Upon the ramparts of Erebor, Thorin Oakenshield's eyes blazed with fury as he shouted down at his nephew.
"Traitor! Would you see our clan's greatest treasure fall into the hands of outsiders?!"
Kaen sighed inwardly.
He knew then that Thorin had been fully ensnared. His reason clouded, his heart twisted—the shadow of the dragon still coiled around his soul.
"My friend," Kaen called up to him, voice calm, "the beast you now wrestle lies not in gold nor stone—but within your own heart."
"You are no longer yourself, Thorin. The curse clouds your judgnt, and no counsel can reach your ears."
"I know you've already sent word to your cousin—Dáin Ironfoot, King under the Iron Hills—calling for his army to march to your aid."
"I will go to et him. And Kíli will give him the Arkenstone—for safekeeping. I trust Dáin's judgnt more than the dragon-sick man you have beco."
"We will supply Erebor with water and food. But until the shadow departs from your soul, the gate shall remain sealed—including the hidden path in the grey rock wall."
With those words, Kaen turned away and spoke to Thranduil.
"Your Grace, let the host make camp here. I will take Kíli to et his other uncle—Dáin Ironfoot."
Thranduil nodded with a faint smile. "Go, Kaen. I shall see things held in order here."
Bard too stepped forward. "Your Majesty, I'll hold Dale until your return."
Thus, the three kings each took up their duties.
Thranduil led the 2,500-strong elven host to encamp one hundred paces from Erebor's gate.
Bard and Saruman returned to Dale.
Kaen rode east, with Kíli, Bilbo, Gandalf, and eighty of his royal guards at his side.
They aid for the southeast ridge of the mountain, where the road from the Iron Hills cut through the wilds—a path the Dwarves would surely take.
….
Back at the gate of Erebor, a heavy silence had fallen.
The dwarves stood upon the wall, grim and quiet.
All eyes were on Thorin.
It was Fíli, Thorin's other nephew, who broke the silence.
"Uncle… why?" he asked, voice uncertain. "Why have we shut out King Kaen? He helped us all this way."
Thorin's face darkened. "Are you questioning ?"
Balin stepped forward, placing himself between the two.
"You are our king, Thorin," he said gently. "The one who led us ho after a hundred years. We do not deny your right to rule."
"But that does not an we believe this decision is right."
"You've changed, Thorin. Overnight. You are not the sa."
Even Dwalin spoke—a rare thing for the stoic warrior.
"You were our shield," he said, voice gruff. "You stood before Smaug and led us through fire. But now… your words feel wrong. As if spoken by another."
Thorin looked upon them—his kin, his brothers-in-arms. Brave souls who had crossed mountain and fla beside him.
They had faced the death of dragons, survived the wrath of Orcs, beco heroes.
And now—none would et his eye.
A flicker of doubt stirred in his chest. Am I wrong?
But just as swiftly, the shadow surged back. The gold. The treasure. The Arkenstone.
He must protect it. At all costs.
"I have no choice," he murmured to himself, turning away.
"If protecting Erebor's wealth demands it… then anything is justified."
…..
The Lonely Mountain.
A towering peak of 3,500 ters, its main spine split into six mighty ridges—like arms stretched out to embrace the world.
Between its southwestern and southeastern ridges lay the gate of Erebor and the ruins of Dale.
Kaen and his companions followed the southeastern road, awaiting the arrival of Dáin.
They did not wait long.
From afar, a host of Dwarves thundered toward the mountain.
Three thousand strong.
All clad in heavy armor. Their weapons glead. Chariots drawn by mountain goats rumbled forward. Goat-mounted cavalry followed behind, their axes raised in silent fury. Behind them ca siege weapons, heavy crossbows, and engines of war.
Kaen narrowed his eyes.
"A formidable force indeed."
The Iron Hills had ever been one of Durin's greatest realms. After centuries of peace and growth—even with the slow birth rate of their race—their numbers continued to increase.
Their army rivaled the Woodland Realm in strength—and their war machines could tear through even elven lines.
For if the dwarves lacked numbers, they compensated in steel and stone. No race built for war as they did.
Dáin had brought the best of them.
When word reached him that Smaug was slain and Erebor reclaid, he did not hesitate.
His kin needed him—and he ca in force.
…..
"Forward! Forward, Sons of Durin!"
A deep, thunderous voice bood across the field.
Atop a massive armored boar rode a dwarf of golden beard and thunderous spirit.
Dáin Ironfoot.
He bellowed commands, urging his army forward.
His heart burned with pride. His cousin Thorin had reclaid Erebor. Their line would rise again.
Two kingdoms of Durin, united once more—stronger than ever.
They would drive back the darkness. Rebuild the glory of their ancestors.
"Forward!" Dáin shouted again, a grin splitting his face.
The dwarven army moved like a tide of iron, surging across the northern plain.
And then—
They stopped.
A wall of tall warriors, eighty in number, stood across the path—golden-armored, unmoving.
Dáin frowned.
He rode forward on his war-boar.
"Oi!" he roared. "Shiny lads! If you don't clear the road, I'll have my chariots roll right over you!"
In truth, Dáin ant no harm. He was generous, just, and wise—but also hot-tempered, impatient, and loud.
Kaen stepped forward.
With him ca Kíli.
"King of the Iron Hills," Kaen said, voice clear and respectful, "I am Kaen Eowenríel. Perhaps my na ans little to you. That matters not. What matters is the one I bring to you."
He gestured to Kíli.
"He is Kíli, nephew of Thorin Oakenshield. Son of Dís, your cousin."
Dáin blinked.
He steered his mount closer, eyes narrowing as he studied the young dwarf.
"Dís's son?" he asked, incredulous.
Kíli nodded.
He looked nervous—and who wouldn't be? This was the first ti he stood before a dwarven king.
And Dáin was no ordinary king.
Even in stillness, his presence crackled with strength—like a forge ready to ignite.
Kíli swallowed. But before he could speak, Dáin's aura softened.
The King lowered his voice.
"Do not be afraid, lad. If you're truly Thorin's nephew… then you're blood of my blood."
"But before I call you nephew—there are questions I must ask."
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