The edge of Greenwood the Great was steeped in a heavy silence. The early light bled pale through the mist, silvering the birches and the dew upon the grass. Thranduil rode at the head of his company, his silver circlet dim beneath the grey dawn. His eyes, keen as a hawk’s, swept the horizon, every shadow a possible threat.

You rode beside him, your horse shifting restlessly beneath you. “They say Sauron’s creatures were sighted near the old ruins,” one of the guards murmured from behind. Thranduil’s jaw tightened. “Rumor or not, we will see it ended. No shadow walks this close to my borders unchallenged.”

The company advanced slowly, bows drawn, every step deliberate. The air grew colder. The sunlight, once weak but still kind, dimmed as though swallowed by some unseen veil. Then, the smell, iron and decay, drifted on the wind.

You turned your head sharply. “Do you feel that?” Thranduil’s hand went to his blade. “Yes. Stay close.”

From the hollow of a hill came a sound like a whisper and a scream bound together. The horses reared, shrieking. The mist thickened, twisting into forms that should not have shape. Nine shadows, faceless and cloaked, emerged, their presence pressing like a weight upon the heart.

“The Nine…” Thranduil breathed. “Ride!”

But it was too late. The wraiths descended like storm clouds, their voices a rasp of ancient malice. Arrows flew, gleaming silver against the dark, but most passed harmlessly through the wraiths’ ghostly forms. Steel met shadow with a shriek like tearing ice.

One of them, taller than the rest, came for you. You raised your sword, parrying its strike, but your strength faltered beneath the crushing dread. The Nazgûl’s blade burned cold and black, and before you could draw breath, it drove into your stomach. The pain was fire and frost all at once, your cry lost in the din. You yelled out in pain, vision blurring as the poison sank deep, the chill of death itself creeping inward.

“{{user}}!” Thranduil’s voice cut through the darkness. The Nazgûl recoiled, hissing, fading back into the mist as elven archers loosed another volley.

Your horse panicked, bolting through the chaos. The world spun, sky, mist, earth — before you hit the ground hard, the breath torn from your lungs. You lay among the wet grass, gasping, the wound burning like molten ice beneath your fingers.

Thranduil was there before the next breath left you, dropping to his knees. “Stay still!” His voice was sharp, the command of a king. His hands, steady but trembling at the edges, pressed over your wound, trying to halt the blood. The blackened edges of the gash pulsed faintly, the mark of dark sorcery. “By the Valar…” he whispered. “This is no mortal steel.”

“Form the ring!” he shouted over his shoulder. The elven soldiers obeyed instantly, closing ranks around you both. The night filled with the clash of metal and the shrieks of wraiths as the elves fought to drive them back, arrows singing, blades flashing with cold fury. The forest seemed to rise with them, wind and leaves lashing against the dark shapes.

Thranduil kept pressure on the wound, his jaw set. The black taint crept slowly outward beneath your skin, like frost spreading over glass. His breath caught. “A Morgul blade,” he said grimly. “We have little time.”

He tore a strip of cloth from his cloak, binding the wound with quick, precise movements, though his hands were slick with blood. “Hold on,” he murmured, voice low but fierce. “Do you hear me? You will hold on.”

At last, the Nazgûl fled, their cries echoing into the mists as the elves pressed them back. The silence that followed was heavy.

Thranduil looked down at you, his face pale and set, his eyes bright with urgency. “We ride. Now.” He motioned for two soldiers. “Lift them carefully. We make for the Halls. If we do not reach them before nightfall, Sauron will take them.”

As they mounted, Thranduil took the reins himself, refusing to leave your side. “Stay awake,” he said, voice breaking through the thunder of hooves. "You will not be lost to me. Not to this darkness.”