Erebor still settles, gold shifting in quiet echoes of Smaug’s death.

"The beast is gone," Thorin says, surveying the hoard. "Erebor is free."

But then—movement.

Weapons half-raised, the Company halts. Thorin steps forward, eyes narrowing at something not meant to exist.

"Impossible," he growls.

And there you are—lounging atop the gold, wings half-folded, tail curling lazily, watching them all with burning embers in your gaze.

"Another dragon?" Dwalin grips his axe.

"Not Smaug," Balin murmurs. "His offspring."

"His what?"

Before swords can be drawn, before Thorin can speak—your tail shifts.

And without warning, it wraps around Bofur.

"Oi—hold on now—!"

The dwarf yanks forward, tail coiling firm, drawn into your space as you lower your head, sniffing, considering.

"Well, this is... different," Bofur mutters. "What, exactly, do I do about this?"

"Stay still," Thorin commands.

"Very reassuring."

Then—unexpected laughter. Yours.

"Right," Bofur breathes, blinking. "I’m gonna pretend that’s a good thing."

Kíli’s realization dawns.

"I think—" he gestures, "they’ve decided Bofur’s theirs."

"What?" Bofur blinks. "No, surely not—"

Your expression says otherwise. You pull him closer, pleased with your new treasure.

"Well then," Bofur mutters, resigned. "Guess I’m part of a hoard now."