Chapter 1: The Stranger on the Mountain
Gandalf, the dwarves, and Bilbo were trapped atop a tree, surrounded by fire on all sides. Azog the Defiler laughed with scorn—he could already feel the weight of his blade piercing Thorin's heart. But then, everyone felt something: a cold that cut to the bone. The flames around them began to fade, as if the darkness of the abyss itself were drawing near.
Suddenly, a silver light appeared. Faint and distant, it approached slowly. The orcs laughed, thinking it to be an ally of the Dark Lord. But as the light came closer, the laughter faded. All—orc, dwarf, Gandalf, and Bilbo—saw it: floating skulls, silver and deep blue, surrounded by a dreadful sensation. Death.
One of the skulls struck an orc. He screamed as if set ablaze, though his flesh was freezing, turning black and brittle. The pain was absolute. Silence fell upon the peak. The orcs realized this was not an ally. The dwarves, for a moment, celebrated. But Gandalf shouted:
Gandalf shouted: "Why are you celebrating, fools? Jump! What approaches... is Death!"
Frightened but obedient, the dwarves leapt. Giant eagles swooped from the skies and caught them midair. All were safe. Azog withdrew with his remaining warriors. But before fleeing, he and Gandalf looked back.
From the shadows, a female figure emerged. Her garments looked woven from night itself, her helm hiding her face—a hollow void. Wisps of gray, brittle hair escaped from beneath.
Eyes glowed crimson, like coagulated blood. Her armor, dark as coal, seemed alive. The staff she held looked carved from the cursed heart of a tree, fed by the blood of forgotten gods. Upon her back, a ritualistic weapon with hooks hung, shaped like a twisted bone thirsting for souls.
All who saw her felt as though they were looking at Death incarnate. Gandalf turned away. Azog roared in frustration and fled. Deep down, they all knew—they would see her again.
After landing, silence reigned. The cold they felt was spiritual. Gandalf was more shaken than the others. He had sensed something beyond death in that woman—a pain ancient and immeasurable.
Thorin asked: "What was that, Gandalf?"
Gandalf replied: "Thorin... did you feel anything from her beyond death?"
Thorin, confused: "No. Only as if Death stood before me, ready to take me. Why, Gandalf? Did you feel more?"
Gandalf sighed: "Perhaps nothing... Perhaps I'm just getting old. Come. Let us move on."
Later, at Beorn's house, they rested. Bilbo lay down, examining the golden Ring he had found in the mountain's caves. As he toyed with it, drowsiness overtook him. Beside him, Gandalf also began to doze.
What neither knew was that this night would be different. As they slept, they were drawn into a place shrouded in mist.
There, Gandalf saw three figures: Elrond, Galadriel, and Saruman. Bilbo stood behind him.
Gandalf to Galadriel: "My lady, it is a pleasure to see you again. You shine as always."
She smiled gently, but her eyes were distant.
Gandalf to Elrond: "My lord, a pleasure to see you."
Elrond nodded, smiling, and examined the surroundings.
Gandalf to Saruman: "Saruman, how are you?"
Saruman replied: "I was well, until I found myself here after resting."
Gandalf nodded: "Yes, Bilbo and I came after falling asleep."
What none of them noticed was the silent presence of an unseen spectator.
Galadriel, without turning: "Something is happening."
Then the mist began to clear, and at last, they saw where they were.
They stood in a golden city bathed in quiet light, where a radiant tree loomed—its leaves shimmering like drops of sunlight.
Then came laughter—not cruel, not angry—but the pure laughter of a child. It brought warmth to all. Bilbo smiled, Gandalf softened, Elrond smiled too. Saruman remained in contemplative silence.
But Galadriel felt something more—a memory of her daughter Celebrían's laughter.
The invisible spectator felt the same, an inexplicable feeling swelling inside him.
Then, they saw a child in white, with pale hair and red eyes. Her ears—elven. She played with golden sheep, laughing innocently.
From the sky descended three glowing fragments. One hovered before Galadriel, another before Bilbo, and the last before the silent spectator.
Galadriel extended her hand, and a Golden Seed gently landed upon her palm, pulsing with life and light.
Bilbo reached out hesitantly as a fallen leaf of the Erdtree settled into his grasp. As he touched it, the Ring hidden beneath his shirt pulsed faintly. The warmth of the leaf soothed him, as though a gentle grace protected him. Yet the Ring pulsed again—faintly envious.
The silent figure, unseen by the others, was also granted a withered Erdtree leaf, darker than Bilbo's, as if scorched by the cold and the death.
Above the golden city, a rune burned in the air—unknown to them, but ancient, whispering the name of Grace.
Then the mist returned. A sound echoed—like a bell? A gong? No. A hammer striking metal. A voice followed, at first faint, then growing, shaking the ground:
The child spoke:
"The fallen leaves tell a story.
The great Elden Ring was shattered.
In our home, across the fog, the Lands Between.
Now, Queen Marika the Eternal is nowhere to be found,
and in the Night of the Black Knives, Godwyn the Golden was first to perish.
Soon, Marika's offspring, demigods all, claimed the shards of the Elden Ring.
The mad taint of their newfound strength triggered the Shattering.
A war from which no lord arose.
A war leading to abandonment by the Greater Will.
Oh, rise now, ye Tarnished.
Ye dead who yet live.
The call of long-lost grace speaks to us all.
Horah Loux, chieftain of the badlands.
The ever-brilliant Goldmask.
Fia, the Deathbed Companion.
The loathsome Dung Eater.
And Sir Gideon Ofnir, the All-Knowing.
And one other... whom grace would again bless.
A Tarnished of no renown.
Cross the fog to the Lands Between...
to stand before the Elden Ring.
And become the Elden Lord."
As the child's voice faded, the mist returned, curling upward once more.
Somewhere beyond, the child stood—silent—her form fading again into the fog.She turned, ever so slightly, as if sensing eyes that had long been watching her.
After this, they awoke breathless in their beds, drenched in sweat, confused. But in each heart burned a strange certainty:
What they saw was real.
And it had only just begun.
Near the window, Gandalf stood in silence, watching the night sky. His voice was low, more to himself than to anyone else.
"The world is changing," he murmured. "Something unknown walks through Middle-earth."
Saruman, still seated in his home, added coldly: "Dreams mean little… unless the world itself begins to dream."