Darkstream Vale lay on the eastern side of the Misty Mountains, a quiet and shadowed valley where a torrent of mountain water plunged down from a narrow pass, forming a slender waterfall that spilled into a lake at the valley's northern end. The elves called it Mirrorlake, for on calm days its surface reflected the cliffs like polished silver.
The East Gate of Moria opened from the slopes beside this very lake. Crumbled statues of dwarves, their features worn away by time, stood as grim reminders of a fallen kingdom. Yet on this day, the valley was far from silent.
Beneath the sun's gleam, the place glittered with a different light—golden armor. A host of elves stood arrayed by the lakeshore, their polished plate flashing so brilliantly that even the lake's reflection seemed dim beside it.
Then came a deep rumble from the mountainside.
Boom…
A single figure burst from the shattered East Gate, tumbling through dust and sunlight.
"Wait—why is this slope going down?" Eric yelped as gravity reminded him of its authority.
The next few seconds were a blur of clanging metal and flailing limbs. His armor rang against the stone steps, each bounce accompanied by a noise that could have made a blacksmith wince. At last, he rolled to a stop at the bottom, landing face-first in the grass.
He lay there for a long moment, catching his breath.
"Ahh… grass, sunlight, waterfalls, fresh air…" He groaned, sitting up. "And—hold on—is that… elves?"
Indeed, an entire elven army stood by the lake, banners of Lothlórien fluttering in the wind. Rows of spears gleamed in disciplined silence, their wielders unmoving as statues.
Eric froze mid-sentence.
"…Why is there an elven army here?"
A cheerful voice called from afar, "Honored ally! We have come to your aid!"
"Ah, thank you! Really, thank you!" Eric shouted back. "Though maybe less smiling and more running would be good right now!"
Beside the shouting elf stood a tall woman barefoot upon the grass, her golden hair glimmering in the sunlight. Her long gown flowed like starlight upon water, yet not a trace of dust clung to her. Lady Galadriel inclined her head slightly toward Eric in calm acknowledgment.
Eric gave a short, breathless bow. "My lady! Greetings! But we don't have time for pleasantries—get your people out of here! He's right behind me!"
The elves blinked in confusion. He?
The answer arrived almost immediately.
The ground trembled again, this time with heat. Air shimmered with rising waves of fire, and an ancient, primal fear crept into every elven heart. Weapons quivered in unsteady hands as something stirred within the mountain's depths.
Their breaths quickened. Every instinct screamed one word.
Enemy.
From the fissures of stone came a thunderous boom and a blinding surge of flame. Two charred claws burst from the gate, ripping the ancient stone apart as if it were parchment.
The Balrog emerged.
Its molten wings unfurled beneath the sky for the first time in an age, spreading wide enough to blot out the sun. Fire rolled off its form like living fury, and the air itself recoiled.
Some of the younger elves broke first. As the sunlight turned red and the air filled with choking sulfur, one soldier screamed and stumbled backward, the sound shattering the army's perfect formation.
The terror was infectious. Even those who had never known fear felt it now.
"Hold the line! Maintain formation!" shouted the elven captain, forcing command into his trembling voice.
But the Balrog didn't even glance at them. Its blazing eyes fixed solely on one man.
"I told you," the creature's voice rumbled, shaking the valley. "You cannot escape."
"Oh, for heaven's sake," Eric muttered, dragging his sword free.
The Balrog raised its blade, molten light pooling at its edge.
Eric had fought it long enough to know what came next.
He didn't wait.
Clang!
Steel met flame. The shockwave rolled through the valley, scattering leaves and dust. Eric's sword sang with energy, glowing brighter than ever before.
For the first time, it felt completely alive in his hands—its power pulsing in rhythm with his heartbeat.
Among the watching elves, murmurs rippled through the ranks.
"That sword… it was forged by our kin."
"It answers him!"
The Balrog's whip lashed out suddenly, catching Eric by the leg.
"Oh come on, again?!"
In a single jerk, Eric was yanked skyward like a fish on a line, soaring helplessly over the valley. The Balrog readied a killing blow as Eric plummeted toward him.
But Eric wasn't done yet.
He fired a burst from the thrusters on his armor—an invention that had once made dwarves shake their heads in disbelief—and switched to his winged flight module midair. A flare of fireworks shot from his back, propelling him downward like a living missile.
He slammed into the Balrog's head with a thunderous crash, then brought his sword down in a heavy, glowing arc.
BOOM!
The monster's skull buried half a meter into the dirt. Its roar turned into a confused groan.
Eric's own health meter plummeted too, courtesy of gravity. He wheezed, stuffing a golden apple into his mouth as he staggered back to his feet.
The Balrog twitched, shaking with rage. "You cannot kill me! Then I shall destroy all that you love!"
With a furious bellow, it turned toward the elves.
Galadriel finally raised her hand. Between her fingers shimmered the silvery glow of a star caught in crystal. The air grew cool and bright as water.
The Balrog halted mid-step, as if it had struck an invisible wall.
Eric's eyes widened. The Ring of Water.
Nenya, one of the Three Elven Rings of Power. Its gift was to preserve, to protect, and to heal. Through its strength, Lothlórien remained ever-green and untouched by time.
The Balrog hissed, bewildered by a power it had never known. It had slumbered since the First Age, long before these rings existed.
Galadriel's voice rang clear through the haze.
"Return to the darkness that spawned you, creature of fire. Wherever starlight touches, there is no place for you."
A surge of silver light pressed against the Balrog's flames, forcing it back step by step. The ground steamed where water met fire.
But even that sacred power could not destroy it completely. The Balrog's fury only grew hotter, straining against the luminous barrier.
Eric stepped forward again, gripping his sword. "I'll say this one last time…"
He pointed the blade toward the creature.
"You. Shall. Not. Pass!"
With a roar, he unleashed a charged strike, driving the Balrog backward until its molten body vanished once more into the broken gates of Moria.
"I will return!" the creature howled. "And when I do, you will face more than me!"
Then it was gone, swallowed by darkness and echoing drums that still rumbled faintly from deep below.
Galadriel's glow faded. The Lady of Lothlórien sank to one knee, breathing hard. Eric hurried to her side.
"Are you alright, my lady?"
She nodded weakly. "The Ring's power takes much… but he is sealed, for now."
The elven captain looked to the horizon, where the sound of marching grew louder. "A legion of orcs approaches! Prepare for battle!"
He turned to Eric. "Will you stand with us, ally?"
Eric smiled faintly, sitting himself on the steps of Moria's gate.
He raised a hand in a lazy wave.
"That wasn't a no," he said. "Just… no need for words. I'll handle it from here."
The elves glanced at one another, uncertain whether to laugh or salute.
Either way, the message was clear.
He wasn't going anywhere.