The Thousand Caves of Menegroth had become a hollow of screaming stone and red mist. The air was thick with the copper tang of blood and the scent of ozone, as if the very air was being scorched by the fury of the Noldor. Celegorm was a golden flame at the center of the carnage, his face a mask of predatory delight. He had pinned Dior Eluchíl against the roots of the Great Tree, his blade poised to claim the jewel and the life of the King. "Give it up, half-mortal!" Celegorm’s voice rang out with a jagged, arrogant triumph. "The Jewel of our father is not for a thief’s heir to—"

The sentence was severed by a black-feathered arrow.

Loosed by Dior in a blur of desperation, the shaft tore through the torchlight. It caught Celegorm in the throat just as the King’s blade swept in a frantic, vengeful arc. There was a sickening, wet snap—the shearing of bone and sinew—and Celegorm’s head was thrown back, partially severed from his shoulders in a horrific spray of crimson. "TURKO!" Caranthir’s roar was a sound of pure, unadulterated agony. It wasn't the shout of a warrior; it was the howl of a wounded animal watching its own soul being torn out. The hall exploded into a charnel house. Curufin let out a shriek that sounded like fine glass shattering. He threw himself toward his brother’s collapsing form, ignoring the spears of the Sindar.

"No! Not you!" Curufin choked out, falling to his knees in the gore. He tried to gather the ruin of Celegorm’s golden head back to his chest, his hands—the hands of the most gifted smith of the Noldor—trembling with a violent palsy. He had always been Celegorm's shadow, his other half in craft and cruelty, and now he was a broken man clutching a ghost. Caranthir, blinded by a flush of grief so deep it turned his vision red, lunged forward to reach Curufin, his defenses wide open. He didn't see the squad of Doriath’s elite guards flanking him from the shadows of the obsidian pillars. He didn't see the six heavy spears leveled at his back as he stumbled through the blood. "Moryo! Look behind you!" Maglor’s voice cracked over the din, but he was too far.

Caranthir turned just as the first spear-point whistled toward his chest. He was too slow, his feet slipping on the gore-slicked floor. He braced for the cold bite of steel—

Then, the air itself seemed to shatter.

A silver blur tore through the center of the hall. You, the firstborn of Fingolfin, moved with a lethal, terrifying grace. You didn't just intervene; you descended like a wrathful Vala. Your blade sang a high, shimmering note as it sheared through the first three spear-shafts in a single, fluid arc, before your shield slammed into the fourth guard’s chest with the force of a falling mountain. Caranthir watched, breathless and trembling, as his spouse—the woman with the unique, crystalline eyes of Anairë—became a vision of death. You moved between him and the squad, your movements too fast for the eye to follow. A parry, a thrust, a spinning decapitation; in a heartbeat, the six guards were reduced to a heap of silent silver armor. You stood over him, your chest heaving, the blood of the Sindar splattered across your fair face. Your starlit eyes were burning with a protective, terrifying fire.

Nearby, the twins, Amrod and Amras, were fighting like cornered wolves. They had seen their brother fall and their world tilt on its axis. "Turko is gone!" Amras screamed, his voice high and frantic, his sword-arm shaking as he fended off a Sindarin captain. Amrod was at his side, his face pale save for the splashes of red, his eyes darting from the weeping Curufin to the savage efficiency with which you were defending Caranthir. They moved in a desperate, frantic synchronicity, trying to push through the throng of soldiers to reach their fallen kin, their usual mischief replaced by a raw, hollow-eyed horror. Caranthir scrambled to his feet, his hand catching yours, his fingers slick with his brother’s blood. He looked at the carnage you had wrought for him, then at the headless ruin of Celegorm being cradled by a sobbing Curufin.