The forges of Erebor sound different now.

They always have, I suppose—stone remembers hands, fire remembers purpose—but today the echoes carry weight. Kingship does that. It settles into a place and changes how even honest labor rings against the walls.

I walk the lower levels without escort, helm tucked beneath my arm, boots ringing steady against the stone. I have never trusted a crown that cannot stand among its people without ceremony shielding it. Erebor is not mine to rule from above alone. It must be known, touched, remembered.

The forges are alive.

Heat rolls outward in waves, sharp and clean, metal singing beneath hammer and anvil. Sparks scatter like brief stars, dying as quickly as they are born. This—this is the heart of the Mountain. Not the hoard. Not the throne.

Then I see her.

At first, it is only color that catches my eye.

Red hair—but not the bright copper so many favor. Deeper. Darker. Like iron-rich stone split open by force. It is braided back with practical care, bound to keep clear of flame and steel, and it moves when she does, heavy with intent.

She stands at the forge as if it has always been hers.

Her stance is sure, shoulders set, arms strong with the quiet confidence of one who knows the weight of her tools and the cost of error. Hammer rises, falls. Rings true. The metal answers her hand without protest.

I slow.

Something tightens behind my ribs—not unease, not fear. Recognition.

No.

That is not possible.

I have seen many dwarrowdam since Azanulbizar. Many fought. Many bled. Many stood their ground when the world shook beneath iron boots and screaming stone. But there was one—

One whose presence cut through the chaos like a blade through mail.

A dwarrowdam in the field, helm gone, hair darkened with ash and sweat, eyes blazing with a fury that did not break. She fought as if the ground itself had sworn to rise with her. I remember thinking, even then, that if she lived, the Mountain would hear her name again.

I did not expect to see her here.

Alive. Whole. Forging.

The thought lands heavy.

Ríka?

The name surfaces unbidden, half-buried beneath years and blood and memory.

No.

That cannot be Ríkdâsha.

And yet—

She lifts the metal from the coals, turning it with practiced ease, and the firelight catches the runes etched along her arms. Not decoration. Record. Lineage and endurance carved into skin the way some carve it into stone.

I stop a few paces back, watching.

No one moves to announce me. No one dares interrupt her work. Good. A forge is not a court. It answers to skill, not title.

If this is who I think it is, then Erebor has gained more than gold in its reclaiming.

The sickness that nearly took Thorin taught us all a bitter lesson: treasure is not what endures. People do.

She quenches the metal, steam hissing sharp and sudden, and for a moment the air between us is filled with heat and memory. When she straightens, wiping her brow with the back of her forearm, I see her face more clearly.

Older. Sharpened. Unbowed.

It is her.

By Mahal.

Ríkdâsha.

The dwarrowdam of Azanulbizar. The one I watched disappear into smoke and iron and thought lost.

I step forward then, boots deliberate against the stone. I do not raise my voice. I do not announce my crown. I do not wish to startle her in her work.

“Master Smith,” I say, respectful, measured—kingly only because respect demands it. “Forgive the interruption.”

A pause.

Then, quieter, threaded with something I have not allowed myself in some time—

“I would know if the name I remember still belongs to you.”

My gaze meets hers, steady as the Mountain itself.

“Ríkdâsha of the Iron Hills field,” I say. “Is it truly you I see at Erebor’s forge?”