The Great East Road unfurls beneath a slate-colored sky, a pale ribbon winding through the rolling hills of Eriador. Zac and Gandalf journey westward, their figures small against the vastness of the landscape. The ancient watchtower of Amon Sûl looms in the distance, its shattered crown a jagged memory of bygone glory. Zac studies the ruins with the eyes of a historian, the weight of what has happened there, and what will happen, weighing on his mind like a silent prophecy.
Two days have passed since their departure from Rivendell, leaving behind the serenity of the hidden valley. Zac still feels the coolness of Elven air in his lungs, a striking contrast to the harsh winds sweeping the wild lands now. His gaze frequently falls on Gandalf's silhouette, the wizard's face partly hidden beneath his grey hat. Since they left, Gandalf has been unusually silent, absorbed in deep thought.
Echoes of the conversation between Gandalf and Elrond still ring in Zac's memory, snatches he overheard while waiting in an adjacent corridor. Grave words shared in hushed voices: "The Shadow is spreading...", "An unforeseen piece on the board...", "His knowledge could be an asset, or our undoing...". He understands their caution. In a world where every power is hotly contested and every crossroads can become a battlefield, he represents yet another enigma, a variable Gandalf and Elrond cannot truly calculate.
The sun is sinking toward the horizon as they begin the ascent to Amon Sûl. Suddenly, Gandalf stops, planting his staff firmly in the ground. His eyes, sharp as a hawk's, scan the roadside.
"Look," he murmurs, gesturing precisely toward a patch of trampled grass.
Zac crouches to inspect the marks. Heavy, chaotic footprints press deep into the earth, broader than those of ordinary men. The dried mud reveals wide, splayed toes and clawed impressions. A shiver runs down his spine, not from fear, but from recognition. In Mordor, he learned to read such signs, to sense orcs long before they appeared.
"Orcs," he confirms, his voice calm. "A dozen, maybe more. They stopped here recently."
Gandalf meets his gaze, a glint of approval in the wizard's eyes. "The brush over there would make a perfect ambush," he observes. "They're likely waiting for isolated travelers."
Without a word, the two companions ready themselves. Zac draws his mithril blade, its silver glow absorbing and transforming the fading daylight. Gandalf tightens his grip on his staff.
Tension floods the silence, thick as thunderclouds. Then, like a broken dam, the undergrowth erupts violently. A dozen Orcs burst forth, unleashing guttural cries and brandishing crude weapons. Their faces are masks of hatred, squat bodies straining toward their prey with bestial rage.
The attack is brutal but predictable. Zac pivots with fluid grace, dodging the first sword that whistles past his ear. His body moves by instinct, guided by countless battles against far darker terrors. His mithril blade arcs perfectly, severing an Orc's arm before plunging into the chest of another. The metal sings, a pure note in the chaos of battle.
At his side, Gandalf is a grey whirlwind. His staff strikes with unexpected force, splintering bone and shattering armor.
Together they are an improbable yet formidable pair. Zac's experience in the depths is clear in every move: efficient, precise, deadly. These are not the disorderly motions of an ordinary warrior, but the lethal dance of one who has faced darkness and been remade by it.
Caught off-guard by such power and coordination, the Orcs are swiftly overwhelmed. Some try to escape, but Zac's blade finds them, silent, relentless. Not one manages to raise the alarm.
As the final body falls, a strange stillness settles over the scene. Zac stands motionless, sword lowered yet ready. His gaze sweeps the surrounding hills, where shadows lengthen in the twilight.
"We are not alone," he murmurs to Gandalf.