Flushed with triumph, the Dwarf-King set off toward his realm. But on the road, a band of Orcs blocked his path. Perhaps the story might’ve ended differently…

But drunk on his own success, the Dwarf forgot the meaning of diplomacy. This was no duel of skill — it was slaughter. The sides were not equal.

The Orcs tore through him, then turned their fury on every bearded traveler they could find.
Capturing, torturing — spilling blood across the roads they now claimed.

Somewhere nearby, witnessing unfolding chaos, panicking GM was screaming into his comms: "Oh, shit!!..."

Though captured. Though stripped of his crown. Though bleeding and broken — the Dwarf-King never yielded.

His final cry carried no despair. Only wrath.

A wordless fury that echoed through the forest canopy and ignited every heart it touched.

Panicked, an Orc scout rushed back to camp. He stammered a warning: not one, not two — an entire army was marching their way.

The Orcs and the Knights of Ast-Akhe hastily barricaded the gates. Swords thirsted for blood — but first came the arrows. Here and there, soldiers fell — struck down by deadly aim. One bolt nearly ended your humble chronicler’s tale — I literally took an arrow in the knee.

And then the moment came.

Without waiting for the gates to fall, the besieged smashed them open and charged.

They pushed the enemy back, broke them into pieces, and hunted down each faltering fighter in turn.

The battle surged toward the gates of Brethil. And thou fighting was fierce, when the forces of Sauron drew near the castle, there remained no defenders strong enough to resist. What followed… This chronicle has not pages enough to tell it.

But one word will suffice: Massacre.

Far from the chaos, beneath the boughs of ancient trees, a noble Elf escorted his captive into camp: an Orc. The creature spat curses, laughed in the face of death, trembled with fear, lunged in futile rage. But all resistance ceased the instant he met the gaze of the Elven Seer. No words were needed. His mind lay bare. Schemes and secrets bled into the open beneath her burning eyes.

What she saw chilled even her. In a trembling voice, she turned to her kin and spoke the words none wished to hear:

The final reckoning has come.

Elsewhere in Middle-earth, another voice thundered. Commanding. Earth-shaking. He demanded the return of what was his.

He demanded the return of what was his. He summoned his legions. He called for fire and fury to sweep his enemies from the land.

The final reckoning has come.

There was no hope. No doubt. No more time for standing aside.

The half-ruined castle of Bretel became the last refuge — the final foothold. Here, the great forces would collide.

Tension choked the air. Whispers of farewell passed through the quiet. Only the arriving reinforcements held the last fragile thread of hope.

And the enemy... They did not wait long.

One side: a wall of shields and the terrible power of the Ring. The other: a besieged keep. The armies stood frozen, face to face. The invaders locked shields and stood still. The defenders, foreseeing the carnage to come, roared to steel each other’s hearts. Two armies stood in the narrow gate, when silence fell like a shroud. Then — heavy, shuddering footsteps.

The cry of "Charge!" had barely left the lips before warriors were already rushing forward. It was drowned in steel and screaming, in the thunder of colliding shields.

The front lines will never forget fast and merciless clash that littered the ground with the wounded and dying. Some dragged fallen comrades to safety while others knelt beside them, trying to ease their pain. But the battle did not wait for mercy.

... it devoured lives from both sides. At last, a breath the attackers had broken through the first line. Emboldened, they ceased to count their dead, expecting victory, but the defenders gave no ground freely. Each step they took was paid for in blood.

They fell back— to open space for fresh warriors, to strike again, to shatter the enemy line anew.

Traditionally a kamikaze-orc surged forward, finally breaking the enemy line, only to be met by seven blades at once.

The lines clashed like dancers in a ritual of ruin. Advance, withdraw. Strike, stagger. It was like a wedding dance from the first evening, but this time it seemed it would never end.

But the sand in the hourglass had been replaced by blood and agony— and the final hour had come.

Though weakened, the invaders refused to yield. Not a single one fled. Not one turned away. In desperate defiance, they sold their lives dearly, one after another.

Until the warhorn finally sounded—Victory.

Now comes the time to cast off our masks as the battlefield lies quiet. Where once war-cries thundered and shields clashed, only crows speak—pecking at broken helms and abandoned banners.

Drink deep, then, of memory—while the blood is still warm, while the dust of the fallen clings to your boots, while the names of the lost have not yet faded into silence. Drink, and remember. Let the story live, not in marble or monument, but in the retelling—by voice, by song, by firelight in the cold.

The gates of Castel Brethil closed and perished in time, but let the gates of memory remain open. And may those who listen one day stand at their own threshold—ready to write the next verse in the language of valor.

Until the world or Middle-earth breathes.

Until we meet again.