The Vengeance of the Sun-Spear

Anórien stood on the balcony of his chambers, the night winds of Taur-im-Duinath brushing through his flame-like hair. His fiery orange-red eyes burned with anger as he thought of the orc attack on his son. His pride in Arinyanénar for surviving—and for forming a bond with such a majestic creature as Lauriënénar—was tempered by the knowledge of the danger that had lurked so close to his realm.

This insult could not stand.

He called for his finest warriors: veterans of countless skirmishes, each handpicked for their skill and loyalty. They assembled in the courtyard, armored and armed, their faces grim and determined. The prince's survival was a miracle, but it was Anórien's duty as both a father and a king to ensure such a threat was extinguished at its root.

With the spear Solariën, glowing faintly with the light of the sun, gripped tightly in his hand, Anórien addressed his warriors.

"We ride to hunt the filth that dared lay a hand on my son," he said, his voice resonating with fury. "We will not stop until every one of them is slain and their kind learns the price of their insolence."

The warriors raised their weapons in silent agreement, and together they mounted their steeds. By the light of the moon and stars, the company rode into the shadowed depths of the forest.

The orcs had left tracks—deep, careless imprints in the soft earth and broken branches in their wake. It didn't take long for the keen eyes of the Avari hunters to find their trail. Anórien led the group silently, his senses sharp and his heart burning with a controlled rage.

After hours of pursuit, they came upon the foul creatures. The orcs had set up a crude camp in a glade, their guttural voices carrying through the trees. There were perhaps twenty of them, gnashing their teeth and arguing over scraps of meat.

Anórien dismounted silently, gesturing for his warriors to spread out and encircle the camp. He stepped forward into the clearing, Solariën held high, the spear's golden light illuminating the terrified faces of the orcs.

"Cowards," he growled, his voice a deathly whisper that carried with it the promise of pain. "You dared to hunt in my woods. You dared to threaten my son."

The orcs scrambled for their weapons, but Anórien moved first.

The High King charged, Solariën a blur of golden light. The first orc barely had time to scream before the spear pierced its chest, the force of the blow lifting it off the ground. The sunlight trapped within Solariën erupted, scorching the orc's flesh as it fell lifeless to the dirt.

The warriors of the Avari descended upon the camp like shadows of vengeance. Blades flashed, arrows sang, and the air was filled with the clash of steel and the guttural cries of dying orcs.

Anórien fought with the ferocity of a wildfire. He swung Solariën in an arc, its golden tip slicing through an orc's neck. Black blood sprayed across the ground as the head rolled, its face frozen in a grotesque snarl. Another orc charged at him, but Anórien spun with lethal precision, driving the spear through its throat and out its back.

An orc with a jagged blade leapt at him, its weapon aimed for his chest. Anórien caught the blade on Solariën's shaft, the sound of metal ringing out. With a snarl, he shoved the orc back, then thrust the spear forward, the golden tip piercing its heart. The creature's lifeless body crumpled to the ground.

Around him, his warriors were no less brutal. One of them severed an orc's arm before driving a dagger into its eye. Another impaled two at once with a single thrust of a long spear. The orcs, outnumbered and outmatched, were slaughtered without mercy.

When the last orc fell, the glade was silent save for the labored breaths of the warriors and the soft crackle of torches. The ground was soaked with black blood, the corpses of the orcs strewn about like discarded refuse.

Anórien surveyed the carnage, his chest heaving as he gripped Solariën, its golden light flickering like the dying embers of a fire. His anger had not abated—it would not, not until the orcs paid the full price for their audacity.

"Bring their heads," he commanded, his voice cold and unyielding.

The warriors set to work, hacking the heads from the orcs' corpses. Anórien watched without flinching, his fiery gaze unblinking as each head was placed on a pike. When they had finished, the glade was transformed into a grim tableau of vengeance.

The heads of the orcs lined the battlefield, their lifeless eyes staring into the void. Anórien stepped forward and drove the final pike into the ground himself, its tip crowned with the head of the largest orc.

"Let this be a warning," he said, his voice carrying through the silent forest. "This is the fate of any who dare threaten my realm or my family."

The company mounted their horses and rode back to Onymë Ennorë, the grim satisfaction of justice done hanging over them like a dark cloud.

That night, as Anórien returned to the palace, he found Arinyanénar asleep, his face peaceful in the glow of the hearth. Anórien stood for a moment, the weight of his duty as a father and king pressing heavily upon him.

"None shall harm you again, my son," he murmured, his fiery gaze softening. "Not while I breathe."

He left the room silently, Solariën resting by his side, its golden light dim but unyielding.