"May I know what all that was about?!" Bard exploded, bursting into the hall with his chest heaving.
He had just barely escaped the tide of people trying to touch him and cheer for him. He had spent the last hour trying to explain that he had not orchestrated any coup d'état, but his words had been drowned out by the popular fervor.
"Congratulations, Bard. You are now the new leader of Lake-town," Miquella announced, accompanying his words with a few slow, ceremonial claps.
"Stop playing games with me," Bard growled, standing before him and imposing his presence. "I didn't ask for this. I didn't call you, nor did I want any of this to happen. I only agreed to carry you in my boat, and I'm already regretting every coin I accepted. I don't care about your wars or your treasures; I only want peace for my family."
Miquella observed him with a mixture of feigned pity and fascination.
"But you would be a great leader, Bard. Infinitely better than the lump of flesh that occupied this seat." Miquella let out a brief laugh and then raised his voice toward the dwarves crossing the threshold with the chest of coins. "Hey, Nori, Bifur! Take that to the main chamber. Leave a portion as a reserve for the public treasury and calculate the rest. You will go with Bard to distribute it among the citizens. Make sure every man and woman receives at least a coin or two; let everyone feel the weight of their new freedom in the palm of their hand."
The dwarves looked at Thorin. The King Under the Mountain said nothing, but his silence was a tacit nod.
"I'm not going to participate in that circus," Bard insisted, clenching his teeth.
"Oh, no?" Miquella tilted his head, feigning deep disappointment. "Do you not want to return to the people what that tyrant stole from them? Are you going to turn your back on them now that they truly need you?"
"I didn't say that!" Bard reacted, falling headlong into the moral trap. "That money belongs to the people, but I am no one to hand it out. I am not their leader, nor their treasurer... I am nothing more than a bargeman."
"And who will do it then?" Miquella asked with crushing logic. "The dwarves? They are greedy by nature, Bard; if I leave them alone, who knows how many coins would end up in their own pouches."
Thorin shot a murderous look at the "slight" toward his race, but he remained on the sidelines. He had decided to let the Elden weave his web without interfering.
"Neither the dwarves nor we can do it," Miquella continued, placing a hand on his chest with charismatic drama. "Esgaroth is not our home. We have no right to decide your fate... but you do."
"Then let someone else do it!" Bard rejected.
"Someone else? Who? Alfrid, perhaps?" Miquella pointed to the assistant, who was entering at that moment with a silver tray laden with wine and food. "Do you want half the gold to evaporate before it even leaves that door?"
Alfrid, hearing his name, puffed out his chest with comical indignation.
"I would never touch a single measly coin, my lord! I would never commit such an undignified act that would stain my—"
"Quiet, Alfrid," Miquella cut him off without even looking at him.
"Yes, my lord," Alfrid replied instantly, shrinking back like a beaten dog. His servility was absolute; the image of the Master's head rolling on the floor was still too fresh in his memory to risk a retort.
Miquella took a cluster of grapes from the tray and fixed his golden eyes on Bard once more.
"Who can we trust, Bard? How do we know we won't choose a second Alfrid? Someone who might not be as vile, but who won't hesitate to keep a few coins that could save a family from the cold. Are you willing to let your neighbors suffer that theft just because of your pride in being 'no one'? What would you think if that family in need were yours? Wouldn't you want someone trustworthy to handle it?"
"There are good people in Esgaroth who wouldn't steal," Bard stated, though his voice no longer sounded so certain. The weight of responsibility was beginning to suffocate him.
"Suppose those honest people exist, Bard. But I don't know them; I only know you," Miquella said, sighing with feigned resignation. "Besides, even if we found someone, do you think the rest of the people would trust them? Imagine it: an ordinary neighbor in charge of distributing everyone's fortune. Who would he be to claim such a right? They would doubt his hand, question every coin. Even if he were the most virtuous man, a single rumor, a single envious soul, would be enough for discontent to spread like wildfire."
Miquella lowered his voice until it became a whisper.
"That person of trust would soon be viewed with suspicion. And when the gold runs out—because it always runs out—who will they blame? They will say he took a share, that he hid jewels under his bed. The people will rise up in arms over an imaginary theft, and that poor citizen will be unjustly condemned by an angry mob. In any case, the end is the same: chaos, riots, and blood spilled on the docks," he concluded with feigned sadness. "Are you willing to let that happen? Can you not spare just a bit of your time to ensure every family receives what belongs to them?"
Miquella's words drummed against Bard's mind, conjuring images of fires and lynchings that prevented him from thinking clearly. He wanted to shout that it wouldn't happen, but the seed of doubt had already germinated.
"Come, Bard. Perform this last service. It is an act of pure kindness. Your family will receive its share, and your children will learn a valuable lesson: that he who works with honesty receives his just reward at the end of the day."
A dense silence followed. Bard kept his brow furrowed, clenching his fists until his knuckles cracked. In the end, the response came from his lips like a half-surrender.
"I will only... help them distribute the money. Nothing more," Bard stated with determination. "And as soon as we finish, I want you to leave this place."
