High above, the great eagles carried the company to safety, settling them gently upon a mountain peak.
The moment their feet touched stone, Gandalf was already moving.
He knelt beside Thorin, staff raised, voice low as he began to chant. Light flickered faintly at its tip, weaving into the fallen dwarf.
Moments passed.
Then—
Thorin's chest jerked.
His eyes opened.
Gandalf's face softened with relief.
The company erupted in cheers.
"Thorin!" Balin exclaimed, helping him sit up while the others gathered close.
Thorin steadied himself, breath heavy as his gaze swept across them—
Then stilled.
"…Where is Mallory?"
The question silenced them.
They looked around.
She wasn't there.
Gandalf's expression darkened—
"Look!" Fili shouted, pointing toward the distance.
A figure descended from the sky.
"Mal!" Bilbo's face lit up, relief flooding his voice.
Mallory landed among them.
But the moment they saw her—
The relief faded.
Cradled in her arms was Rowan.
Broken.
Bloodied.
Still.
Mallory dropped to her knees.
A choked sob escaped her as tears spilled freely down her face.
"I… I can't save him…" Her voice trembled. "My healing magic—it's not enough…"
No one spoke.
Even the dwarves, hardened as they were, stood in uneasy silence.
Bilbo stepped forward slightly. "Mal…" he tried—but the words wouldn't come.
Gandalf moved instead.
"Then… allow me," he said gently.
Mallory looked up at him—hesitated—then nodded.
Together, they began.
Mallory's magic flowed first, soft and luminous, wrapping around Rowan's small, battered form.
Gandalf followed, his voice rising in ancient words, his staff glowing brighter as he poured his strength into the spell.
Time stretched.
The wind whispered over the mountain.
Then—
The light faded.
For a moment…
Nothing.
Mallory's breath caught—
A faint twitch.
Rowan stirred.
A weak, familiar caw followed.
"He's alive!" Bilbo gasped.
The company broke into relieved cheers.
Mallory let out a shaky breath, pulling Rowan gently against her chest, holding him close as if afraid he might slip away again.
"I'm sorry…" she whispered. "I couldn't protect you…"
Rowan shifted weakly, pressing his head into her arm in quiet reassurance.
Gandalf smiled softly.
Bilbo wiped at his eyes, grinning.
Thorin stepped forward.
Slowly, deliberately—He knelt.
"For risking your life… and for saving mine," he said, voice steady but sincere, "you have my gratitude."
Mallory didn't answer—only held Rowan closer.
The small bird gave a soft, quiet caw.
And this time—
It sounded like peace.
As the company continued along the mountain path, a quiet unease settled among them.
It wasn't fear of pursuit this time—It was her.
Low murmurs passed between the dwarves, glances stolen when they thought she wouldn't notice.
The memory of Mallory's wings—of lightning splitting the sky at her command—lingered heavily in their minds.
Bilbo, for his part, said nothing. He walked beside her as he always had, offering the occasional small smile, as though nothing had changed.
Gandalf, however, was watching.
Not with fear—but with deepening curiosity.
Mallory walked ahead of them for a time, silent.
Then, as if sensing their unspoken questions, she spoke.
"I've managed to kill Azog."
Her voice was calm.
Matter-of-fact.
That alone made it heavier.
The company stopped.
No one spoke.
Even the wind seemed to still.
Azog the Defiler—the name alone carried years of grief and blood. The one who had hunted them. The one who had slain Thrór.
The one who had nearly killed Thorin himself.
Dead?
At her hands?
Balin's eyes widened, searching her face as if to find doubt—some sign of exaggeration.
Dwalin's grip tightened on his axe, stunned into silence.
Fili and Kili exchanged a look, disbelief written plainly between them.
But Thorin—Thorin stared.
Not with disbelief.
With something quieter. Heavier.
The weight of a long-carried hatred… suddenly gone.
"You are certain?" Balin asked carefully.
Mallory met his gaze.
"He won't be coming back."
That was all.
Thorin stepped forward slowly, his expression unreadable at first. His eyes lingered on her—not just at her face, but as if trying to understand the force that stood before him.
Then, at last, he spoke.
"Azog the Defiler has cast a long shadow over my kin," he said, voice low. "A shadow of blood… and vengeance."
A pause.
"And now, that shadow is gone."
His gaze sharpened—not hostile, but resolute.
"Your power is… not one to be taken lightly," he continued. "Nor is it one I would pretend to fully understand."
