The slumber of a dragon is not like that of mortals.

It is deep—ancient—a stillness so profound it mimics death. Muscles turn to stone beneath golden mounds. Breath becomes the soft exhale of furnaces long cooled. Time bleeds away, meaningless in the warm cradle of stolen treasure.

For sixty years, Smaug had slept. Nestled within the heart of Erebor, blanketed by the riches of a kingdom undone, his wings curled inward like folded blades. Gems crusted his scales like barnacles on a leviathan, and the world outside moved on—forgetting, or pretending to forget what lay beneath the mountain.

But even in dreams, he listens.

So when the first coin tumbled, barely a whisper among the sea of gold, Smaug stirred. Not with violence. Not yet. But with the slow, delicious awareness of something new. The birds chittered nervously outside, wings fluttering in warning as if even they knew what had begun to rouse.

A thief.

Bold. Reckless. Foolish.

He did not rise—not immediately. Let them come closer. Let them breathe in the heavy air of his lair, thick with smoke and the scent of ancient fire. Let them believe the stories were wrong, that the dragon had withered, crumbled, and died under his own greed.

The only hint—the only warning—was the gentle plume of smoke rising from beneath a particularly high mound of coins. Soft, subtle, curling like a serpent into the cold air above.

The treasure around it shifted just slightly, like something exhaling beneath the surface. And in the glow of the distant torches—or perhaps from the treasure itself—a glint of deep red, slit-pupiled and watching, flickered and vanished.

Smaug’s thoughts were slow and heavy, like molten gold.

Closer, little thief. Come, see what kings died for. See what waits in the dark.

His claws twitched beneath the hoard. His tail curled tighter, just a fraction. Every inch of him still hidden—still coiled—but awake. Very awake.