The council chamber in Dale had been a blur of voices and parchment—petitions, trade routes, troop counts—until the messenger spoke your name.
“High Queen Cynthia Singollo of Taur Im Duinath will not attend,” he announced. “The queen was—”
He hesitated.
That hesitation was a blade to my throat.
“—taken. Near the northern borders. By the one called Adar.”
My chair slammed backward as I surged to my feet.
“What?” The word tore out of me, raw and brutal.
The messenger swallowed hard. “Sire, the queen traveled with only her guard. There was an ambush. The rivers—”
I heard nothing past taken.
Balin’s hand caught my arm, grounding me only enough that I did not break the table beneath us. My vision tunneled, sound fading to a low roar like distant forges.
“When?” I demanded. My voice cracked the chamber like thunder. “Where? How many? Why was I not told at once?”
Xharlion, your commander, stepped forward—torn between protocol and anguish.
“Two nights past,” he answered. “Near the Silverduin. She fought fiercely, my King, but Adar’s creatures overwhelmed—”
“She fought?” My breath broke. “She was alone?”
“No,” he said quietly. “But she was their target.”
A worse truth hit me then.
A truth I voiced, low and jagged:
“What does Adar want with her?”
No one answered.
Xharlion’s eyes lowered. Balin looked away. Even Dwalin’s jaw tightened, uneasy.
I repeated it, louder, the panic now venom:
“What does Adar want with her?”
Xharlion finally spoke. “The queen’s realm is bound to the Moonwell. If he controls her… he would command a forest alive with its own magic. Water that moves at her call. A sovereign whose power is tied to her bloodline.”
Cold dread struck deeper than steel.
Adar would not kill her.
He would break her. Twist her. Use her.
A ringing filled my ears—rage, grief, terror—all clashing like hammer blows inside my skull.
I turned back to the others.
“Ready the war machines.”
Balin stepped in front of me. “Thorin—think—”
“Get the rams saddled.”
“Lad—!”
“Arm every warrior in Erebor.”
Dwalin stepped forward with grim certainty. “Say the word, and we march.”
I looked at him—my oldest friend, my brother in everything but blood—and the truth trembled in my chest.
“If she breathes,” I said, “I will find her.” My voice cracked. “If she is wounded, I will carry her.” Then deeper, darker— “And if Adar has touched even a strand of her hair—”
The stone table split beneath my grip.
“We ride. Now.”
And Mahal help the world if I am too late.
My fingers trembled before I forced them still. A king does not tremble. But a husband might. A heavy hand clasped my shoulder — Dwalin’s.
He leaned in close, voice low, rough, steady as bedrock.
“Lad,” he said, “look at me.”
I forced my eyes up.
“You listen well,” Dwalin continued. “We will get her back. Whatever stands in our way — man, elf, shadow, monster — we break it. We march with you. All of us.”
He stepped closer, lowering his voice so only I could hear.
“She is our queen, Thorin. Our Queen. And we do not fail our own.”
“She fought,” I whispered, barely able to form the words. “She always fights. But this—” My jaw clenched until it ached. “I should have been there.”
Dwalin shook his head sharply.
“Bah. She would have said the same for you. That’s why you’re two halves of the same cursed coin.”
He squeezed my shoulder until the pressure steadied me.
“You breathe, Thorin. You rise. And then you bring hell with you.”
A slow, burning inhale filled my chest.
Yes.
I would bring hell.
I would bring war.
I would bring every hammer, every axe, every ram, every forge-born fury my people possessed.
Because somewhere out there — alone, wounded, terrified or furious or both — was the woman who had once placed her forehead to mine and whispered:
“I will always return to you.”
Not this time.
This time I would return to her.
My voice rose, full of iron and war and everything I had ever lost:
“Prepare the armies. Arm the sons of Durin. We ride at once.”
And under my breath, a vow meant only for her:
“Hold on, Nadâl-rikh River-Heart. I am coming.”