sealed, blocked by a stone wall hastily built by the Dwarves at Thorin's command. There were no signs of movement from behind the wall—only silence and stillness, as if the mountain itself had refused to speak.
In front of the Elven ranks, King Thranduil stood, his emerald green cloak swaying gently in the mountain wind. Beside him, Bard stood calmly, though clearly weary from the tension that had overshadowed them for nights.
Thranduil stepped forward. His voice was calm, yet echoed powerfully throughout the valley.
"Thorin, son of Thráin, heir of Erebor—hear my call. We have not come to seize. We have come to trade. The Arkenstone is in our hands. Return only one thing: the white gems promised to us by your father. Then no blood shall be spilled today."
A long silence answered him. The wind rustled, carrying the sharp cry of an eagle in the sky. But from the stone wall, only an empty echo returned.
Then, from a narrow gap high in the mountain wall, Thorin's voice was heard, hoarse and full of vengeance:
"You will not steal our inheritance with threats. You speak of barter, but you come with an army. Those white gems are worth no more than the pride of our people. Go, or let stone and steel speak for us."
Thranduil's face remained calm, but the glint in his eyes could not be hidden. He turned to his commander and gave a small nod.
Bows began to be drawn. Cries in the ancient Elvish tongue echoed.
But before the first arrow was loosed, the sound of a great horn echoed from the east. From behind the rising mist, a dark and solid formation appeared, marching swiftly towards the valley—the Dwarf army from the Iron Hills, led by Dáin II, Thorin's cousin.
Dust rose as the Dwarves' feet stomped on the rocky ground. Dáin, with a crowned helmet and a large battle-axe in hand, looked at Thranduil with a gaze like steel hitting ice.
"You want war, Elf?" he roared. "Then face us first!"
The Elven and Dwarf armies now stood facing each other, forming a semicircle around the enclosed mountain. The air grew heavy, as if suspended between the last breath of peace and the first beat of war.
Bard stood between them, trying to speak:
"Dáin, listen. We do not want blood. We bring the Arkenstone to stop this."
But Dáin merely spat on the ground.
"If that is a stolen stone, then let Thorin himself take it back from whoever holds it."
Thranduil gave no sign to attack, but his army was already in battle-ready position. The Iron Hills Dwarves lowered their spears, forming a solid wall of steel. A major clash awaited only one small step.
And in the middle of the field that was almost a sea of death, the sky suddenly trembled with a heart-shaking heavy sound: the thud of a much larger, darker army...
The morning mist still hung in the valley when the sounds of footsteps and clashing weapons echoed. From two sides of the valley, two armies—the Elves and the Dwarves—stood facing each other.
The Elven army from Mirkwood stood neatly in perfect formation, like a living, silvery-green wall. Arrows were already nocked on bows, their eyes unblinking, gazing at their opponents without fear. Their cloaks fluttered, as if even the wind bowed to their order.
On the other side, the Dwarves from the Iron Hills—short but sturdy—stood in a dense, solid shield wall formation. They hammered axes and spears against their shields, creating a terrifying rhythm, like thunder rumbling from deep within the earth.
At the front of their lines, Dáin Ironfoot stood atop a large rock, a horned steel helmet on his head, holding a battle-axe that had felled dozens of enemies in the Old Eastern War. His eyes blazed with battle fervor.
"Charge!" Dáin roared. "If you want a taste of Dwarf steel, I'll put it right in your mouths!"
"Draw your arrows, Elf! Just one shot, and we'll tear your ranks apart!"
Thranduil remained silent. His hand made only a small gesture. The Elven archers simultaneously drew their bows and released a rain of arrows towards the Dwarf ranks.
But the Dwarves were prepared. They raised large steel shields locked together to form a wall, and from gaps in that wall emerged small mechanical devices that protruded like inverted steel hammers. When the arrows struck, these devices bounced the arrows back into the air. Some arrows even ricocheted back towards the Elven army, making them recoil slightly in surprise.
Dáin grinned.
"Is that all you can do, pretty Elf?"
Soon after, the Dwarves charged forward. The Elven forces retaliated with swift and highly precise attacks. Swords and axes clashed amidst the snow, which began to melt with blood and fury.
Thranduil slowly raised his hand, and the Elven army moved. Like a living forest wave, they ran lightly yet coordinated, their leaps graceful, yet deadly. The Dwarves' spears and swords rose in unison.
