The death of the Goblin King was a devastating turning point in the battle that still raged within the cavern. Chaos erupted: the mountain goblins roared in fury at the fall of their leader, but the situation was no better for them.
When the colossal body collapsed and the metal band shattered into fragments, the goblins of Moria glanced at one another and, as if ruled by the same instinct, abandoned the fight. The force that had compelled them to cooperate had vanished; they had no intention of risking their lives in foreign territory. Slowly, step by step, they withdrew, retreating into the shadows, ready to wait for the right moment to strike and claim the spoils once all was done.
They were not the only ones. The spiders began retreating with their riders, crawling back into the tunnels as if they had never been there. The trolls, meanwhile, grew erratic—less coordinated, more savage, roaring with rage and losing the little control they had shown. And deep within the cavern, the giants let out howls that made the stone quake. Though they did not attack their own allies, they came dangerously close, as if their repressed violence had been reawakened.
As if the situation weren't already desperate, a new horror burst in from one of the entrances: undead goblins, staggering forward toward anything that still breathed. The dwarves had faced them before in the pit, and though they had managed to cut their way through, they had unleashed another problem: in escaping, they had also freed those creatures from their prison. Now the corpses marched relentlessly into battle, ready to destroy the living.
It was clear: no one could remain there a minute longer. Forcing a path through, Eldens and dwarves converged at the center of the cavern, where Gandalf held his ground. His staff and sword shone like beacons of power, repelling the hordes that besieged him.
There, they found Miquella on his knees, struggling to rise. Leda rushed to him, but the demigod could barely raise his voice:
"Leave me… I can…" he cried with difficulty, lips tight with pain. "Kill, break through… we must escape! But kill as many as you can…"
He should have felt relief at their victory over their greatest foe. With the Goblin King dead, everything else seemed surmountable, especially with the immeasurable energy his ring had amassed. But it was not so. That very ring was now the root of his torment.
During the battle, it had acted like a tireless machine, absorbing energy without pause. And though Miquella had tried to control it, he had reached the point of no return. The flow could not be stopped. He felt the ring draining everything around him: the vitality of the living, the essence of the rock, even the decay of corpses.
The effect was already visible. The dead goblins crumbled into dust before everyone's eyes, and the living who strayed too close weakened more and more quickly, as though their life were being torn away second by second.
This was a tremendous power, but also out of control, and its danger was no less. Miquella felt how the ring wanted to devour everything. The only reason it hadn't consumed his companions yet was because he was focusing all his willpower on containing it. Yet each moment made it harder. He felt that if he faltered, not only would he drag his friends down with him, he would be devoured as well.
The finger bearing the ring bled; it was locked in a constant cycle of necrosis and regeneration, thanks to the endless stream of absorbed and released energy. Miquella himself began to feel nauseous as he sensed his body being emptied and refilled over and over.
This could not go on. At that level of power, the best he could manage was to slow the wild growth of the absorption, to try to diminish it bit by bit, hoping to extinguish it entirely. But that was not something that could be achieved quickly.
"We must get out of here," Thorin growled, watching as they grew more and more surrounded, held back only by Gandalf's staff and the distraction of goblins divided by the undead.
"I will not endure much longer," warned the wizard. His power was vast, but not inexhaustible, and the tide of enemies kept growing, bolstered by trolls and giants.
"Stand aside!" Miquella roared, raising the hand that bore the ring.
A brilliant, pulsing aura of aquamarine and black gathered around his arm. The air quaked, pressure became unbearable for those nearby, and suddenly, a destructive beam shot forward: Comet Azur.
The torrent of energy obliterated everything in its path, pulverizing goblins and even hurling a troll into the air, pierced through without remedy. Neither staff nor seal were needed: the ring contained so much power it was enough to unleash it. But such power carried a price. Miquella's hand was seared, charred by the effort, though he paid it no heed.
The pain nearly broke his focus on suppressing the absorption. The ring continued to drink energy without rest, and the charred corpses from the spell crumbled into dust before his eyes.
Swiftly, Miquella pressed his hand against the Goblin King's body. The corpse disintegrated within seconds, consumed by the ring's voracity. A whistle echoed in the air, and Torrente appeared instantly, answering his call. Without hesitation, Miquella mounted and hurled himself toward the newly opened gap.
"Come on!" he cried, clutching his wounded hand to his chest.
The company did not hesitate. Seizing the chance, they pushed forward after him, determined to escape the goblin-infested cave before it was too late.
"Kill all you can along the way!" Miquella demanded with difficulty.
Though his words left some confused, none doubted. They trusted their companion, and the Eldens in particular responded immediately, cutting a brutal path with renewed ferocity.
