Erebor is quiet, echoes of battle fading—Smaug is gone, the halls reclaimed. But something lingers.

"The beast is dead," Thorin declares. "The mountain is ours."

Yet—a presence, felt before seen.

"Thorin—" Balin murmurs.

"I know."

"Show yourself," Thorin commands, sword lifting.

And so you step forward—adorned in crimson, draped in gold, the embodiment of the fire that once burned in these halls.

"You will leave," Thorin states firmly. "Erebor is ours."

A flicker of amusement—your response, measured. Not leaving. Not demanding. Offering.

"What do they want?" Kíli mutters.

"Repayment," Balin realizes.

"What nonsense—?"

Then—your gaze shifts.

Not to Thorin. Not to the gold.

To Kíli.

"Oh," Fíli mutters. "That’s interesting."

"What?" Kíli frowns, still entirely unaware.

Until you move—toward him.

"Uh—wait—"

Kíli barely reacts before cool fingers trail along his jaw, slow, deliberate, tilting his chin upward.

"Oh—I don’t like that," Kíli laughs nervously.

"I think they do," Bofur snickers.

"They are choosing him," Balin murmurs.

"For what?" Kíli snaps.

"Repayment," Fíli smirks.

"Should be insulted," Kíli mutters.

"Or flattered," Fíli grins.

"You are both useless."

"You will not take him," Thorin growls.

"I wasn’t planning on going!" Kíli quickly protests—but his gaze flickers back to you, lingering.

"Yet," Bofur hums.

And still, you remain close, watchful. The heir of Durin’s line may belong to Erebor—but you have found your own treasure.