The fire between them burned low, settling into a bed of coals that glowed like watchful eyes. Deorla stood over the map Shereg had spread across a scarred table—Mordor, broken into jagged regions by ash, iron, and old rivalries. Once, she had walked these lands as a servant. Now she looked upon them as something to be taken.
“I am done surviving,” she said at last, her voice calm in a way that made it dangerous. “I will take all of Mordor. Every pit, every tower, every broken banner still clinging to the idea of power. And I will unite it.”
Shereg did not interrupt. He only listened, arms folded, the faintest curve of a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.
“I cannot rule it alone,” Deorla continued. “Mordor does not bow to a single blade—not anymore. It bows to commanders who know its filth, its hunger, its way of breaking the weak.” She lifted her gaze to him. “Udûn will be the first. You will rule it in my name.”
That earned a sharp breath from him—not surprise, but recognition. He went to one knee without ceremony, fist pressed to the stone floor.
“Udûn will answer to you,” Shereg said. “By iron and fire.”
She inclined her head once. It was enough.
The fire dipped lower as Deorla’s gaze lingered on the map, her voice softening—not with regret, but with certainty.
Then, quieter—almost an afterthought, though it was anything but—she added,
“Firebryn is dead.”
“Firebryn did not want to fade away,” she continued. “She did not want her ending to be watching over a quiet house in Rohan, counting seasons until death found her gently.”
Shereg looked at her, listening closely.
“She wanted meaning,” Deorla continued. “So I gave it to her. I sent her to meddle where it would hurt. To strike at the Company of the East Road. To remind them that what they broke was not finished with them.”
Her jaw tightened.
“She chose her end. And she died as she lived—moving pieces on the board, not waiting to be removed.”
Shereg bowed his head once. “Then she died as a player,” he said quietly. “Not a caretaker.”
“Yes,” Deorla replied. “And that matters.”
Shereg straightened and gestured to the map. “If you are serious about taking Mordor—and I believe you are—then you should know the board as it stands.”
He pointed first to the south-east.
“Dulgabêth now calls himself Sauron’s Heir. He gathers remnants, warbands, anything that still bows to old titles. He plans to seal his claim by wedding Lhaereth the Stained—blood, lineage, terror. A neat little lie dressed as destiny.”
Deorla’s lips curled faintly. “And Lhaereth?”
“She plays her own game,” Shereg said. “Whatever she tells Dulgabêth, her eyes are always elsewhere. But make no mistake—both of them want Ugrukhôr broken.”
He tapped Udûn. “Ugrukhôr still squats in Durthang, fat on iron and arrogance. His only real ally is the Pale Herald, but the Herald is busy in Lhingris, tangled in the Shelob mess. For now, Ugrukhôr’s borders are quiet—but only because he believes Anglach will always feed him.”
That made Deorla smile. A thin, cruel thing.
Shereg continued.
“Uradani and Rogmul have sealed themselves away. No messengers in or out. No one knows what they’re building—or who they’re preparing to strike.”
“Karazgar is dead. Fell somewhere in Rhovanion. No body, but no power either.”
“And Dolguzigir, the Dark Archivist…” He shrugged. “Still buried in scrolls and spells. He works from Minas Morgul, as always. Only now, Morgul has a new master—Gothmog, the Nameless Flame. The two seem… aligned.”
Deorla absorbed it all in silence.
“At present,” Shereg concluded, “the smartest move is to choke Ugrukhôr slowly. Anglach is his lifeline.”
“Then Anglach becomes mine,” Deorla said. “I will take full control of the foundry. No iron leaves Udûn without my word. Let him starve behind his walls and call it strategy.”
“And me?” Shereg asked.
“You will go west,” she replied. “To Dunland. Raise reinforcements. Old loyalties. New grudges. Udûn must look strong before the first blow ever falls.”
“Find Frestang. Speak with him. Use his words, his kin, his grudges. Dunland has always remembered who listens to them—and who uses them. Make sure they choose the right path again.”
She placed the letter into Shereg’s hand.
“One more thing,” she said. “Take this to the Company of the East Road. Let them know I remember them. Let them wonder whether they still remember me.”
Her eyes hardened. “If there are any left who would choose me willingly—good. If not… Firebryn was only the beginning.”
Shereg studied the seal, then laughed softly. “A warning wrapped as an invitation.”
“Exactly,” Deorla said.
As they parted ways—him toward the west, her back toward Anglach and the choking heart of Udûn—Deorla felt it settle at last. The wandering was over. The mourning was done.
