Middle Earth: High King of The Avari

Aurion sat on the edge of the simple bed in his quarters, the dim light of Nan Elmoth filtering through the cracks in the wooden walls. The room was modest, almost austere, with little more than a bed, a small table, and a single chest for storage. He reached beneath the bed, his fingers brushing against the cool, smooth surface of Tulcanelcar, the hammer of Fëanor. Carefully, he withdrew it and examined it in the faint light.

The silvery-gold glow of the hammer was subdued, but its presence filled the room with a weight of history and power. Aurion ran his fingers along the intricate carvings, the golden vines that seemed alive beneath his touch. A weapon like this, a tool of such mastery, was a beacon of his heritage—one he could not reveal here.

Gently, he slid the hammer back into its hiding place. "Stay hidden, friend," he whispered, before rising to prepare for the day.

The next morning, Aurion was summoned to the main forge. The air was thick with heat and the metallic tang of molten ore. Eöl stood at the heart of the forge, his dark figure commanding and precise. His piercing eyes locked onto Aurion as he approached.

"You wish to serve me as a smith," Eöl began, his voice cold and calculating. "Then you shall prove your worth again. Today, I task you with crafting an arrow. But not just any arrow. It must pierce ten trees in a single shot."

Aurion nodded without hesitation. "I will need no more than an hour."

The Dark Elf's lips twisted into a smirk. "Bold words. Let us see if you can back them."

Aurion stepped to the forge, taking stock of the materials provided—wood, iron, and feathers. He selected a straight, dense piece of darkwood for the shaft and set to work. His hands moved with practiced ease, shaping the arrow with precision. The iron tip was honed to a razor edge, its surface tempered for strength and flight.

The other smiths in the forge watched in silence, their expressions a mix of curiosity and skepticism. They knew Eöl's challenges were rarely simple, but Aurion worked with an unshakable confidence that seemed to silence their doubts.

Exactly an hour later, Aurion presented the arrow to Eöl. The shaft was perfectly balanced, the fletching meticulously aligned, and the iron tip gleamed with a deadly sharpness.

Eöl took the arrow, examining it with a critical eye. He gave a curt nod, then motioned for Aurion to follow him outside.

The clearing they entered was vast and lined with towering trees. Eöl carried his bow—a weapon of exquisite craftsmanship, as dark and menacing as its master. Without a word, he nocked the arrow and drew the bowstring taut.

The air was heavy with tension as Eöl loosed the arrow. It flew straight and true, its speed like a blur. The first tree shuddered as the arrow pierced through it, followed by the second, the third, and so on. By the time it struck the tenth tree, the force had diminished, but the arrowhead still buried itself deep into the bark.

Eöl lowered his bow, his sharp eyes glinting with something close to admiration. "Impressive," he said, his tone low. "Far too impressive for a lowly Avari elf."

Aurion's chest tightened as Eöl turned to him, suspicion darkening his expression. "You are no simple elf," Eöl declared. "Who are you, truly?"

Aurion kept his face neutral, his voice steady. "I am what I claimed—a lowly Avari elf who seeks to serve and learn."

Eöl's eyes narrowed. Without warning, he nocked another arrow and loosed it. The arrow streaked toward Aurion, grazing his cheek as it passed, leaving a thin line of blood in its wake. Aurion didn't flinch, meeting Eöl's gaze with calm defiance.

Eöl's lips twisted into a sneer as he stepped closer, drawing his black blade, Anguirel. The sword was a masterpiece of dark beauty, its black steel seeming to drink in the light around it. Aurion could feel the aura radiating from it—a chilling, magnetic presence that hinted at a deeper, more dangerous power.

Eöl pressed the blade to Aurion's neck, the cold metal biting into his skin. "You would dare lie to me?" he hissed.

Aurion held his ground, his voice unwavering. "I am but a smith who wishes to learn from the best."

The blade pressed harder, drawing a thin line of blood from Aurion's neck. Eöl's gaze bore into him, searching for any sign of deceit. Finally, after what felt like an eternity, the Dark Elf withdrew his sword.

"Perhaps I misjudged you," Eöl said, his voice laced with skepticism. "Very well. You may remain in my service. But mark my words—if I find you are not who you claim to be, no skill in the forge will save you."

Aurion returned to his quarters that evening, his mind still racing from the encounter. He closed the door behind him and immediately retrieved Tulcanelcar from its hiding place. The hammer's familiar glow brought him a sense of comfort and resolve.

He sat on the edge of the bed, cradling the hammer in his hands. A small smile played on his lips as he traced its intricate designs. Despite the danger, despite Eöl's suspicion, Aurion felt a flicker of pride.

"Let him test me," Aurion murmured to the hammer, his voice low and determined. "I will prove myself, not just to him, but to the world."

The hammer gleamed faintly in response, as if acknowledging his words. Aurion set it down carefully, hiding it once more. He would need to tread carefully in Nan Elmoth, but he was ready for whatever trials lay ahead.