Bard walked through the narrow aisles of the old shop, moving aside dusty cloth and old relics. The place was filled with forgotten things—broken tools, faded banners, and pieces of history from earlier days.
He was searching for something.
The name had been bothering him.
Thorin.
He knew he had seen it somewhere before.
After a moment he found what he was looking for—a worn tapestry folded among other old cloth. Bard pulled it out and shook the dust from it.
The fabric unfolded, showing the line of the Kings of the Dwarves of the Lonely Mountain beneath the banner of Erebor.
Bard's eyes moved across the figures until they stopped.
The face was unmistakable.]
Thorin.
Bard lowered the tapestry slowly.
The dwarf in his house wasn't just a traveler.
He was the heir to the Lonely Mountain.
Bard lowered the tapestry slowly, his mind racing.
Meanwhile in Lake-town, the sight of the Dwarves had already begun to spread through the streets.
People whispered among themselves as they passed along the wooden walkways.
"Why are there Dwarves in the town?" one man asked, leaning over the railing to watch them pass earlier that evening.
"Dwarves?" another replied. "I haven't seen their kind here in years."
An old woman nearby narrowed her eyes, watching the direction Bard had taken them.
"Seeing them reminds me of something," she murmured.
A few others turned toward her.
"What?"
"The old prophecy," she said slowly.
Some of the townsfolk exchanged looks. One man gave a short laugh.
"You still believe that?"
But the woman continued anyway, her voice low as she recited the old words many in Lake-town had grown up hearing.
"The Lord of Silver Fountains, the King of Carven Stone…" she said.
A fisherman nearby finished the line quietly.
"The King beneath the Mountain shall come into his own."
Another voice joined in.
"And the bells shall ring in gladness at the Mountain King's return."
For a moment the small group fell silent.
One younger man shook his head. "That's just an old story."
But another looked toward the distant mountain barely visible through the mist.
"Do you think," the man asked quietly, "that prophecy might actually come true?"
Bard happened to be passing along the walkway when he heard those words. He slowed his steps without meaning to, the old lines echoing in his mind.
The townsfolk only remembered the hopeful part of the prophecy. The part about the Mountain King returning and the bells of the town ringing in celebration.
But Bard knew there was another part.
A darker one that people preferred to forget.
All shall fail in sadness… and the lake will shine and burn.
His gaze drifted toward the distant shadow of the Lonely Mountain, barely visible through the grey mist beyond the water. Beneath that mountain slept Smaug, the fire-drake who had destroyed Dale and driven the Dwarves from their home.
If the Dwarves truly intended to return there, if they tried to reclaim that mountain, then they would awaken the dragon.
And if Smaug rose again, Lake-town would stand directly in the path of his wrath.
***
When Bard returned home, the house was quiet.
Too quiet.
He stepped inside and looked around, already sensing something was wrong.
"Bain?" he called.
His son appeared from the other room, looking uneasy.
"I tried to stop them," Bain said quickly. "But they left."
Bard closed his eyes for a moment. He already knew who "they" meant.
Outside, night had fallen over Lake-town. Lanterns lit the wooden walkways while the water beneath reflected their pale glow.
Across the town, the Dwarves' plan had not gone as intended.
They had tried to sneak into the Master's armory to take proper weapons. Instead, they were caught before they could leave.
Now they stood surrounded by guards in the town square, weapons pointed at them from every side. Curious townsfolk had begun gathering around the scene, whispering and pointing at the strangers who had caused the commotion.
At the front stood Alfrid.
His thin face twisted with satisfaction as he pointed accusingly at the Dwarves.
"Daring to steal from the Master's armory," he said loudly so the crowd could hear. "How bold of you, Dwarves."
The murmurs in the crowd grew louder as more people pushed closer to watch.
"Careful with your tongue, human," Dwalin said, stepping forward and pointing toward Thorin. "You stand before the Dwarves of Erebor… and the heir to the Lonely Mountain."
The crowd stirred.
"Erebor?"
"The Lonely Mountain?"
People looked at one another, whispers spreading quickly through the square.
Alfrid narrowed his eyes but said nothing.
Thorin stepped forward, calm despite the guards surrounding them. He looked over the people of Lake-town before speaking.
"I am Thorin, son of Thráin, son of Thrór, King under the Mountain," he declared.
The square went quiet.
"I return to the Mountain to reclaim what is ours."
He gestured toward the distant north where the shadow of the Lonely Mountain lay beyond the waters.
"For years the people of this town have lived in the shadow of that mountain… waiting."
Thorin's voice carried across the crowd.
"The prophecy speaks of the return of the King beneath the Mountain."
More whispers spread among the townsfolk.
"And when that day comes," Thorin continued, "the wealth of Erebor will flow once more. Not only to the Dwarves, but to the men of Lake-town who stood with us."
The crowd shifted. Curiosity and hope began replacing suspicion.
"The rivers will run with gold," Thorin said. "And the prosperity of those days will return."
Several townspeople exchanged excited looks. The idea of Erebor's treasure returning was impossible to ignore.
*****
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