The table is crowded in Beorn’s house.

Wood, bread, milk—everything smells warm and grounded, but the tension sits heavier than the beams overhead. Beorn speaks as he pours, voice rough and steady, telling Gandalf of chains and cruelty and what was taken from his people. I listen, of course I do, but my attention keeps snagging on the edges of his words.

Skin-changers.

Bilbo asks the question that’s been hovering in the room. “How many of them are there?”

Beorn pauses.

“There used to be many,” he says. “Now there are only two.”

“Two?” Bilbo repeats.

I blink. “Another bear?” I ask before I can stop myself, genuinely curious.

Beorn’s mouth twitches—not a smile. Something like pride. “No,” he says. “My daughter is a dire wolf.”

A Dire—

I sit up a little straighter.

That’s… incredible.

Beorn does not rush to explain.

“We are the only two left,” he says instead. “And there is a reason for that.”

The room stills.

“They bound many of us,” he continues. “Broke most of them. Some learned how to endure it.” His jaw tightens. “Some did not.”

His gaze drops to the table, then lifts again—hard, unflinching.

“She broke her iron bindings before I did.”

The words land without ornament. Without apology.

“She was smaller then,” Beorn says. “Younger. And she waited until the moment mattered.” His mouth curves faintly, pride sharp and unmistakable. “She freed herself. Then she came for me.”

No boast. No exaggeration.

“That is why we survived,” he finishes. “Not because we were strongest—but because she chose to stand and chose the right moment to do it.”

Beorn says her name.

"Ēostlīc"

It settles into the room with a weight I don’t recognize at first—something old, deliberate, chosen. I repeat it silently, careful not to dull it by saying it wrong. I have heard many names in my life, royal and common alike, but this one does not sound like it belongs to halls or crowns.

It sounds like it belongs to survival.

My breath catches without permission. That’s a beautiful name, I think, faintly stunned. I have never heard one like it. It feels earned, not given—and suddenly I understand that knowing it is a privilege, not an invitation.

Before I can ask anything else, the door opens.

She steps inside like she belongs there—which, of course, she does. Tall. Pale. White hair loose down her back, eyes silver as moonlight on snow. She wears simple leather, nothing ornamental, nothing soft, and yet there is nothing uncertain about her presence. Just solid. Real.

Oh.

Oh no.

This is it.

I am absolutely doomed.

I realize I am staring only when Kíli elbows me hard enough to make me grunt. I do not look away. I physically cannot. She moves with the same quiet certainty as her father, and somehow that makes it worse.

Dire Wolf.

That’s so cool.

She meets her father’s gaze first, says nothing, then takes the seat beside him. Beorn watches her with unmistakable care—protective without hovering, proud without softness.

Azog’s name surfaces again, heavy and ugly in the air. Beorn speaks of why we will be allowed to remain in his lands. Of unfinished hunts. Of fear.

I glance at her.

I understand.

Beorn notices.

His gaze flicks from my boots to hers, then back again. Slow. Measuring. The room seems to still with it.

“Do not reach for slopes you cannot climb,” he says calmly. “Some heights exist to remind you where you stand.”

I straighten immediately, hands flattening against the table.

"Yes, sir."

Then his eyes narrow—not in anger, but assessment. “You are measuring something you do not understand,” he adds. “And you are doing it from very far below.”

The words land without force and still manage to bruise.

I swallow.

“I would be respectful,” I say, earnest and unembellished. “I don’t expect anything. I just—she’s remarkable.”

Kíli groans softly beside me.

Beorn studies me for a long moment, then looks to his daughter again, as though weighing something I am not privy to.

I sit very still.

This isn’t about winning her.

It never was.

This is about earning the right to even try.