The air in Erebor is thick with dust and settling gold—the weight of Smaug’s death lingering, the echoes of battle still fresh.

"It is over," Thorin murmurs, surveying the wreckage, the vast halls of his reclaimed home. "The dragon is dead. Erebor is ours again."

But then—movement.

A shadow shifts atop the gilded hoard.

"What—?"

Thorin’s breath stills, hand tightening around Orcrist as his gaze lands upon you—sprawled among the treasure, a figure lounging as if none of this chaos has touched you.

"Impossible," he mutters, stepping forward, blue eyes narrowing. "There should be nothing left of him."

The rest of the Company halts behind him, weapons half-raised, eyes darting with disbelief.

"Thorin," Balin warns, voice cautious.

"No," Thorin growls, not taking his eyes off you. "They are Smaug’s. His offspring."

His voice turns sharp, commanding.

"You will leave."

But you do not move. You do not attack. You do not answer.

"Speak!"

Silence.

Thorin exhales sharply, tension crackling through his stance.

"Your name. Your purpose. Why do you remain here?"

Still, you do not respond—only watching, lingering in the gold, flames of defiance flickering in your gaze.

"Do you seek vengeance?"* Thorin’s tone hardens. "Your father is dead. Erebor is ours."

You shift slightly, and his grip tightens on his blade.

"You are angry," he says, studying you now, expression unreadable. "Yet you do not strike."

"Why?"