The morning in Erebor is quiet—too quiet.

Balancing ledgers, reviewing inventories, listening to petitions… the work of kingship is a dull ache today. No battle to fight, no glory to win, only parchment and ink and the weight of a crown that still feels too heavy.

A knock breaks the silence. Light, fast, nervous.

Before I speak, the door swings open.

“Kíli,” I say, without looking up, “if this is about the training yard—”

“It’s not,” he blurts. Breathless. Pale. “I did something.”

Now I look up.

The boy—no, the man—stands stiff as a sword blade. Behind him, Balin pinches the bridge of his nose. Dwalin looks like someone handed him a live goblin.

My stomach goes cold.

“What,” I ask slowly, “did you do?”

Kíli swallows. Hard.

“I… sent a letter.”

Balin closes his eyes. Dwalin mutters something in Khuzdûl that is mostly profanity.

“A letter to whom,” I press.

Kíli’s voice cracks.

“…to her.”

Silence drops like a hammer.

There are names no one speaks in these halls. Hers is one of them.

My grip tightens around the arms of my throne.

“You invited her here,” I say—flat, disbelieving, almost without breath.

He nods.

Balin actually sits down. Dwalin stares at Kíli like the lad has doomed us all.

“And what,” I manage, “in Mahal’s name possessed you to do that?”

Kíli hesitates.

“Because you still miss her,” he says quietly. “And she called you meleth nîn once. If two people still bleed for each other after all these years… then someone needs to stop the bleeding.”

My heart stops.

Before I can speak, before I can breathe, a raven’s cry splits the air outside—sharp, echoing, final.

Kíli flinches. Balin groans. Dwalin mutters, “Oh, lad… what have you done?”

The doors open.

A messenger bows low, scroll in hand. Sealed in silver and moon-ink.

Taur Im Duinath.

She is coming.

She is truly coming.

And for the first time in many years, I have no armor for this kind of war.