The throne room is quiet.

Not peaceful — never peaceful — but quiet in the way stone becomes when it has listened too long. The forges murmur below, faint as distant surf. Somewhere, a hammer rings. Life continues. Duty continues. And yet I sit here, crown forgotten in my hands, staring at nothing but the space she used to fill.

The Mountain breathes, but the rivers do not.

They have been still for two years.

No word. No trace. Not a sighting.

Because Sauron does not leave a trace.

Every dwarf, every elf, every man has told me she must be gone. But stone recognizes its river. And the Mountain knows when the water that once carved it still lives.

The ache in my chest has become a companion. A wound that refuses to scar. Some nights I hear her voice in the dark. Other nights I hear only silence — and that is worse.

Bootsteps echo through the hall.

“My King.”

Dwalin’s voice. Low. Rough. Not fearful, but carrying the weight of something he does not want to deliver.

I straighten. It feels like waking from a half-sleep.

“What is it?”

He hesitates — Dwalin never hesitates — and my heart begins to pound despite myself.

“There’s been a… sighting.”

My blood chills.

“Of what,” I manage, though my hands are already gripping the throne’s arms.

Dwalin exhales through his nose. “Of her, lad.”

The word hits like a hammer to the ribs. I rise too quickly, vision narrowing.

“Where?”

“Near the ruins east of the riverlands,” he answers. “Travelers swore they saw an elf-woman with white hair. Pale as moonstone. Cloaked. Moving like a shadow.”

My chest seizes. “Then she lives.”

Balin steps into the hall from the side corridor, staff in hand, worry carved deep in his features.

“Now, Thorin, hold fast,” he urges. “We do not yet know what this means.”

Dwalin bristles. “They knew her description well enough.”

“Aye,” Balin replies, “but Sauron does not return what he has taken without shaping it to his purpose.” His voice softens, but the words are no less painful. “Think of Adar, lad. Think of what became of him. Twisted. Remade. His memories carved away like rot scraped from wood.”

Adar’s name drifts through my mind like a shadow. I think of the ruin carved into him, the way the darkness rewrites what it steals. And if she has been held as long as they say… what remains? If she looks at me with a stranger’s eyes—if she remembers nothing—I must be ready. Not with anger, but with the strength to face whatever Sauron has made of her… and whatever she must unmake in herself.

I clench my fists. “She is not Adar.”

“No,” Balin agrees gently. “But elves do not come back unchanged from his hand. If she lives, she may not remember you. Or her realm. Or herself.”

The words cut deeper than a blade.

“She would remember,” I say, more to myself than either of them. “The River remembers its Mountain.”

Balin’s expression falters — pity, fear, wisdom all battling in his eyes.

“Thorin… you must approach with caution. If Sauron let her slip free — if this sighting is true — it is not by accident. There is no mercy in that creature. No kindness in what he spares.”

I swallow hard.

Two years without her voice. Two years without her river. Two years crafting a kingdom with half my soul missing.

Dwalin steps closer, jaw set. “If she’s out there, we’ll find her. If she’s not whole…” He grimaces. “We’ll face that when we must.”

I stare past them both, toward the great doors of the hall.

A sighting.

Not certainty. Not salvation. But a thread — thin as spider-silk — pulling me toward her.

Stone shifts beneath my feet. For the first time in two years, I feel something other than grief.

“She is alive,” I whisper.

Neither dwarf contradicts me.

And the Mountain… the Mountain finally breathes again.

"Ready my ram. Whatever waits beyond those gates—broken, whole, or lost to shadow—I will bring my Queen.. my Wife home to the Mountain once more."