Then the clash erupted.
The clang of metal, the thud of swords hitting shields, and the shouts of war echoed. Elves leapt nimbly onto Dwarf shields, trying to break their lines. But the Dwarf lines were not easily breached. They parried, attacked from below, and created a brutal rhythm of chaos.
Bodies wrestled. The ground trembled. Dust flew.
But just as the swords drank their first blood, the sky changed color. Black clouds rolled in from the north, and with the mist flowing from the mountain valley, a large shadow emerged.
From a distance, a loud sound like thousands of feet hitting the earth was heard. Bard, who stood between the two armies, holding his breath, looked up.
"Stop!" he shouted. "Look north!"
All movement instantly froze. The Elves and Dwarves, who had been locked in battle, turned—and what they saw made their blood run cold.
The Orc army.
Not one or two battalions. But thousands, coming from the belly of Mount Gundabad and the northern expanse, filling the valley like a wave of darkness. Black banners swayed above their heads, and from a distance, atop a high rocky hill overlooking the entire valley, a towering figure stood tall: Azog the Defiler.
He stood on Ravenhill, his body clad in dark steel and one hand replaced by a deadly blade. From there, he surveyed everything, giving commands in a harsh and cruel tongue.
The sound of Orc war horns echoed, heavy and striking the chest like a hammer. And that was when destiny turned.
Elves and Dwarves, who had been fighting moments before, now looked at each other, then slowly retreated from their attacking positions. Their faces changed: from anger to understanding. Eyes that had previously seen enemies, now saw reluctant allies.
Thranduil stepped forward, looking at Dáin. They said nothing. But a single nod was enough. Hostilities were suspended.
The true war had come.
And in the distance, the shadow of the recently fallen dragon was now replaced by the broader shadows of darkness—a great war that would test the courage of all races.
From atop a small hill on the western side of the Erebor valley, two cloaked figures stood silently. Thalion, a Crown Prince of Rohan, stood with his arms crossed over his chest. Beside him, Arwen Undómiel, daughter of Elrond, watched the battlefield with a wistful yet sharp gaze.
The wind carried the smell of steel and blood, and the echoes of war began to reverberate throughout the valley. Below, the Dwarf and Elven armies prepared to face the increasingly approaching wave of Orcs side by side. The sky darkened as if mourning what was about to unfold.
Thalion took a deep breath, his voice deep and heavy as he said,
"The Battle of Five Armies has begun..."
Arwen turned, her eyes clouded but steady, then replied softly,
"And all of this... just because one small Hobbit brought courage into the world of kings and warriors."
Thalion bowed his head, his cloak gently fluttering in the mountain wind.
"Destiny is indeed not for the strong or the powerful, Arwen. Sometimes, the world changes... by the small steps of unexpected creatures."
They fell silent for a moment, watching the Orc ranks approach like a storm from the world of darkness.
"This war," Arwen continued, "is no longer about gold, or precious stones... It's about honor, about a future that can still be saved, even from the ruins of hatred."
Thalion nodded. "And perhaps, from the blood spilled today... peace will grow, no matter how many generations it takes."
They stood together, two eternal souls witnessing the mortal world once again learn that hope, betrayal, courage, and greed—all would collide on this land.
In the distance, a long trumpet sounded. The Orc army began to charge. Arrows once again flew into the sky. Axes and swords gleamed under the dim light of dawn. And the war... truly began.
Thalion gazed far towards the heavily sealed gate of Erebor, his breath hitched, holding the weight of his thoughts. The roaring sounds of war in the distance made his heart grow more restless.
"I will join this war," he said with a firm voice, his gaze full of determination. "When Thorin emerges from Erebor and overcomes the dragon sickness within him, I do not want the forces of Middle-earth to be greatly diminished by a war that should be the last—against Mordor later."
Arwen, standing beside him, nodded slowly, understanding the burden Thalion carried. "You are right. Our strength must be preserved so that we can face a much greater threat."
Thalion closed his eyes for a moment, envisioning a future full of challenges. "This war is not just about retaking Erebor, or about the pride of the Elves and Dwarves. It is about survival, about preserving the hope that still remains in Middle-earth."
He opened his eyes again, looking at the reddening horizon. "I will fight in this battle, but I must also keep the others strong for the days to come."