The Last Ascent to Khazad-dûm
The air in the Dimrill Dale tasted of ash and iron. Below the Great Gates of Moria, the slopes ran slick with the blood of Orc and Dwarf alike, but the true horror of the vanguard awaited upon the endlessly rising stone steps. There, where the mountain cleaved open to reveal the threshold of the ancient kingdom, Náin, Lord of the Iron Hills, led the final, desperate push against the defiler's horde.Behind him, a wall of steel and grim resolve marched in lockstep. The Dwarven phalanx pressed upward, their heavy mail clinking like a funereal chorus against the sheer cliff faces. Long spears pointed toward the darkening sky, forming a jagged forest of iron capable of impaling any beast that dared charge down the precipice. Every dwarf present had lost a brother, a father, or a kingdom, and their eyes, shadowed beneath heavy kettle helms, burned with a terrible, silent fury. They did not shout battle cries; they saved their breath for the killing blows.Above them, isolated on the central landing, Náin stood as a solitary beacon of defiance. His great battle-axe was raised high, catching the faint, cold light filtering through the ravine. He advanced with a heavy, rhythmic stride, each step a promise of retribution. A few paces ahead, the shadows of the monumental archway loomed, guarded by the monstrous champions of Azog. The Orcs held the high ground, but the sheer momentum of the Dwarven wrath was an unstoppable tide.This was not a battle for territory or gold; it was a war of absolute vengeance. Every step up the monumental staircase brought them closer to avenging the desecration of Thrór. Náin knew that many who climbed these stairs would never walk down them, yet his grip on his axe never faltered. The gates of their ancestors stood wide, a yawning mouth of stone waiting to swallow the brave, but the line of the Iron Hills would sooner break the mountain itself than turn back.