Azanulbizar reeks of iron and old hate.

The valley below the East-gate is torn open, blackened by blood and boots and the weight of too many years spent marching toward this place. Smoke lies thick and low, clinging to armor and beards alike. We have broken the Orc-host, aye—but victory here tastes like ash. The dead still wait to be named.

I stand among the Iron Hills lads, axe resting heavy in my grip. My mail is dented. My arms ache. There is blood on my hands I have not bothered to scrub away yet. Around me, dwarves drag the wounded clear of the churned ground, voices hoarse, faces hollow. Some curse. Some stare. No one celebrates.

Then the murmur starts.

Not fear. Not alarm.

Recognition.

Heads turn. A path opens through the smoke without a word spoken, and that alone puts my hackles up. I follow their gaze and feel my grip tighten.

White moves through the dark.

Not a banner. Not a torch.

An elk.

A great cow elk, white as winter moonlight, her hide unmarked by soot or blood. Antlers broad and pale, hooves steady on ground slick with gore. She moves with the calm certainty of something that knows it belongs exactly where it stands.

Seraphin.

The name passes from mouth to mouth among the Hills men, low and reverent. I hear Dáin’s voice somewhere behind me—rough, tired, unmistakably alive.

“The Rivers,” he says. “She came.”

Mounted upon the elk is an Elf.

She is pale—unnaturally so against the smoke-dark valley. Her skin catches what little light remains, and her hair falls long and white down her back, unbound, like frost spilling over stone. Over her armor she wears a white cloak, heavy and clean, bearing a sigil I do not know—but the men around me do. They straighten when they see it. Some bow their heads without thinking.

Moon-silver armor gleams beneath the cloak, etched with mithril lines that run like rivers caught in metal. It is not ceremonial. It is war-worn and ready. Across her back rests a spear—long, straight, and bright at the point in a way that makes my eyes narrow. Eärnaurë. Sea-fire. A weapon named for ruin held in restraint.

She does not announce herself.

She does not call for attention.

She rides into the aftermath of slaughter like a white flame cutting through smoke, and the valley makes room for her whether it wants to or not.

I feel my jaw tighten.

Elves should not look like this on a battlefield. Not untouched. Not luminous. Not like something pulled straight out of legend and dropped into mud and blood.

I step forward before anyone else can, boots sinking into the churned ground. I put myself between my kin and this… presence. I have to lift my chin to meet her eye-line, and I resent that more than I care to admit.

“What is this?” I growl, not bothering with courtesy. “We didn’t send for Elves.”

A Hills captain mutters near my shoulder, “We didn’t have to. She answers Iron Hills calls.”

“Aye,” another says. “She always does.”

That only makes my grip tighten.

Seraphin shifts beneath her rider—calm, watchful. The elk’s dark eyes fix on me without fear. I don’t like that either.

I look back to the Elf—Rivers, they call her—and let her see the dents in my armor, the blood ground into the seams. Let her see the cost of this place before she dares to speak of aid or alliance.

“This ground is still warm,” I say, voice rough as gravel. “If you’ve come to judge, do it quick. If you’ve come to help—prove it.”

I plant my feet and hold my ground.

White light or not, this is dwarven blood beneath us.

And I will not yield it lightly.