Marvel's master of cosmic magic

Chapter 555

"Galadriel definitely put her up to this..."

Rowan swallowed as Lúthien’s dance carried her closer and closer to him.

There was no doubt. On her own, Lúthien would never have pushed things this far.

Up close, he could see the truth behind her graceful movements. Her cheeks were flushed. Her breathing was uneven. Her heartbeat was racing so fast he could almost feel it through the air.

That vulnerability only made her more captivating.

Rowan wasn’t made of stone.

And he certainly wasn’t a saint.

When Lúthien faltered just before reaching him, her steps hesitating as if she might retreat, Rowan caught her wrist and pulled her into his arms.

"I warned you earlier," he said quietly. "If you’re sure about this... then I won’t hold back."

"R-Rowan... maybe I’m not—"

Her protest vanished as he kissed her, cutting off the rest of her words.

With a single step, space folded.

The grove vanished.

They reappeared inside Rowan’s tent.

What followed belonged to moonlight, whispered breath, and tangled sheets. Time blurred into warmth and closeness neither of them tried to resist.

Dawn came quietly.

Rowan stepped out of his tent, stretching slightly.

"That," he muttered to himself, "was a very thorough way to spend the night."

For him, it was simply another facet of life. Even relentless pursuit of power and knowledge left room for moments of physical closeness.

The army resumed its march later that morning.

Rowan meditated atop his mount, already deep in magical research. His body had fully recovered hours ago.

Lúthien, meanwhile, rode her great stag looking thoroughly exhausted.

She leaned forward against the saddle, reading a book Rowan had given her that morning, while half-listening to Galadriel beside her.

"So?" Galadriel said, eyes sparkling with curiosity. "How did it go last night?"

Lúthien’s face went crimson. "Everything hurts. I’m tired. I don’t want to talk about it."

Galadriel smirked. "Your voice sounds rough."

"Try singing for hours straight and see how you sound," Lúthien muttered, quickly casting a small healing spell over her throat. Her voice smoothed out almost immediately.

Galadriel noticed the book. "What are you reading?"

Lúthien snapped it shut and hugged it to her chest. "Nothing. You wouldn’t like it."

"Romance politics stuff? Boring. I prefer war epics."

"Y-Yeah. Something like that."

An hour later, Galadriel noticed Lúthien breathing faster, cheeks flushed again as she read.

"That interesting?" she asked, snatching the book in one swift motion.

She read a few lines.

Then snapped it shut.

Her expression turned... complicated.

Lúthien grabbed it back instantly. "It’s not what you think! It’s... very philosophical. About human nature."

"Is it?" Galadriel said, clearly unconvinced. "...Let me borrow it tonight."

The next night, Rowan quietly stepped into Lúthien’s tent.

"I don’t think I’ve recovered yet," she said weakly.

"It’s fine," Rowan replied, placing a hand over hers. Warm restorative magic flowed through her instantly. "There. Good as new."

On the third morning, emergency horns tore through the camp.

"What’s happening?" Angrod demanded as he and Aegnor rushed toward command.

Rowan, Lúthien, and a visibly sleep-deprived Galadriel arrived moments later.

Fingon’s expression was grim.

"Scouts report Gothmog launched another full assault at dawn. Himring is about to fall."

Shock rippled through the commanders.

Except Rowan.

"That’s impossible," someone said. "Even nonstop assault shouldn’t break Himring this fast."

Fingon nodded. "There’s more. Gothmog’s army isn’t just Balrogs and orcs anymore."

He paused.

"There are dragons now. A large number of them."

Silence fell.

"Their leader calls himself Ancalagon. Larger than Glaurung. Winged. Capable of sustained flight. His firepower is devastating."

"With the dragons providing air support, Himring’s defenses are collapsing."

...

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