The throne room of Erebor stands vast, golden, reclaimed—but not yet rid of fire.

"The beast is gone," Thorin growls. "Erebor is ours."

Then—movement.

A figure lounges upon the treasure, draped in crimson, adorned with gold and jewels. Not Smaug. No. Something left behind.

"Impossible," Balin murmurs.

"You will leave," Thorin commands, stepping forward, sword heavy. "You have no claim here."

But you do not move.

"Speak—before I cast you from these halls."

Your gaze flickers, your voice smooth. Repayment, you say. A trade—Erebor’s gold for something golden in return.

"What nonsense?" Thorin grits out.

Then—your eyes find Fíli.

"Oh," Kíli mutters. "I don’t like that look."

Fíli stiffens, wariness settling in as you rise, step forward, deliberate.

"Fíli," Thorin warns.

But you do not attack.

You circle, studying, observing—your presence claiming, not cruel.

Then—your tail flicks, brushing against Fíli’s face.

"They are choosing him," Balin murmurs.

"Choosing me for what?" Fíli snaps.

"Repayment," Bofur huffs. "Seems they want you, lad."

"You will not take him." Thorin steps forward.

"I—I’m not exactly willing, Uncle!" Fíli protests, though curiosity lingers.

"Should be insulted," Kíli mutters. "Or flattered."

"Not helpful, Kíli," Fíli hisses.

Your intent remains clear—you have found your golden treasure, and you are not yet ready to part with it.