Facing Thranduil's praise, Sylas responded with a humble smile.
"Your Majesty, you flatter me. None of this was accomplished by my hand alone."
Then, as if recalling something, he asked curiously, "Oh, and where is Prince Legolas? I haven't seen him among your company."
At the mention of his son, Thranduil's expression softened slightly, his pride subtly showing beneath his usual calm.
"He picked up a trail of Orc activity in the north and went to investigate. He's tracking them as we speak."
The moment Orcs were mentioned, Gandalf's expression darkened. He straightened slightly, his brow creased in concern. "Your Majesty, where exactly did these Orcs appear?"
Thranduil waved a dismissive hand, as though brushing away a minor irritation. "In northern Mirkwood. From what we can tell, they seem to have come down from the northern Misty Mountains. Legolas was uneasy, so he followed them to learn more. I expect he'll return within a few days."
Though Thranduil ruled a powerful woodland kingdom, he remained mostly indifferent to the troubles of the wider world. He had not rallied his forces when the dragon Smaug attacked the Lonely Mountain, and he had little intention of interfering in the coming conflict between Dwarves and Orcs, unless his own interests were directly at stake.
His purpose here was singular: to reclaim a heirloom, a white gemstone necklace crafted long ago for his late wife, entrusted to the Dwarves, and never returned.
Legolas, however, held different views.
With a heart more open and compassionate than his father's, Legolas believed that old grudges should be set aside. Despite past tensions, he saw the Dwarves and Elves as natural allies in the face of darkness. The rising threat of Orcs demanded unity, not stubborn isolation. That was why he chose to track the Orcs, hoping to uncover their movements and perhaps find their main encampment.
Thranduil, however, did not linger long in Dale.
After allowing his soldiers a brief rest, he prepared to resume his march toward Erebor, the Lonely Mountain.
Seeing this, Gandalf attempted one final appeal.
"Your Majesty, with the Orc legions gathering, a conflict between you and Thorin could play straight into their hands. Your armies facing off over a jewel while the enemy approaches, it would be folly."
Thranduil raised a hand, silencing him gently but firmly.
"This is not a matter for discussion," he said coldly. "If Thorin Oakenshield returns what rightfully belongs to me, I will withdraw immediately. I have no desire for gold or conquest."
A hint of bitter irony touched his lips.
"But do you truly believe he will yield? Madness runs thick in his bloodline. I watched his grandfather lose himself to dragon-lust. I fear Thorin is not far behind."
The white gemstone necklace Thranduil sought, though it paled in worth next to the Arkenstone, was still a masterpiece of Elven craft, forged with the skill of Dwarven hands and meant to be a final gift to his beloved wife. But when Thror, Thorin's grandfather, fell to dragon-sickness, he refused to return the piece, coveting it for himself.
That act of betrayal drove a rift between the Woodland Realm and Erebor.
It was part of the reason Thranduil remained idle when Smaug descended upon the Lonely Mountain. The bond had been broken, and the pain of that loss endured.
Gandalf said nothing, but his sigh was heavy.
He had seen the shadow fall over Thorin's mind, the same shadow that once claimed Thror. In his current state, Thorin would not part with the necklace. He would not part with even a single coin.
And what troubled Gandalf more was this:
Thranduil was not the only one who now came to demand something of Thorin Oakenshield.
Even Bard intended to accompany Thranduil, seeking reparations from Thorin for the destruction of Lake-town. As a direct descendant of Girion, the former Lord of Dale, Bard had a legitimate claim to a portion of the treasure hoarded within the Lonely Mountain.
After all, when Smaug razed Dale to the ground, he carried off not just Dwarven gold, but also the wealth of Men, heaps of heirlooms and precious items that had once belonged to the city of Dale. Much of that now lay buried within Erebor.
Still, Bard had no desire to see open war erupt between Elves, Men, and Dwarves. He therefore requested that Thranduil allow him to act as an envoy, to negotiate with Thorin and seek a peaceful settlement.
Thranduil, though skeptical, agreed to the request. He doubted Thorin would yield a single gem, but he was in no hurry. Nonetheless, he ordered his soldiers to prepare for an advance. If Bard's efforts failed, they would march on Erebor and claim the white gemstone necklace by force.
Concerned by the rising tension, Gandalf decided to accompany Bard. He hoped he might reason with Thorin and avert what would surely become a disastrous war.
Sylas, however, remained behind. He already knew how this encounter would unfold, and he had other matters to attend to.
He retrieved the Palantír, its surface swirling like misted glass, and focused his attention on Smaug.
He hadn't checked in on the dragon in days. It was time to see what his wayward beast was up to.
High above the Desolation of Smaug, north of the Lonely Mountain, the great fire-dragon was devouring a wild ox. With a stream of flame, he roasted the carcass to a crisp, then feasted upon the charred meat with slow, deliberate bites.
Smaug's appetite was monstrous, one ox was barely a single meal. And yet, like many dragons, he could go decades without food if he fell into a long slumber.
Whenever the dragon so much as thought of fleeing or breaking free, the magical binding, the vow etched in golden-red runes across his neck, would pulse to life, heating and tightening like an iron collar. The pain was exquisite and unrelenting, as though his very marrow was being drawn from his bones.
Over time, even a creature as proud and defiant as Smaug had been forced into submission.
Now, the once-mighty tyrant prowled the wilderness like a tamed hound, hunting, waiting, obedient.
Just as Smaug finished his meal, his head lifted sharply. He scanned the horizon, nostrils flaring, wings twitching.
