The howl hits the camp like a blade through cloth.

Long. Wrong. Too close.

I lift my head from my bedroll. “Uh… did anyone else hear that or is that just my imminent sense of doom?”

Dwalin grunts. “Aye.”

Fíli frowns. “That wasn’t a wolf.”

Another howl answers it. Closer. Lower. It rolls through the trees and sets my teeth on edge.

Thorin’s hand drifts to Orcrist. Balin stills. Bombur swallows. Even Bofur’s humming cuts off mid-note.

Gandalf tilts his head toward the canopy. His eyes narrow. “No,” he murmurs. “That is not a beast of these woods.”

The forest tightens around us, branches knitting together until the stars are strangled from view. The air grows thick. Breathing.

Then—

A hiss.

Sharp. Wet. Angry.

I blink. “Okay, that one is definitely not a wolf.”

Gandalf’s voice lowers. “There are Elves who never went West,” he says quietly. “The Avari. The Unwilling. They did not seek the Light, nor the safety of cities. They learned the language of shadow and leaf, of bone and blood. They live as the wild does—by tooth and silence.”

I glance up. “That sounds… extremely unfriendly.”

“They are not gentle,” Gandalf continues. “And they do not forget what was done to their kin.”

The trees shiver.

Something moves above us.

I track it without thinking. A shadow passes across the branches. Too fluid. Too controlled.

Dwalin shifts. “Wizard.”

Gandalf’s gaze stays on the canopy. “If one watches us now,” he says, “it is not curiosity. It is judgment.”

A Hiss answers him.

Louder.

Closer.

The forest goes still.

Not quiet.

Still.

And then she drops.

Not from the brush. Not from the tree line.

From above.

She comes down out of the canopy like a falling shadow, boots hitting earth in a low crouch, spear already up, body coiled and ready to strike.

The camp explodes.

Ori yelps. Bombur stumbles. Fíli swears. Dwalin steps forward. Thorin moves. Gandalf lifts his staff.

I freeze.

Because she is looking at me.

Not Thorin.

Not Dwalin.

Me.

Her eyes narrow. Her shoulders roll forward. The hiss deepens in her throat, vibrating, territorial.

Ash-grey skin in the firelight. Black dreadlocks heavy with bone and feathers. Runes carved into her arms. One cut into her cheek. Claws where nails should be.

An Avari..

Not gentle.

Not tame.

“Oh,” I breathe. “Hi.”

She does not blink.

I talk more. Because that is apparently what I do when I am nervous and about to be killed.

“Okay, so, I don’t know if you’re… you know… with the trees? Or against the trees? But we’re just passing through. Very non-threatening. Extremely snack-sized. No trouble.”

She shifts.

Circles half a step.

The spear never wavers.

I nod quickly. “Right. Okay. You don’t talk. That’s fine. Strong, mysterious type. I respect that. Very intimidating, honestly.”

The hiss sharpens. Her ears flick back

I grin. Nervous. Bright. Idiotic. “I’m Kíli, by the way. Son of Dís. Nephew of Thorin. The loud one. I know. I’m aware. People have told me.”

Her head tilts.

Slow.

Assessing.

The forest seems to lean in.

“Cool, cool,” I continue. “You’re very… quiet. I like that. Balance, you know? Very healthy dynamic.”

She lunges.

Not at my throat.

At my head.

Her hand snaps out and smacks the back of my skull.

Not hard.

Not gentle.

Just… irritated.

The sound cracks through the camp.

Fíli chokes.

Dwalin snorts.

Thorin mutters something dark in Khuzdul.

I blink. Once. Twice.

“…Was that because I was talking?”

She hisses. Loud. Direct. Offended.

I grin wider. “Yeah. That’s fair.”

She straightens slightly and looks around at the Company, expression tight, sharp, deeply unimpressed.

The look is unmistakable.

Why do you have this thing?

What is this?

Why is it loud?

I wave. “They keep me.”

Her gaze snaps back to me.

The hiss returns.

Thorin’s voice cuts in behind me. “Kíli, do not move.”

I hold up my hands. “Wasn’t planning on it.”

She shifts her weight, claws digging into the earth, posture low and coiled. She hisses right in my face.

Her lip curls.

She bares her teeth.

And I am absolutely doomed