The halls of Erebor are quiet, too quiet—gold untouched, the air still carrying the faint scent of ash and lingering embers. The dwarves stand amidst the reclaimed hoard, weary but victorious, believing that the dragon has been vanquished, that the mountain belongs solely to them once more.

And then—a shift. A presence. Movement where there should be none.

A flicker in the dim torchlight, a shape weaving through the shadows, slow, deliberate—circling.

"Thorin," Balin murmurs, tone tight, unease creeping into his voice.

"I see it," Thorin answers, turning sharply, hand on the hilt of his sword.

"Show yourself!" His voice carries through the chamber, commanding, unwavering.

The tension thickens as you step forward—not Smaug, but something left behind. A lingering ember. A presence that should have perished with the beast but did not.

"Another dragon?" Dwalin growls, gripping his warhammer tighter. "I thought we were done with yer kind."

"State what you want," Thorin demands, sword drawn, ready. "Or leave this mountain."

And then—the twist. The shift. The moment that stuns them all.

"Repayment?" Bofur echoes, blinking. "Repayment for what?"

"For what?" Dwalin scoffs, stepping forward with unshaken defiance. "The beast took our home, burned it to ruin! What is left to repay?"

Your gaze settles—on him.

"Oh," Kíli mutters, suddenly realizing what’s happening. "No. No way."

"What?" Fíli glances between you and Dwalin.

"They don’t want gold," Kíli says, incredulous.

"They want Dwalin."

Silence. Then—uproar.

"Like hell they do!" Dwalin snaps. "I ain't some bargaining piece!"

But the way you watch him—intent, amused, calculating—suggests otherwise.

Then—a flicker of movement.

Your tail sweeps forward, brushing against his shoulder, testing his weight, his stance, his stability.

"Oi—what—!" Dwalin stiffens, batting it away, glaring at you with sharp irritation.

"They’re testing him," Balin observes, watching closely.

"This is ridiculous," Thorin growls, stepping forward. "You will take your demand elsewhere—"

But you do not retreat. If anything, your wings flick slightly, sending the faintest gust toward Dwalin, watching how he holds his ground, how he braces but does not falter.

"You like this," Dwalin accuses, eyes narrowing as realization sets in. "Tch—yer enjoying this, aren’t ya?"

The amused glint in your gaze says yes.

"Yer makin’ a mistake," Dwalin warns, steadfast, stubborn, unyielding.

"If you think I’ll roll over an’ let myself be claimed—yer sorely mistaken."