In LOTR with Harry Potter system

The explosion had left behind utter devastation. Rubble lay scattered across the earth, black blood seeped through cracks in the stone, and broken limbs of Orcs and wargs were strewn like grotesque decorations after a cursed feast.

Sylas strolled through the wreckage, his wand crackling faintly as it dispatched the last writhing Orcs and snarling wrags with swift, magical precision. His robes were dusty, his expression calm, as if he were merely pruning a garden rather than clearing a battlefield.

When he reached the mangled body of the Orc commander, he raised a brow, intrigued.

"Well now," he murmured, tapping the butt of his wand against a nearby rock. "Still breathing after that? You're a tough one."

The Orc Leader glared up at him, face contorted in pain and fury, one leg twisted at an impossible angle, and an arm reduced to bone and shreds. Even so, his voice rasped with defiance.

"You fool of a wizard... You don't know the power you face. Our master, he is darkness incarnate. The whole world will kneel at his feet, and you...you will be nothing but dust."

Sylas smirked.

"Let me guess. You mean Sauron? Lurking in his little fortress at Dol Guldur like a shadow frightened of the light?"

Before the Orc could spit another word, a sudden thwip sliced through the air. A black-fletched Morgul arrow came whistling from the treeline, and in an instant, it buried itself cleanly in the Orc's skull. His body gave a final twitch, then fell still.

Sylas blinked. "Well. That saved me a speech."

With the Orc leader dispatched and the rest of the scattered stragglers fleeing into the mist, Sylas let out a slow sigh of relief. He didn't bother pursuing the survivors. Even Orcs would think twice before returning to a battlefield drenched in cursed fire and drenched in their own blood.

"Let's see where's Gandalf and others," he muttered, reaching into his cloak and pulling out Palantír. The crystal shimmered to life in his hand, swirling with smoke and light.

His eyes narrowed.

"Hm? That's odd... what's going on now?"

Through the globe's vision, he saw another group of Orcs, this time pushing Gandalf and the others toward a steep cliff. They were surrounded, backs against the edge.

Sylas's gaze shifted to the Orc leading the charge, seated atop a pale, battle-scarred Warg, iron claw in place of one hand, cruel eyes locked on Thorin with unmistakable hatred.

"Isn't he Azog, the Defiler. The leader of the Orcs?."

Within the vision, Gandalf suddenly turned his head, eyes boring into the distance, as if sensing Sylas's attention. Though no words passed through the Palantír, Sylas could read the urgency on his face.

Sylas sighed, shaking his head.

"Even as a Maia, the old man's hands are tied."

He remembered their conversation days ago, over pipeweed and twilight. Gandalf had confided, in careful words, that the wizards of Middle-earth were under strict orders. The Valar had sent them not to wield overwhelming might, but to guide, never to dominate. They were to kindle hope and courage, not scorch the land with divine fire.

It was noble. But also, Sylas thought grimly, terribly inconvenient.

"Valar and their blasted rules," he muttered. "Just like upper management from my old world. Want the job done, but bind your hands behind your back while you do it."

No wonder Gandalf preferred whacking things with his staff rather than casting spells. With all the rules laid down by the Valar, spellwork came with too much red tape.

Shaking off his drifting thoughts, Sylas picked up his pace and hurried toward the others. They'd already retreated into the trees, cornered and clinging to branches like squirrels under siege.

If he didn't get there soon, the Great Eagles might swoop in and carry them off.

High atop the crags of the Misty Mountains, a storm of old hatred brewed.

Thorin's breath caught in his throat. The pale Orc still lived? He'd struck him down years ago in the great battle beneath Moria's gates. It seemed the White Warg-rider had clawed his way back from death itself.

Azog's iron-clawed gaze burned with vengeance. His missing arm, severed long ago by Thorin's oaken shield, was now replaced with a cruel metal hook. He had not forgotten. And he would not forgive.

For Azog, Thorin was more than a thorn, he was a threat, a symbol, a wound that refused to close.

"Look what I smell," Azog sneered, nostrils flaring as his pale Warg snarled beneath him. "The stink of fear. Your father reeked of it too... Thorin, son of Thráin."

His voice was thick with venom. "Leave him to me. Kill the rest."

With that command, the cavalry surged forward, massive beasts with eyes like coals and fangs like scythes. They scaled the trees like demons, snapping and clawing at trunks and branches, delighting in the panic that followed.

