Erebor has its own weather.

Not snow or wind, but the pressure that settles into stone when trouble approaches. The hush that creeps through the halls before any messenger arrives. I feel it long before the guards speak—before the Mountain itself seems to draw a breath and hold it.

A runner appears at the threshold, voice lowered.

“An elf lord approaches. Ñoldorin banners.”

I rise slowly. Kings do not hurry for ghosts.

“Name,” I say.

He hesitates.

“…Fëanor.”

Stone remembers.

I do not ask how such a name walks Middle-earth again. Erebor has endured worse impossibilities. I leave the council chamber at my own pace, letting the halls feel the weight of my steps.

The Gate opens to silence.

Ñoldorin horses climb paths not meant for them, red and gold banners cutting the air as if daring the Mountain to object. He rides at the forefront, fire contained in mortal shape—unapologetic, certain the world still owes him something.

Fëanor dismounts and steps into Erebor’s shadow as though it belongs to him.

He is taller than I am.

Most are.

I do not move for it.

His gaze sweeps the hall—stone, iron, gold reclaimed by endurance rather than brilliance. Then it shifts, inevitably, toward the space beside me.

Flame recognizes water.

She comes to my side without ceremony. No rush. No hesitation. The motion is fluid and deliberate, like water choosing its course. Her height casts a pale line of shadow across the stone, calm and immovable, and the hall seems to widen to make room for her presence beside mine.

His smile is faint, knowing.

“So,” he says smoothly, “the Mountain has learned to borrow what it cannot create.”

I still my guard with a gesture.

“State your purpose,” I answer.

He laughs softly and speaks of bonds and history as though they are his to rearrange. He calls her choice reaction, not will. He frames her strength as hatred of him, her bond with me as defiance rather than truth.

He does not accuse.

He assumes.

Something cold and steady settles in my chest—not jealousy, not fear, but clarity.

I step forward once, measured.

“You rode to my Mountain,” I say evenly, “to speak of her as if she were something you misplaced.”

His eyes sharpen.

“You speak of Alqualondë as an argument you lost,” I continue, voice lowering, “not a shore you helped set aflame.”

The hall breathes no sound.

“You stand in halls I rebuilt,” I tell him, “and dare to explain her will to me.”

She does not shift beneath his gaze. Her posture remains exact, unyielding, moon-pale and precise. The stillness is deliberate—dangerous in its restraint. If he seeks to claim her with words, he finds only ground that will not give.

I lift my gaze fully—not up in submission, but straight through him.

“Flame does not come to stone and call itself righteous.”

Another step, slow as a closing gate.

“This Mountain does not bend,” I finish quietly, “to the hands that burned the world and named it destiny.”

I stop.

Stone-still.

Her hair falls unbound down her back, white as moonwash, catching the low firelight in soft, unforgiving clarity. The cut of her dress is simple, sovereign—nothing ornamental, nothing pleading. She stands without movement, without apology, as if stillness itself has bent to her will.

That is my River I think to myself—not in claim, but in truth. Not something held, but something chosen. And stone remembers what it stands beside.

And I wait to see whether fire remembers how to be denied... because the River has chosen.