Miquella, mounted on Torrente, could have fled swiftly from danger. Yet his ring remained out of control. It needed death around it, goblin bodies to absorb; otherwise, the ring's pressure would intensify upon him until it devoured him completely. That was why he ordered his steed not to stray from the group.
With Torrente handling his movements, Miquella focused on slowing the absorption and dismantling the vortex of energy little by little. His hope was clear: once outside the cavern, with fewer goblins nearby, the ring would be under enough control not to endanger them all.
To ease the burden, he diverted some of the power by processing the Goblin King's essence into a rune. As with the trolls, the ring absorbed his strength and sealed it into a new runic fragment. Though it would take time to reach its full potential, the energy diversion gave his exhausted body a moment's respite.
With Miquella limited, Gandalf took the lead. Every movement of his staff and sword unleashed bursts of pure magic, destroying obstacles and repelling waves of goblins. The dwarves fought with the same ferocity: they knew this was their only chance to escape. Miquella was wounded, Gandalf exhausted, and the rest battered. If they stopped, nothing would remain of them but scraps to feed the horde.
The path was chaotic, confusing, but—perhaps by fortune—the wooden platforms soon ended. Before them opened the bare stone of the mountain. And then someone saw it: a glimmer. Not fire nor torch, but a purer light. Distant, faint… but unmistakably sunlight. An exit.
Miquella had managed to subdue much of the ring's fury, though at the cost of exhaustion that left him trembling. He looked at the steep slope leading to that promise of freedom, and behind them, the swarm of goblins nearly upon them. Neither path seemed viable: to retreat was to gamble with life… and to leap into the void was to choose certain death.
Then Gandalf made his decision. He raised his sword and began striking the strongest joints of the platform they stood on.
"What are you doing?!" the dwarves shouted, fear deeper than battle itself in their voices. For them, better to die fighting than to fall and shatter against the rock.
"Getting us out of here," the wizard replied calmly, and brought his staff down in one final blow.
The goblins were already charging when the platform cracked. With a thunderous roar that echoed through the cavern, the structure gave way and tore free, plunging into the abyss.
Miquella, sensing the ring was a heartbeat from stabilizing, spurred Torrente straight into the horde of goblins.
"My Lord!" cried Leda, alarmed as she saw him seemingly hurl himself alone into the enemy.
The demigod did not reply. Standing before the ocean of goblins rushing at him, he extended both hands and unleashed one last pull of energy: an imploding wave that tore the air apart.
A dreadful sound, enough to shatter eardrums, resounded in the cavern. With an otherworldly flash, half the goblins around him dropped dead at once, as if their souls had been ripped away. The survivors collapsed inert, their vitality grievously damaged, death likely soon to follow.
The energy collapsed back into the ring, which at last closed upon itself, shutting off its continuous absorption as if it had never existed. Miquella let out a ragged sigh of relief, and Torrente turned immediately toward the falling platform where the others clung for their lives. The structure slid down the rock's edge like a runaway cart, with everyone screaming and holding on desperately.
The company struggled to stay aboard as the platform dropped and swayed. Miquella followed close behind on Torrente, leaping across the air and conjuring small platforms as footholds.
The end came violently. The platform crashed against the ground with a thunderclap, tossing many into the air. The impact was brutal, but far kinder than a direct fall from their original height.
Miquella descended to them and saw their condition: dazed, bruised, drained to their limits. More than one hovered on the edge of fainting.
Gathering what little strength remained, the demigod cast a healing spell over the area. A golden light spread like a mantle across them, closing wounds, soothing pain, and restoring strength to weary bodies. At the same time, the glow blinded and drove back the goblins still in pursuit.
It was a balm for the company, enough to let them stand once more, though not a full cure. Miquella was in no state to unleash his full power: the strain had left deep marks. His hand, barely recovered, still trembled. One of his eyes was bloodshot, consumed by a hemorrhage. His breathing was ragged, nausea blurred his senses. The ring had saved their lives… but it had broken him within. A simple spell would not heal him; he needed rest.
"Quickly," urged Gandalf, helping those still unsteady to their feet. "The sun is near! Only its light will halt the goblins."
Supporting one another, they gathered their last strength. Leda held Miquella steady on Torrente, and the entire company ran for the exit tunnel.
The light grew visible at the passage's end, first a faint glow, then a beacon calling them forward. Goblins still chased them, but it was too late for them.
They burst out of the mountain at a run, greeted by fresh air, the warmth of the sun, and the sight of green grass and forests stretching to the horizon.
The company did not stop. Not a word of celebration left their lips: they knew that as long as that entrance lay at their backs, they were not safe yet.
But even running, even wounded, the feeling was clear: they had survived. And under the daylight, for the first time in a long while, they could finally breathe in relief.