Orcs below watched with cruel amusement. There would be no swift death by arrow today. They wanted screams. They wanted despair.

Above, the dwarves fought to hold their ground, balancing atop swaying limbs and battering away lunging jaws with axes and hammers.

"Oi! Any bright ideas?" shouted Dwalin, swinging at a Warg's snout. "Because I don't fancy ending up as wolf dinner and then being coughed back out!"

"Where's Sylas?!" another dwarf bellowed. "What's taking him so long?"

"Don't be daft," growled Balin. "He's fighting thousands of Orcs and Wargs. What, you think he just finished tea and strolled over?"

Bilbo clung to the tree trunk with all the strength his hobbit arms could muster, his eyes wide as a Warg's paw nearly knocked him loose. He turned to Gandalf, voice small but hopeful.

"Gandalf... do you think Sylas will come in time?"

Gandalf didn't answer right away.

"I cannot say," he admitted at last. "Even for Sylas, facing such a horde is no small feat."

"And we can't keep depending on Sylas for everything," Gandalf said seriously, his tone both gentle and firm. "It's not good for him… or for you."

Just then, his eyes caught a fluttering silver-winged moth resting on the bark of a tall pine. A glimmer of hope lit his face.

"Still… if we have enough time, perhaps we can call in a little help from some old friends."

He carefully reached out, cupped the moth in his hands, and whispered an incantation and released it gently into the sky, he watched it vanish into the clouds.

Down below, the Orcs had grown bored of their twisted game. With growls of impatience, they barked orders at the towering Wargs and snarl-faced werewolves to push down the pine trees one by one.

The ground trembled as massive claws and slavering jaws worked in tandem, toppling trees like matchsticks. Each collapse forced the companions higher into the remaining trees, leaping from branch to branch in a desperate attempt to delay the inevitable.

Soon, they were all huddled atop the final pine. It creaked and groaned under their weight, its roots exposed and straining against the cliff's edge. Far below, a sea of snarling beasts waited hungrily.

Panic began to settle in.

With no time left to waste, Gandalf reached into his robes, plucked a pinecone from the branch, and muttered a fiery charm. With a flick of his staff, the cone burst into flame. He hurled it downward. Flames erupted instantly.

Fire raced across the fallen trees, forming a burning barrier that forced the wrags and Orcs to retreat, snarling and howling from the heat. For a brief moment, the flames held the enemy at bay.

But the tree beneath the company shuddered violently once more. Its roots, loosened by force and fire, gave way.

The entire tree toppled backward over the cliff.

Cries of alarm filled the air as the companions dangled from branches, desperately clinging to each other and their fading hope.

Seeing no other option, Thorin Oakenshield climbed down from the tree's limbs and faced Azog the Defiler head-on.

He had won once before, briefly. But this time was different.

Azog, massive and merciless, easily parried Thorin's blows and delivered a crushing counterattack. The Dwarven prince was flung aside, his body slamming to the ground with a sickening thud.

Just as Azog raised his blade to deliver the killing blow to Thorin, a flash of silver steel cut through the chaos, Bilbo, wielding Sting, hurled himself between them with a desperate cry.

Clang!

Sting intercepted Azog's weapon. Though the blow was deflected, the sheer force knocked him backward. Azog snarled with fury, his kill interrupted.

"Kill him!" Azog growled to his Warg-mount.

The beast lunged, jaws wide.

"Diffindo!" came a sharp voice from the mist.

A streak of white tore through the fog and struck the wrag mid-lunge.

The beast didn't even have time to cry out. In the blink of an eye, it was shredded by the severing charm, its form unraveling into smoking fragments scattered across the cliffside.

Bilbo blinked in shock. Then, a wide smile broke across his soot-smeared face. "Sylas!"

From the clearing smoke emerged Sylas, wand in hand, robes billowing like shadows against the firelight. 

Azog flinched, stunned by the sudden loss of his mount. He took a wary step back, but it was already too late.

Sylas raised his wand again, magical energy crackling at its tip.

Azog's instincts screamed danger. With brutal efficiency, he grabbed a nearby Orc warrior and yanked him forward like a shield.

Fwoosh!

The spell struck instantly. The Orc's body convulsed and was torn apart, the severing magic slicing through flesh and bone with no resistance. Dark blood exploded into the air, splattering across Azog's pale, scarred face.