3. Part Three: Fire
The stench of the burning Alqualondë filled the air. Maglor could taste it on his tongue. The sky was alight with frenzied orange as flame called to flame, and he could barely see the swan-ships for the smoke.
His father’s voice rose above the clamor. “To me, Kindred of the Noldor!”
Fëanor was dark, silhouetted against the flames, sword raised and shining in the heat.
Maglor did not fall that day. Yet as he moved through the Teleri, rending and killing with the cold ease of a serpent, he felt something within him crumble beneath the weight of the flames.
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