The gold-thick air of the Mountain clings to my lungs like smoke. I stand rigid on the battlements above the Gate of Erebor, fingers dug into the stone until they ache. The treasure behind me whispers—soft, coaxing, venomous. Every breath tastes of dragon-fire, greed, and madness. The sickness coils around my thoughts like a serpent, squeezing until the world narrows to glittering gold and old wounds.

Footsteps scrape behind me—soft, hobbit-sized.

Bilbo.

He comes to stand beside me, peering out nervously over the field where Dáin’s host gathers in tight, red-plaited ranks.

“Thorin… I know you don’t want to hear this, but…” He fumbles. “There’s someone with him. Gandalf says—”

A sound cuts him off.

Not a horn.

Not metal or war-drum.

A conch shell.

The Conch of War.

It booms across the valley like a tide smashing against stone... like a tidal wave striking the bones of the earth.

My heartbeat stutters. My grip tightens. The gold behind me seems to stir.

Not them. Not now.

Bilbo jolts. “W–what was that?”

Gandalf’s staff taps sharply as he joins us. His eyes narrow toward the distant ridge now drowning in cold silver mist.

“That,” he says tightly, “is the River answering a call.”

It is not a river, Master Baggins,” he murmurs. “It is the River. The one the songs don’t dare name. The Queen who rules the Teleri of Taur Im Duinath.”

Another blast—older, deeper—rolls across the battlefield. It vibrates through the stone beneath my feet, through my bones, through memories I tried to bury beneath pride.

Bilbo stands on his toes, squinting. “But who is she? Why is she with Dáin? Thorin… is she friend or foe?”

Gold clouds the edges of my vision. Pride snarls. Shame burns. I force my jaw to unclench.

“I do not know,” I manage. “Once… I would have said friend.”

Gandalf’s look is sharp. The gem-light flickers. I turn away.

Because the truth is worse than I can speak.

The mist parts.

And the world turns silver.

A host pours over the ridge like the Silverduin itself had risen in living form: armored ranks in moon-silver plate, every surface glinting like cold starlight despite the dim, grey morning. Their cloaks—white and silver—ripple like winter rivers caught in moonrise. Their pale horses churn the frost, manes catching the dawn like threads of living light.

They move as one body, one tide. A people forged not in stone, but in water and moon.

They do not march. They flow.

Bilbo gasps. “Oh—oh dear.”

At their forefront rides a stag as pale as new snow. Upon it…

The breath leaves my chest.

White hair, loose as riverwater. A cloak bright as frost, marked with a crescent moon above two intertwining rivers. Moon-silver armor, mithril-etched, glowing faintly. And crowning your brow:

A living birch circlet. Green. Silver. Alive.

Bilbo whispers, “Thorin… who is she?”

My voice fractures like cracked stone. My chest tightens as if the sickness claws deeper, furious at this intrusion of memory, feeling, clarity.

Gandalf answers, grave and low:

“Even kings must drink, Bilbo,” he says softly. “And the Mountain… has always loved the River. He simply never learned how to show it without cracking his own stone.”

A beat.

“Dáin did not bring her as a trophy. He brought her as his strongest ally.”

But Dáin cannot know what that means. He cannot know what history lies between Mountain and River. Nothing of how close the flood once came to breaking stone.

Bilbo swallows. “Is she here to save us?”

I cannot speak.

Not after the things I said. Not after the way I let pride choke the truth. Not after I chose silence where honesty should have stood.

The conch sounds a third time—bone-deep, world-deep—and the silver host descends the ridge like a tide that will not be stopped.

And I stand upon my own walls, trembling in silence, as the River comes for the Mountain.

And I no longer know whether she comes to help… or to wash me away.

Gandalf lifts his staff as the mist splits — revealing pale stags, river-silver armor, and moonlit banners cresting the ridge.

“My dear Bilbo… we're about to find out."