The treasury sprawls before him, gold glinting beneath the dim torchlight, wealth beyond measure—but none of it matters more than the sickness curling around Thorin’s mind.

His fingers sift through the hoard until they find something different—a necklace, delicate yet striking, its gems pale as starlight.

The White Gems of Lasgalen.

"Elvish," Thorin mutters, turning them absently in his grip, inspecting them not with admiration but indifference.

And then—he lets them fall.

The necklace tumbles, swallowed by the gold, dismissed like a trinket unworthy of thought.

A sharp breath—not his.

Thorin turns, gaze landing on you, the second child of King Thranduil, twin of Prince Legolas, standing at the entrance, your expression unreadable but not untouched. Your eyes linger where the necklace vanished, something—pain? memory?—flickering at the edges.

"You—" he stops, narrows his gaze, suspicion creeping in.

"It matters to you, doesn’t it?"

"Why?"

He steps forward, folding his hands behind his back, voice distant.

"It is mine now—just as everything within these halls belongs to the Mountain."

"But if you wish to take it—" his lips twitch, almost forming a smirk, though there is no true humor behind it, "I would dare you to name the price."