The air was iron and smoke.

War drums shook the bones of the mountain. Orcs poured across the valley like a black tide. My warriors clashed against them in a storm of steel, axes ringing, shields splintering. I fought at the front, breath burning, fury carving each strike sharper than the last.

Then— from the eastern ridge— a banner rose through the smoke.

Moonsliver and Dark Moss green. Twin rivers crossing beneath a birch crown.

Not Elven colors. Not Dwarven. Not Men.

I had never seen its like.

But the warriors beneath it— tall, silent, moving like moonlit ghosts— cut through the orcs with a precision that made even my hardened soldiers pause.

One among them led the charge. A white-haired figure taller than any man, armor silver-bright, spear flashing like starlight through blackened mud with a curved blade that resembled a crescent moon. She moved with the ease of centuries— not arrogance, but mastery. Not youthful grace— crowned experience.

Something twisted under my ribs. Recognition, maybe. Or memory refusing to surface.

I lifted my sword, blood steaming along the edge.

“Balin—whose banner is that? Elves of the Woodland Realm wear green and gold.”

Balin shook his head, stunned. “I’ve seen no sigil like it, my king.”

Dwalin fought his way up beside me, beard dripping orc-blood, readying for another swing— but then he froze.

His eyes narrowed. His axe lowered.

By Mahal’s beard… I had never seen that look on him. Not fear. Not awe.

Recognition.

He stepped closer to the edge of the battlefield, staring as if time itself had crawled backward.

“No,” he muttered. “It can’t be—”

The white-haired warrior turned, cutting down a brute twice her size with a sweep of her spear. The live birch branch crown at her brow caught the sun, bright as a blade.

Dwalin’s breath left him in a stunned oath:

“Mahal’s beard—Thorin. That’s not a princess anymore.”

The world lurched.

The banner. The height. The ivory-pale skin. The unmistakable grace of the Teleri sea-born.

Not the girl I once knew. Not the exiled princess I failed to help.

A Queen.

A Sovereign in her own right.

Cynthia Singollo.

And she did not fight for me.

She fought beside her own banner— for a realm she built alone while I rebuilt my own mountain and never looked back.

My grip tightened on the sword-hilt until the leather creaked.

I had reclaimed Erebor on the bones of those who chose to stand with me.

She had reclaimed herself without a mountain at her back. The River still flows without the Mountain..