The table is crowded.

That is the first thing I notice—well, the second, if one counts the smell. Honey and smoke and pine resin cling to the air, thick enough that it almost feels tangible. We are seated around the long wooden table, dwarves shoulder to shoulder, weapons leaned close at hand. Thorin sits rigid, Balin observant, the others murmuring low, all of them trying—and failing—not to stare at the house itself.

Beorn moves among us with heavy steps, pouring drinks from a clay jug into thick cups. Each thud of liquid makes me flinch just a little. He sets a cup in front of me last. I thank him, far too politely. He grunts.

I wrap both hands around the cup, more for something to do than because I want the drink. My feet—respectable, sturdy hobbit feet—are planted firmly beneath the bench. It feels important somehow. Grounding.

When Beorn speaks of Azog, the air changes—sharpens. The name lands like a blade laid flat on the table, not yet drawn, but heavy with intent.

“Skin-Changers.. there used to be many,” he says, pouring again. “Now there are only two.”

Thorin’s brow furrows. Someone shifts on the bench. I clear my throat before I can stop myself.

“Two?”

Beorn nods, entirely unbothered. “Me and my daughter.”

That does not help. That helps very little.

I hesitate, then ask—because apparently I have learned nothing—“Oh. Is she… a bear too?”

A low chuckle rolls out of him, deep and unmistakably amused.

“Oh no,” he says. “She is a Dire Wolf.”

I open my mouth to ask several very sensible questions—size, temperament, likelihood of being eaten—when the door opens behind him.

The room stills.

She steps inside without a sound.

Conversation dies as though someone has pinched a flame between their fingers. Even the dwarves go quiet, eyes lifting one by one. I turn with the rest of them—and promptly forget every question I have ever intended to ask.

She is tall. Taller than I expect. White hair falls loose down her back and over her shoulders, pale as winter sunlight, catching the fireglow softly. Her skin is very light against the darker furs at her shoulders, and her eyes—silver, unmistakably silver—take in the room with calm, measuring ease.

She does not bare her teeth. She does not loom. She simply is.

Something about her presence makes the cabin feel smaller, as though the walls themselves have leaned in to listen.

Beorn turns toward her. “You’re back early from your hunt,” he says, not unkindly.

She inclines her head in response. That is all.

I realize, distantly, that I am staring.

I look away at once—mortified—but my heart has already begun to race, loud enough that I am certain it must be audible. This is ridiculous. Entirely ridiculous. I have faced trolls and goblins and lived. I am not meant to be undone by someone simply walking through a doorway.

And yet.

She glances toward the table.

Her gaze passes over the dwarves without pause—and then lands on me.

I freeze.

Not from fear, exactly. From the sudden, inexplicable certainty that I am being noticed. Not judged. Not threatened. Simply seen.

I swallow and stand, nearly knocking my cup over in the process. I catch it at the last second and wish fervently for the floor to swallow me whole.

“H—hello,” I say, managing a bow that is far too quick. “Bilbo Baggins. Of the Shire.”

She studies me in silence.

I am acutely aware of every difference between us—my size, my soft clothes, my very ordinary life. She looks like someone born of forest and frost and long nights beneath the moon. I look like someone who packed extra handkerchiefs for this journey and still worries he has forgotten something important.

It occurs to me then, with quiet, terrifying clarity, that I am in trouble.

Not the sort involving claws or teeth.

The worse sort.

The sort where one look has knocked the breath from my lungs, and I suspect—most inconveniently—that I would follow this woman into places I have no business going, simply to see where she walks.

I lower my eyes, cheeks warm, hoping desperately that she does not notice how thoroughly she has unmade me.