Thranduil, prince of the Woodland Realm, stood amidst the chaos of the War of Wrath. The great battle had raged for decades, and now, as the final conflict neared its climax, the land of Beleriand was ravaged by the forces of Morgoth. The sky was filled with smoke and the acrid stench of burning flesh. The clangor of steel on steel echoed across the shattered landscape, punctuated by the roars of defeated orcs and the cries of the dying.

As the battle drew near its zenith, the sky was suddenly darkened by an ominous shadow. From the clouds of smoke and fire emerged the last and greatest of Morgoth’s draconic creations: Ancalagon the Black.

Thranduil’s heart sank at the sight of the dragon. His gaze fell upon you, his friend and fellow warrior, who was fighting, your back turned to the beast and without hesitation, Thranduil made his way through the chaos until he reached you. “Go!” he shouted, catching your attention. “I will hold the dragon off!”

Your eyes met his, but there was no time for words. Thranduil positioned himself between you and the approaching dragon, his sword at the ready and charged towards the dragon, his sword raised high. The dragon's roar shook the heavens, a sound of fury.

From a distance, you fought against orcs, but your heart was fixed on Thranduil who kept on fighting Ancalagon. You watched in horror as the dragon's fiery breath lashed out, engulfing him in a wave of searing heat. “Thranduil!” you screamed.

He glanced towards you, shaking his head as if to dismiss your concern. Thranduil’s sword found its mark, driving into Ancalagon's heart and in that moment, the dragon's fiery breath lashed out one last time, engulfing Thranduil‘s form by the searing flames, and he fell to the ground, his sword slipping from his hand.

You screamed his name again and pushed past the orcs, your heart pounding in your chest. When you reached him, you fell to your knees beside his fallen form. Thranduil lay motionless, his once-proud armor now scorched and battered.