For a moment, the old Thorin flickered there—the proud, guarded king.
Then it softened.
"But you have stood with us. Fought for us." His voice steadied. "For that, you have my respect."
A small beat.
"And my gratitude."
The dwarves shifted, the tension easing—if only slightly.
Bilbo let out a breath he hadn't realized he was holding, a faint smile returning to his face.
Gandalf said nothing.
But his eyes, still fixed on Mallory, gleamed with thought.
Curiosity—now deeper than ever.
The company made camp beside a narrow river, its waters whispering over stone as evening settled in.
Dwarves moved with practiced efficiency—stakes driven into the earth, poles raised, canvas pulled taut.
The beginnings of a proper camp took shape.
Bilbo, along with Fili and Kili, were sent to hunt.
The young princes grabbed their weapons with eager energy, while Bilbo followed close behind, trying to look braver than he felt.
Nearby, the others gathered firewood in steady trips.
Gandalf stood apart for a moment, quietly puffing on his Longbottom leaf, watching the camp come alive.
Then his gaze shifted.
Mallory stood alone behind a tall tree, half-shadowed by the fading light.
Gandalf's expression tightened—subtle, but telling.
He tapped the ash from his pipe, tucked it into his robes, and made his way toward her.
"Lady Mallory," he called gently, "you seem paler than usual. Are you unwell?"
Mallory shook her head at first. "No…"
Then she exhaled.
"…Actually—yes."
Gandalf stopped beside her, both hands resting atop his staff.
"Well then, pray tell, my dear," he said softly, "perhaps I may be of some assistance."
Mallory hesitated.
"My magic…" she began, her voice quieter now. "It's… grown."
She lifted her gaze to meet his.
Something dark flickered behind her eyes.
Gandalf listened without interruption, though concern had already begun to settle across his features.
"There's something else…"
Slowly, Mallory pulled back her sleeve.
Gandalf leaned in—and stilled.
Her fingertips had turned black.
Not stained.
Not burned.
Changed.
He could feel it.
A cold, creeping presence—dark magic, yes—but not the kind she wielded by will. This was different.
This was taking.
Gandalf's eyes widened slightly, though his voice remained calm.
"When did this begin?"
Mallory pulled her sleeve back down, as if hiding it might make it less real. Her gaze drifted toward the setting sun.
"I… don't know."
Silence stretched between them.
Then suddenly, her expression shifted—an idea sparking.
"What if we combine our magic?" she said quickly. "Like we did with Rowan."
Gandalf studied her for a moment… then gave a small nod.
"Very well. Let us try."
Mallory extended her hand again, this time placing it between them.
Gandalf raised his staff.
Together, they began.
Light gathered—hers, vibrant yet unstable; his, steady and ancient.
Their magic wove together, flowing toward her corrupted hand.
Time passed.
The river whispered.
The wind stirred.
Nothing changed.
Mallory's fingers remained black.
They tried again—stronger this time, pouring more into it.
Still—Nothing.
The magic faded.
Mallory's shoulders sank.
"Maybe… it's not enough," she murmured.
Gandalf stroked his beard slowly, his brow furrowed deeper than before.
"This is no ordinary corruption," he said at last. "It resists not only your power… but mine as well."
He looked at her again—more serious now.
"I have seen many forms of darkness," he continued, "but this… is something I do not yet understand."
A pause.
"Which makes it dangerous."
Mallory said nothing.
Gandalf straightened.
"I fear we must seek counsel beyond ourselves," he said. "There is one who may know more—Lady Galadriel."
He turned, beginning to walk back toward the firelight—
Then stopped.
"For now," he added without looking back, "you must keep it in check. Do not feed it. We do not yet know what it may become… or what it may take from you."
With that, he returned to the others.
Mallory remained where she stood.
Alone.
Slowly, her gaze lowered.
A faint shimmer appeared before her—visible to her alone.
A translucent screen.
(Host has been corrupted: 20%) — Bound: cannot be removed.
Effects: +900 MP
Cost: Humanity
Notice: Avoid using dark magic.
Enhancements: Five dark points with each use.
Thunder Strike +10
Emerald Flame +5
Hypnosis +5
Counter: Light based magic
Reduce corruption by one points.
Healing magic -1
Mallory stared at it in silence.
Her hand trembled slightly.
For the first time—
She felt fear.
Not of orcs.
Not of Azog.
But of something far worse.
Something inside her.
Something that did not feel like power—
But like an enemy waiting to take its turn.