Chapter 6: Treachery Upon the Misty Heights
The wind howled like a grieving spirit across the jagged ridges of the Misty Heights, carrying with it the bite of ice and the faint, metallic tang of impending storm. The Company trudged onward, cloaks drawn tight against the relentless gale. Eadric led the way, his hand never far from the hilt of his blade, while Sigrid scanned the swirling mists with narrowed eyes. Thurgrim, ever the steadfast dwarf, grumbled under his breath about the "fickle mountain paths that twist like orc tongues."
They had not expected to meet another soul in this forsaken place. Yet there he stood upon a lichen-covered outcrop, tall and hooded in grey robes that seemed to blend with the fog itself. A long staff rested in his gloved hand, and his face—partially shadowed by the deep cowl—bore the lined wisdom of many winters.
"Well met, travelers," the stranger called, his voice rich and resonant, carrying easily over the wind. "In these troubled times, few dare the high passes. I am Gandalf the Grey, a wanderer and seeker of ancient lore. Might I share your fire and offer what counsel I can?"
Eadric hesitated, but the man's bearing was noble, his words measured. After a brief exchange, they allowed him to join their small column. As they walked, Gandalf spoke of shadows rising in the East, of a darkness named Vesper that stirred old evils, and of a Crown whose power could tip the balance. His counsel seemed sound, his knowledge deep. Yet Sigrid felt a prickling at the nape of her neck. She watched how the stranger's eyes lingered too long on their packs, how his silver tongue wove promises just a little too perfectly.
That night they made camp in the lee of a great boulder, its surface etched with faint, forgotten runes. A small fire crackled defiantly against the cold. Gandalf sat closest to the flames, his staff propped beside him. As the others settled into weary silence, he leaned forward.
"The burden you carry is heavy," he murmured, his gaze fixed on the wrapped bundle at Eadric's side. "The Crown… it sings to those who understand its song. Let me examine it, that I might better advise you on its keeping."
Before anyone could respond, his hand darted out with surprising speed, fingers clutching greedily at the cloth. Sigrid's warning cry split the night.
"Traitor!"
Chaos erupted. The stranger's hood fell back as he rose, revealing eyes that burned with unholy light. The kindly Gandalf melted away like mist before the sun. His form shimmered, robes darkening as shadows coiled around him. Lightning—brilliant white and crackling with raw power—lashed from Eadric's outstretched hand, born of the ancient blood that flowed in his veins. The false wizard countered with a torrent of writhing darkness, the two forces colliding in a thunderous explosion that lit the peaks for miles around.
"You dare challenge one of Mordren's chosen?" the sorcerer snarled, his voice no longer warm but jagged as broken glass. "I am Valthor, sworn to Lord Vesper. The old order crumbles even now!"
The duel raged across the rocky shelf. Bolts of shadow sliced through stone, leaving trails of frost and decay. Eadric stood firm, his face grim with concentration as he hurled another spear of lightning. Sigrid loosed arrows that burned with holy fire, each one forcing the sorcerer to twist aside. Thurgrim roared and charged, his great axe gleaming.
Valthor laughed bitterly even as he bled. "Fools. Vesper offers more than this doomed quest. Eadric, son of forgotten kings—kneel to him. Serve as his champion in the grand arenas he will raise across the shattered realms. Glory, power, a throne of your own once the Citadel falls. All this, if you but bend the knee."
For a heartbeat, Eadric's lightning faltered. The offer hung in the air, heavy with temptation. Then Thurgrim's axe sang true. The dwarf's mighty blow caught the sorcerer across the shoulder, biting deep through dark robes and enchanted flesh. Valthor screamed, a sound that echoed unnaturally among the stones. Black blood hissed where it struck the ground.
"Cursed dwarf!" he spat. Clutching his wound, he summoned a veil of mist and shadow, vanishing into the night with unnatural speed. His laughter lingered long after he was gone, mocking and cold.
The Company stood panting amid the scorched rocks. The fire had been scattered; only embers remained. Eadric lowered his hand, the lightning dying from his fingertips.
"We are hunted now," Sigrid said quietly, binding a shallow cut on her arm. "By the shadows Vesper commands… and doubtless by the Citadel's banners as well, if word of this reaches them. Our path grows ever more perilous."
Thurgrim wiped his axe clean and grunted. "Let them come. Axes don't care for banners or shadows."
Yet even the stout dwarf's words carried the weight of unease. The Misty Heights, once merely treacherous, now felt like the jaws of a closing trap.
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Post-Credit Scene
High upon a wind-scoured crag, Valthor the false Gandalf crouched, one hand pressed to his bloodied shoulder. The wound burned with dwarf-forged fury, but his will remained unbroken. A raven, its feathers dark as midnight and streaked with crimson, perched upon his forearm. He tied a small scroll to its leg with trembling fingers.
"They head for Khazad-dûm," he whispered hoarsely, his breath steaming in the frigid air. "Tell Lord Vesper to ready the siege engines. The dwarf halls will become their tomb."
With a harsh cry, the raven launched into the night, vanishing swiftly into the mists. Valthor smiled through his pain, eyes gleaming with malice.
"Soon," he murmured. "Soon."