Marvel's master of cosmic magic

Chapter 554

Night fell as the allied army of elves, dwarves, and humans established camp along the southern edge of the Forest of Eredlóm.

Inside the main command tent, the elven princes gathered around a war table, maps spread beneath lantern light.

"What is Himring’s current status?" Fingon asked, his voice steady but sharp.

Angrod stepped forward. "Scouts confirm Himring is fully surrounded. Gothmog has deployed Balrogs alongside large orc formations."

Fingon frowned. "At our current pace, how soon can we reach them?"

"Three days. At best," Angrod replied after a moment’s thought.

Galadriel folded her arms, unconcerned. "We shouldn’t rush. Forced marches weaken troops. Maedhros and his brothers can hold. Gothmog couldn’t break them quickly even before."

If Himring were easy to take, Gothmog would have done it long ago.

The Sons of Fëanor were among the most dangerous warriors ever produced by the Noldor.

Seven of them fighting together was not a force to underestimate.

"You have a point," Fingon admitted. "Still... this siege feels different."

His concern wasn’t unfounded.

Why hadn’t Gothmog attacked Himring earlier?

Because it would be costly.

And because rescue forces would arrive.

Even before the current alliance, the farthest elven reinforcements could reach Himring in under two weeks.

Now, with the Three-Race Alliance formed and proven in battle, Gothmog knew exactly how dangerous they were.

Yet he attacked anyway.

Rowan sat quietly nearby, listening.

He already knew the answer.

The previous night, he had infiltrated the Balrog war camp under concealment and learned Morgoth’s reasoning.

But he chose not to speak.

If he revealed what he knew, Fingon would force-march the army to Himring immediately.

That would lead to a brutal direct clash with Gothmog.

And if the Sons of Fëanor chose to remain behind their walls instead of coordinating...

The alliance would pay dearly for victory.

Better to let Himring absorb some of the pressure first.

Arrive later.

Finish the fight cleanly.

Even if Himring fell...

Even if the Sons of Fëanor died...

Rowan felt little personal stake.

And if he eventually claimed the Silmarils after defeating Morgoth, their oath would make them enemies anyway.

The meeting ended. Commanders returned to their tents.

Rowan stepped into his own.

From the outside, it looked like a standard field tent.

Inside, it was larger than a manor house.

The Magic Academy had produced them using advanced spatial expansion enchantments, crafted jointly by elven, dwarven, and human students under Rowan’s guidance.

In war, comfort was power.

Well-fed, well-rested soldiers fought harder.

And each tent could conceal far more troops than expected, reducing vulnerability to surprise attacks.

"Rowan! Rowan!"

The tent flap burst open.

Rowan sighed. "Princess Galadriel. Next time, maybe warn me? I could be bathing. Or not dressed."

She waved dismissively. "Human men and elven men aren’t that different. I’ve seen both. One just has... extra equipment."

Rowan pressed a hand to his forehead.

Since leaving the sheltered Grey Elven kingdom and spending time on battlefronts, Galadriel had become... very direct.

"Alright," he said. "What’s so urgent?"

"Not me. Fingon wants you. In the small grove ahead. Private matter."

Rowan raised an eyebrow.

He didn’t need telepathy to know she was lying.

"Right," she said quickly, grabbing his arm. "Come on. Must be important."

She dragged him toward a quiet grove beyond the camp.

Rowan didn’t resist.

Galadriel loved harmless pranks.

Since accepting she could never beat him in combat, she had switched to entertainment-based revenge.

He usually humored her.

"Lúthien?"

He stepped into a moonlit clearing.

She stood with her back to him.

She had changed into traditional elven ceremonial silks. Translucent, flowing, glowing softly in moonlight.

Her pale skin shimmered beneath the fabric like polished marble.

It was... distracting.

"Rowan," she said softly, turning. "You’ve never seen me dance before."

Then she began.

Across moonlit grass, she moved like living music.

Every step sacred.

Every turn dangerously beautiful.

She was widely considered the greatest dancer among the elves.

Tonight, beneath thin silver fabric and moonlight...

The effect was devastating.

Even Rowan felt his focus slip.

Behind him, Galadriel silently slipped away, satisfied.

She took position outside the grove, keeping watch.

Among frontline soldiers, she knew exactly how powerful that dance could be.

"Well, cousin," she muttered quietly, arms crossed. "That’s all I can do. The rest is up to you."

She paused.

"...If this works, does that make Rowan my uncle by marriage? Huh. Not sure how I feel about that."