"Oh? Does that mean you are going to assume the position of ruler?" Miquella asked, arching an eyebrow with playful curiosity.
"No! I didn't say that," Bard denied quickly.
"Then how do you plan to kick us out?" Miquella spread his hands and shook his head, as if speaking to a child. "If you were the leader of the city, you would have the authority to do so. But now you are just a bargeman. What right would you have to expel those who liberated this people from their dictator?"
"Exactly!" Alfrid jumped in, unable to contain his servility and his envy at Bard's luck. "How do you even dare to suggest such infamy against the great Lord Miquella?!"
"Quiet, Alfrid," Miquella repeated, without changing his tone.
"Yes, my lord..." Alfrid bowed his head instantly, returning to his role as an obedient dog.
Bard scanned the room, feeling trapped in a nightmare. The child observing him with eyes of gold; the dwarf snorting with indifference; the lackey begging for attention... None of it made sense.
"Why?" Bard asked, his voice full of confusion. "Why are you so insistent on me taking command?"
"Because it is best for everyone." Miquella let out a long sigh, as if carrying the weight of the world on his shoulders. "Stop being difficult, Bard. Move in here, assume the obligations this palace demands, and start leading these people as they deserve."
Miquella reached for the tray Alfrid was holding and took a piece of bread, examining it before taking a bite.
"By the way, you should bring your children as well. This place is safer than the docks. Besides..." he added with a slight, enigmatic smile, "I hope to taste Sigrid's cooking again soon."
"Stay away from my children," Bard threatened, his voice heavy with instinctive distrust. He didn't need to be a sage to know that any link with a figure as enigmatic and manipulative as Miquella was dangerous.
"But I like them..." Miquella replied with a plaintive note. "Besides, I could protect them. For example... from the orcs that are entering Esgaroth at this very moment."
The demigod dropped the phrase with icy indifference, like someone commenting on the weather.
"What?!" Bard and Thorin exclaimed in unison, leaping to their feet.
"Trina just notified me," Miquella continued, pointing vaguely toward one of the windows. "It's a small scouting party, but lethal if they move through the shadows. They will probably reach your house, Bard, if no one stops them. Perhaps a few will die... or perhaps none, if one acts with the necessary speed."
"We must organize the guard!" Bard shouted, while Thorin reached for his sword, ready to call his dwarves.
"Then do it, Bard. Hurry before someone dies," Miquella said, leaning back in his seat as if wishing them luck in someone else's task. "We have pending business and cannot help you eliminate them."
Bard felt bile bittering his throat. He knew an obligation was being forced upon him, that Miquella was sending him to "play his part," but he couldn't take the risk. Even if it were a lie, he couldn't allow the stench of orcs to near his children. He ran toward the door, where Leda was already waiting, holding a bow and a quiver of arrows. It was another sign that everything was orchestrated, but Bard didn't stop to think; he snatched the weapons and burst outside, shouting orders to the guards.
Thorin moved to follow him, but Ansbach's hand stood in his way, firm as a rock.
"Easy, Thorin," Miquella said, rising elegantly. "Everything is under control. But if you want to see the show, you can come with us."
...
On the outskirts of town, two orcs slipped through the alleys. Their movements were erratic, almost clumsy for scouts, but aggressive enough to sow panic. If anyone had looked closely at their faces, they would have seen empty expressions and a thin purple mist veiling their pupils. They weren't soldiers; they were puppets.
Screams soon erupted. The orcs attacked with ferocity, destroying market stalls and kicking down doors, but their blows seemed designed to scare more than to kill. Just as one of them raised his curved blade over a terrified woman, an arrow pierced his skull.
Bard appeared on one of the wooden bridges, already nocking a second arrow. Behind him, a column of soldiers charged the second orc, cutting him down in seconds. The bargeman let out a sigh of relief, wiping sweat from his forehead, but the silence was broken by a rhythmic sound: applause.
Miquella was standing on a nearby roof, clapping with a radiant smile.
"Look, people of Esgaroth! Bard has saved the town again, stopping the orc invasion!" he shouted, inciting the crowd that was beginning to surround them.
The people, oscillating between terror and the euphoria induced by the demigod's voice, broke into cheers.
"How lucky you are to have a leader like him," Miquella continued, walking along the edge of the roof with supernatural agility. "But I must warn you: the arrival of these orcs is no surprise. It is the reason for our presence here! We have come to kill the dragon, not just for the mountain, but because the orcs plan to ally with Smaug. If that union is sealed, the North will burn to its foundations!"
Miquella raised his voice, infusing it with a power that made the air vibrate.
"That is why we will go to the Mountain! To prevent Smaug's flames from burning your homes! The dragon will wake, yes, but we will be there to stop him! Him and the armies that follow him! As long as we remain here, you will be safe!"
Miquella's final shout, sharp but laden with authority, unleashed collective madness. Bard, standing beside the orc corpses, lowered his bow in total resignation. It no longer mattered what was truth and what was a lie; Miquella had won. Now it would be impossible to stop the march to the Mountain.