The second cleansing site was larger than the first—a corrupted grove where the infection had pooled deeply enough to blacken the soil for a hundred paces in every direction. Legolas had chosen it deliberately, testing whether his growing abilities could handle a greater challenge.
He should have known the Shadow wouldn't let him try unopposed.
The ritual was halfway complete when the first spider dropped from the canopy.
Legolas saw it in his peripheral vision—a mass of legs and chitinous armor, easily the size of a horse, descending on a silk thread toward the guard positioned at the perimeter. His shout of warning came too late.
The spider's mandibles closed on Aerwen's shoulder before she could react. Her scream cut through the glade as venom pumped into her veins.
Then more shapes emerged from the shadows. Five. Ten. More.
"Formation!" Tauriel's voice rang out, sharp and commanding. "Defensive circle—protect the prince!"
Legolas dropped the light-weaving, the unfinished magic dissipating into the corrupted air. His hands found his bow without conscious thought, nocking and releasing in a motion that Legolas's memories had perfected over centuries.
The arrow took the spider on Aerwen in the eye. It released her, thrashing, as two more descended to take its place.
This wasn't random predation. The spiders had never attacked in coordinated waves before—they were ambush hunters, preferring to pick off isolated prey. This swarm behavior was something else entirely.
The Shadow sent them.
The realization arrived alongside the third wave of attackers. The corruption network he'd sensed in the deeper zones—the web of Morgul-sorcery connecting infected trees—it could communicate. The Shadow had learned about the cleansings and prepared a response.
"Fall back!" Legolas shouted, but falling back wasn't possible. Spiders pressed from every direction, cutting off the paths to safety. The grove had become a killing ground.
Tauriel appeared at his side, her blades already dark with ichor. "Your bow isn't enough. Draw your sword."
She was right. The close quarters demanded different weapons, and the Glorfindel training he'd absorbed—however imperfectly—was designed for exactly this situation.
Legolas drew his Elvish knives and let the new patterns guide him.
The first spider lunged. His body executed a sidestep that his mind knew instinctively, blade sweeping through the space where the creature's momentum carried it. Ichor sprayed. He pivoted into the next movement—
And stumbled.
The transition wasn't clean. His muscles had spent three thousand years learning different patterns, and the Glorfindel forms required positioning that contradicted everything they knew. Legolas recovered barely in time to deflect a set of mandibles that would have taken his arm.
"Left!" Tauriel's warning preceded her intervention. Her blade took the spider from its blind side, giving Legolas the heartbeat he needed to regain his footing.
They fought back-to-back after that. Tauriel's style was adapted to spider combat—low slashes targeting legs, precise thrusts finding joints in chitin armor. Legolas drew on both sets of training, letting his body default to familiar patterns while incorporating the new techniques where they fit naturally.
It was enough. Barely.
The swarm thinned as they cut their way toward the grove's edge. Other guards fought nearby—Maethor holding ground with the grim efficiency of a veteran, Lathron bleeding from a leg wound but still standing.
But Aerwen wasn't moving. And neither was Caladwen, who'd been positioned on the western perimeter.
"We need to withdraw," Tauriel said between strikes. "The ritual's failed—staying serves nothing."
She was right again. The cleansing couldn't be completed now; Legolas's concentration was shattered beyond recovery, and the spiritual reserves he'd been channeling had scattered into nothing. All that remained was escape.
"Retreat!" Legolas called. "Fighting withdrawal—northwest passage!"
The survivors moved as a unit, covering each other as they backed toward the cleaner section of forest. The spiders pressed their advantage, but their coordination seemed to falter as the Elves left the corrupted zone—as if whatever intelligence guided them had trouble operating outside its domain.
They broke free into uncorrupted trees as the last spider fell to Tauriel's blade. Legolas stood gasping, ichor dripping from weapons he didn't remember drawing, and tried to count the survivors.
Maethor. Lathron, limping. Tauriel, cut across the forearm but functional.
No Aerwen. No Caladwen.
"We need to go back," Lathron said. "They might still be—"
"They're gone." Tauriel's voice was flat, the professional mask firmly in place. "The venom works fast. Even if they survived the initial attacks..."
She didn't finish. She didn't need to.
Legolas stared at the corrupted grove, now crawling with spiders feasting on what remained. Two guards dead because he'd tried to cleanse a section of forest. Two Elves who'd served the realm for centuries, ended in moments because the Shadow had learned to fight back.
This is what intervention costs, he thought. Not just your own pain. Other people's lives.
The healer from his first days in this body had sensed his "jostled" fëa. His father had declared him different from the son he'd raised. And now two guards were dead because the prince they'd followed had underestimated an enemy as old as the world.
Tauriel's hand landed on his shoulder. The touch was light but grounding, pulling him back from the spiral of guilt.
"You couldn't have known," she said quietly. "The spiders have never coordinated like this before. Whatever drove them—"
"The Shadow." Legolas's voice came out hollow. "I cleansed one of its holds. It learned. It adapted."
"Then we'll adapt too." Her grip tightened momentarily before releasing. "This isn't over. But we need to leave before they regroup."
They carried the dead back to the palace. The journey took hours, every step weighted with failure. Lathron needed support after the first mile, his wounded leg refusing to bear weight properly. Maethor said nothing the entire march, his expression carved from stone.
The gates of the Woodland Realm appeared through the trees as twilight gathered. Guards on the walls called recognition. The portcullis rose.
And there, standing in the courtyard with an expression that promised nothing good, was Thranduil.
The King took in the scene with a single sweeping glance—the wounded, the dead, the ichor-stained survivors. His eyes lingered longest on Legolas, cataloguing every sign of failure.
"Report," Thranduil said simply.
Legolas opened his mouth, but Tauriel spoke first.
"Spider attack during the second cleansing, my King. Coordinated assault—unprecedented behavior. We lost two guards." Her voice was steady, professional. "The prince fought valiantly and organized our retreat. Without his warning, we would have lost more."
Thranduil's gaze shifted to her, then back to his son. Something unreadable moved behind those cold eyes.
"The cleansing?"
"Failed." Legolas forced the word out. "My concentration broke when the attack began. The ritual couldn't be completed."
Silence stretched between them. The courtyard held its breath.
"Bring the dead to the preparation chambers," Thranduil said finally. "Captain Tauriel, see to your wounded. My son..."
The pause carried weight.
"We will speak tomorrow."
He turned and walked away without waiting for response. Legolas watched him go, tasting the promise of consequences in the morning air.
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