A Heavy Hand
Dear readers, My name is Mablung, meaning heavy hand. My duty is to protect the forests of Doriath, where Queen Melian’s magic keeps us safe from any possible threat. Many believe our land is peaceful, but the quiet of the woods can be misleading. Outside of our walls, the darkness of Morgoth spreads. The world has grown restless since the days when Men first came west. I remember when Húrin stood before Thingol, proud and fearless, his loyalty shining like a blade. From that family came Túrin, Húrin’s son—a boy who knew loss far too soon. We received him when he was sent to us for safety, an orphan of war. King Thingol welcomed him warmly, and I could see in the boy the same bravery his father had, though it was mixed with sadness. Beleg and I often watched him training—his determination was strong, even as a child. Still, I have my doubts. The hearts of Men are quick to kindle and quick to burn out. There is great strength in him, but also danger. Túrin wants to prove himself, yet he...
