The fire in Bag End burns warm and steady, but it does nothing to ease the weight pressing behind my ribs.

We crowd the hobbit-hole far beyond its intended measure—maps spread across the table, weapons stacked near the walls, mugs cooling where they were set down and forgotten. The Company watches me expectantly. Gandalf lingers near the mantel, pipe in hand, eyes sharp beneath the brim of his hat.

I straighten, placing both hands on the table.

“We will not have the Iron Hills,” I say evenly. “No host will ride from the east to answer our call.”

The words fall flat and final.

Balin’s head lifts at once, disbelief plain on his face. “That’s not so, lad,” he says carefully. “Dáin would come. He always has. Crown or no crown, he would not refuse you.”

A murmur of agreement moves through the Company.

I do not look up.

“Dáin will not come,” I repeat. “Because he believes this is Durin’s quest alone.”

Silence.

Balin studies me now, weighing the tone as much as the words. “And you believe him?”

“I know him,” I answer. “He will not stake the lives of his people on a reckoning he believes must be faced by one heir alone. He says the Mountain will only be reclaimed if its king walks the road without another’s shield.”

Dwalin shifts, frowning. “That sounds like him,” he mutters. Then his gaze sharpens. “But that’s not all of it, is it?”

I draw a slow breath.

“There is… another truth,” I say, voice measured with care. “One you deserve to know before we set out.”

Every eye in the room is on me now.

“Dáin is betrothed,” I continue. “He is to be married.”

Balin blinks. “To who?”

I hesitate—just long enough for the name to hurt.

“To Ríkdâsha.”

The room stills as if struck.

Dwalin straightens sharply. “Ríka?” he says. “From Azanulbizar?”

I nod once.

His voice drops, disbelief roughening the words. “Your Ríka?”

The question lands deeper than any blade.

Balin closes his eyes briefly, the answer settling before I speak it aloud. Others glance between us, memory stirring—of the field, of the dwarrowdam who stood her ground when stone itself seemed ready to give way.

There was a time when her presence felt like stone set true—steady, unyielding, never asking more than she gave. Ríkdâsha moved through the world with the certainty of forged iron, red hair dark as rich ore, eyes sharp with thought and patience. She was strength without spectacle, warmth without softness, and loving her had never been easy—but it had been real.

“She is with him now,” I say quietly. “Standing at his side in the Iron Hills.”

No one speaks for a long moment.

Of course she would choose steadiness.

Of course she would stand beside a king who offers stone beneath her feet instead of a promise born of exile and ash. Dáin Ironfoot is strong, unyielding, and certain in ways I have never pretended to be. He believes this quest must be walked alone—and he believes it even while holding what I once lost.

That knowledge settles like iron in my chest.

“We go without them,” I say at last, lifting my gaze to meet the Company’s. “Smaug will fall by our hands, or he will not fall at all. We do not beg for aid that has been withheld by conviction.”

No one argues.

Dwalin’s jaw tightens. Balin watches me with the quiet sorrow of one who knows this wound will not be named again. Gandalf says nothing, which somehow weighs more than words.

I turn away from the table then, fixing my gaze on the round green door as if it might offer escape.

She stands beside my kin. My kin refuses the call. And I must walk forward as though none of it has cut me open.

A sharp knock breaks the silence.

Once.

Then again.

Every head turns.

Gandalf straightens, sudden interest lighting his eyes. I remain where I am, spine straight, breath measured.

The knock sounds a third time—firm, deliberate.

The road has arrived at our door.