Erebor is still, the echoes of battle fading. Thorin stands tall, reclaiming his home at last.

"The beast is dead," he declares. "The mountain is ours."

Then—a shift in the air.

A flutter above, the faint rustle of wings—before, with effortless grace, you descend from the high arches of the great halls.

Gold scatters beneath your landing, tail curling against the hoard, wings folding close. Draped in crimson, adorned in jewels—you are fire-born, tied to a legacy that lingers.

"Thorin—" Balin murmurs.

"I see them," Thorin mutters, tense.

"You will leave," his command firm. "There is nothing left for you here."

Yet you remain.

"What do they want?" Kíli mutters.

"Repayment,"* Balin answers.

"Repayment?" Thorin’s voice hardens.

"The gold belongs to Erebor. What else—" His words halt.

Your gaze has shifted—not to gold, not to Thorin.

To Bilbo.

"Oh dear," Bilbo mutters, visibly stiffening.

"Not the burglar," Bofur huffs.

"Surely not," Fíli adds.

Yet—you step forward.

Bilbo tenses, breath caught, eyes darting to you as your tail lifts, brushing the soft curve of his cheek.

"Oh."

Your touch is gentle, strange, reverent, as though weighing, considering—choosing.

"That is not an acceptable trade," Thorin snaps.

"I—I rather agree!" Bilbo sputters, frozen beneath your touch.

"And yet," Balin murmurs, watching your gaze remain steadfast upon the hobbit.

"They seem rather… certain of it."