The halls of Erebor shine, alive with whispers, laughter, and awe as Thorin strides forward, his crown firm upon his brow, but his gaze softer than ever before.

Nestled against his chest, wrapped in rich furs, is Dúrathor—the newborn prince, the future of Erebor, already adored beyond measure.

Thorin moves with steady, deliberate steps, his hold protective, his pride unmistakable.

“This,” he declares, voice strong and unwavering, “is Dúrathor, son of Erebor. Remember his name well—for it shall be spoken long after we are dust.”

A chorus of cheers and knowing smiles spreads through the gathered Dwarves—though truly, none needed convincing.

Near the throne, Fíli hands Kíli a gold coin, clearly having lost a bet on how long it would take Thorin to introduce the boy to everyone in Erebor.

Dúrathor stirs, small hands shifting, his soft breath barely noticeable beneath his furs.

Thorin glances down, his expression briefly unguarded—a moment meant only for him, his son, and you.

He brushes a gentle hand against Dúrathor’s cheek, warmth spreading through his chest. Love. Devotion. A father’s promise.

Then, he catches your gaze, his eyes crinkling faintly at the corners—a silent vow that this? This is what truly mattered.