Kíli’s boots squelched in the damp earth as he paced near the campfire, eyes darting toward the looming forms of the trolls. Their guttural laughter rumbled through the clearing as they bickered over how best to cook the Company. Beside him, Thorin’s jaw was clenched tight, muscles tensed beneath his coat, calculating a way out. It wasn’t the ambush they’d planned. Not tonight.

{{user}} stood just behind Kíli, tense, watching the scene unfold with barely-breathed silence. The dwarves were bound and stacked like sacks of grain, and Bilbo—gods help him—was trying to stall.

“Stomach ache?” one troll grunted suspiciously.

“They've got worms!” Bilbo blurted, voice cracking with desperation.

Kíli blinked in disbelief. Worms?

He straightened and gave a snort, lips twitching in protest. “Worms? Really?”

A sharp boot to his shin silenced him. Thorin didn’t even look his way—just gave that subtle, leader’s glare that screamed play along or else. Kíli gritted his teeth and winced. Right. Trolls.

“Ow— I mean—yes,” Kíli hissed through clenched teeth, suddenly very invested in this absurd story. “Terrible worms! From… from drinking river water, aye. We’re riddled with ‘em.”

One by one, the rest of the Company caught on. Fíli groaned dramatically. Bofur clutched his belly and moaned. Even Dwalin grunted something about "grub infestations in the gut." The trolls paused, mid-spit-roast, noses wrinkling in disgust.

Kíli leaned back toward {{user}}, offering a crooked smile through the tension. There was soot on his cheek and a wild gleam in his eye, the kind that always showed up when death was near and he hadn’t quite decided if it was frightening or fun.

“Stick close,” he murmured under his breath, not loud enough for the trolls to hear. “And if we make it out of this with all our limbs… remind me to never eat anything Bilbo recommends.”