He sensed something.
"Master?" he growled lowly, uneasy. The presence was familiar. Watching.
In response, one of the vow-runes along his neck glowed and constricted, sending a jolt of heat through his spine.
That was the signal.
The call had been made.
Sylas was summoning him.
Grumbling, Smaug crushed the bones of the ox beneath his claws, then launched himself toward the Lonely Mountain. His wings, though still healing, beat hard against the wind, straining to lift his immense frame into the sky. He could not yet fly as he once did—but he would run if he had to.
Back in Dale, Sylas smirked as he observed the dragon's frantic movement through the crystal's vision.
"Hmph. At least he's quick when properly motivated."
He narrowed his eyes.
Smaug had entertained disloyal thoughts far too many times in the past few days. The dragon had dreamed of flying north, of hiding among the peaks of the Grey Mountains, waiting out Sylas's mortal life.
But what Smaug didn't know was that every flicker of rebellion sent a ripple through the vow.
And Sylas felt every one of them.
Each time, he had responded accordingly, tightening the enchantment, intensifying the pain, ensuring the lesson was not forgotten.
Sylas turned his gaze once more to the Palantír, shifting its focus toward Mount Gundabad to monitor the movements of the Orcs.
With tension rising between the Elves and Dwarves, there was no reason to believe the Orcs would remain idle.
Sure enough, the ancient stronghold of Mount Gundabad, nestled in the northern Misty Mountains, soon emerged in the swirling glass.
The fortress swarmed with life. At Bolg's command, legions of Orcs, Trolls, and Wargs surged out like a flood. Above them, monstrous bats blotted out the sun, creating a false twilight that allowed the light-hating creatures to move freely even in daylight.
The host was vast, tens of thousands strong, and marching swiftly toward the Lonely Mountain.
"Hm? I didn't expect them to track this far," Sylas muttered as the image shifted again.
To his surprise, Legolas and Tauriel appeared in the frame, hidden behind a crag near Gundabad's edge. They were watching the advancing army with grim intensity.
Suddenly, Legolas straightened and turned sharply to scan the sky, alert and wary.
"What's wrong, Legolas?" Tauriel asked, concerned.
"I'm not sure," he said with narrowed eyes. "I feel as though… someone is watching us."
Sylas raised a brow. "Sharp senses indeed," he muttered, before drawing the Palantír's view away.
He now turned his focus east of the Lonely Mountain.
There, nestled among the rolling Iron Hills, lived a large Dwarven faction. Their lord, Dáin II Ironfoot, was cousin to Thorin Oakenshield.
Given the odds, Thorin and his thirteen companions alone inside Erebor, Sylas knew Thorin wouldn't risk holding the mountain without reinforcements. Prideful he may be, but suicidal he was not.
As expected, a Dwarven host was already on the move.
Across the cold plains to the east, an armored force of Dwarves marched steadily. Their iron boots shook the frozen earth. Their ranks were tight, their axes ready.
All the pieces were in motion.
The players of the Battle of the Five Armies had arrived.
Sylas ended the viewing and tucked the Palantír away.
He quickly found Beorn and Bilbo.
"It's time. The Orc army is coming," he said. "We need to reach the gates of Erebor before they start fighting amongst themselves."
Beorn's eyes lit up, the fire of battle already rising within him. "Finally! Let them come!"
Bilbo was more anxious, but he gripped the hilt of his Elven blade tight. "Then we must hurry."
Sylas handed his enchanted broom to Beorn.
"Take Bilbo and follow after me. I'll go ahead to stop them."
With that, Sylas transformed, wings bursting forth as he shifted into his Animagus form, a majestic owl. He beat the air powerfully and soared toward the Lonely Mountain.
Meanwhile, tension at Erebor's gate had reached its peak.
Thorin, true to form, had rejected Thranduil's demand for the white gem necklace and refused Bard's request for a share of the treasure.
Even Gandalf, despite his heartfelt pleading, could not sway either side.
"Thorin!" Gandalf implored. "Put down your arms! These riches will be your ruin. Open the gate. Do not sacrifice your companions to your pride!"
Thorin's gaze flickered, but his stubbornness held.
"Enough, Gandalf," he said coldly. "Spare me your sermons. You cannot wake one who feigns sleep."
Thranduil, seated high on his massive elk, scoffed.
"Then answer me plainly, Thorin Oakenshield," he called. "Do you choose peace, or war?"
Thorin, nervous yet watchful, turned his gaze eastward. Something, or someone, was late.
Then, with a sudden flutter of wings, a raven landed on the battlements.
Thorin's eyes gleamed. The signal had arrived.
Confidence returned to his voice.
"I choose war!" he shouted.
A murmur rippled through the Elven ranks. Thranduil, startled, turned his head sharply eastward.
Over the rise of the eastern hills came the glint of polished helms and spear-tips.
An entire army of Dwarves crested the ridge, marching in tight formation. The thundering sound of boots echoed across the plain.
"To arms!" Thranduil barked.
Elven soldiers turned to face the new threat, bows raised, formation shifting with fluid discipline.
The Dwarves came to a halt just short of a thousand meters from the Elven host.
At the front of the army rode Dáin II Ironfoot, clad in dark steel, seated atop a massive war pig. A broad hammer rested across his shoulders.
He raised his voice.
"Good morning, everyone! I bring a humble suggestion, if you'll hear me!"
Silence answered him, tense and crackling.
"Would you all... be so kind as to roll away before I make you?"