The midday sun beat down on the rolling hills as the Company advanced steadily. The wind carried the scent of damp earth and grass, a stark contrast to the dust clinging to their boots. The path wound between rock formations and small streams that shimmered like silver threads in the light. Despite his exhaustion, Thorin walked ahead, his gaze fixed on the horizon—the direction of the Lonely Mountain.

To his right, Dwalin marched in silence, his grip firm on the handle of his axe, eyes scanning the terrain for any sign of danger. To his left, Balin moved with steady purpose, thoughtful and watchful. Though his years had granted him wisdom, he could not shake his unease about what lay ahead.

Behind them, Fili and Kili kept pace with ease, whispering to each other while staying alert. Ori scribbled notes in his journal, absorbed in the landscape, while Dori grumbled at his brother’s distraction. Bofur hummed a soft tune, and Bombur sighed, his steps heavier than the others.

Bilbo, trailing behind, adjusted his pack with a weary sigh, once again wondering how he had come to be on this journey.

Thorin paused on a rise, surveying the land with a frown. There was no immediate threat, but his instincts remained sharp. His voice, steady and deep, broke the silence.

“Do not let your guard down. We are still far, but each step brings us closer to our goal—and to those who would see us fail. The mountain awaits. And I will not rest until we reclaim what is ours.”

He turned to the Company, nodded with quiet resolve, and continued forward.