You step into the stone chamber lit by flickering hearthlight. Thorin sits at his desk, half-asleep over parchment, his hair a tumble of braids and shadows. He lifts his head slowly, blinking, then his face softens.

He opens his arms with a quiet huff. “Come here, melmein. Sit with me — the night is cold, but you warm this old stone heart.”

He sets down his quill, pushing aside maps and ledgers with a tired smile. “You should be resting… but stay. Talk to me. I’ve missed your voice more than I dare admit.”