We had left the comfort of Rivendell behind, yet its warmth lingered like an ember tucked in the breast pocket of my coat—a small, steady glow that staved off the creeping chill of the mountains. The path we took wound its way along steep ridges and narrow ledges, barely wide enough at times for two people to walk side by side. Not bringing along ponies was clearly the right choice—this trail was no place for hooves.
Bilbo walked beside me, his gait sure despite the rocky terrain, his eyes wide with wonder as he took in the great sweeping vistas that opened up around every bend. The Wild stretched out endlessly before us, raw and untamed, with hills like green-knuckled fists rising from the earth and deep forests spilling over the land like ink on parchment. I pulled out my camera now and then, capturing the way sunlight glinted off distant rivers or how the clouds painted the mountains with fleeting shadows.
Around midday, we found a little plateau to rest. The view was breathtaking—blue sky above, grey stone beneath, and the world unfurled before us like an ancient map. We settled down for lunch. Ori passed around steaming dumplings, and Bofur ladled out chicken fried rice from one of my stasis-enabled containers. Fili and Kili kept going for more pieces of Kung pao chicken.
That's when Dwalin, who had been quietly chewing on a particularly large drumstick, unstrapped the gravity hammer from his back and placed it on the ground beside him with a faint thud that made the rocks tremble ever so slightly.
He looked over at me with that keen, direct gaze of his. "Tell me something, lad," he said, running a hand over the hammer's gleaming runes. "Do all the students at your school learn how to make weapons like these?"
I smiled and shook my head. "Not even close. In fact, not a single one of them knows how to craft enchanted weapons or armour. Not properly, anyway."
That got everyone's attention. Even Thorin turned from where he had been gazing out at the distant peaks. Dori frowned, balancing his plate on his knee. "But surely… if you attend a school of magic, shouldn't that be something they teach?"
I laughed softly. "One would think so. But Hogwarts is… traditional. Students start at eleven, and for the first two years, they study the core subjects—Charms, Transfiguration, Potions, and so on. Enchantment falls under the discipline of Ancient Runes, which is an elective subject students can choose only from their third year onward."
Balin, ever curious, leaned forward. "And then they learn to craft magical objects?"
"Not quite," I said. "They learn the basics. How to identify individual Runes. The meanings behind them, their symbolic alignments. They draw them with non-reactive ink on parchment. No magic involved—just theory and repetition. That goes on for three full years. It's only in the last two years that students are allowed to start carving Runes into stone or metal, and even then, under close supervision. And most of what they produce wouldn't pass muster as a paperweight in a proper workshop."
"Why such caution?" Óin asked, squinting thoughtfully.
"Because incorrectly carved and powered Runes tend to explode," I replied, deadpan. "The sort of explosion that removes fingers. Or faces. Or chunks of stone wall."
There was a ripple of winces around the circle.
"Hogwarts—and most magical schools, really—focus on teaching just enough to keep young witches and wizards from blowing themselves up or hexing their classmates into newts. If someone wants to become a proper Enchanter, they have to seek out a master and apprentice under them for a few years."
Dori tilted his head, curious. "Then how did you learn to make something like that?" He pointed at Dwalin's hammer. "And the rest of our weapons and armour. They've got Runes on them too, don't they?"
I grinned. "I've always been a bit of an outlier. Started reading Magical theory when I was six. Got bored, you see. Mum and dad are both magicals, so we had plenty of books in our home."
Fili nearly choked on his rice. "You read books? At six? On purpose?"
Kili shook his head with a mock look of horror. "Without anyone forcing you?"
I chuckled. "I know. Truly scandalous behaviour."
"I can't imagine opening a book by myself unless it had pictures in it," Fili muttered, which earned him a playful nudge from Balin.
"Perhaps. But I loved it," I continued. "Both the logic and the incongruity of magic, the subtle beauty of a perfectly brewed potion, the artistry behind Runecraft—it clicked for me. By the time I got my Hogwarts letter, I'd already made my first artifact."
I tapped the bridge of my spectacles. "These. Enhanced vision, aura detection, night vision, basic translation matrix. Saved me a hundred headaches."
Balin's expression turned wistful. "Our own Runesmiths would have treasured a student like you. Diligent, curious, and eager to learn."
I looked over at him. "Are there many Runesmiths amongst dwarves?"
A silence settled briefly over the company, and it was Thorin who answered, his voice quiet but laden with weight. "Once, there were many. Our halls rang with the sound of hammer and chisel, and our forges burned bright with purpose. But after the fall of Khazad-dûm… and Erebor… only a few remain. True Enchanters among our people are a dying breed."
I glanced around. The others had fallen into silence as well, their eyes distant, expressions sombre. Even Bofur had stopped chewing.
I cleared my throat. "Well… I wouldn't mind teaching you what I know. I've got a few books on Runecraft and Enchantment with me. I can leave them with you once we part ways. Or better yet, I could show you the basics myself."
There was a stunned pause.
"You'd do that?" Balin asked, his voice reverent. "Truly?"
"Of course," I said, surprised by the gravity of their response. "What's a little favour among friends?"
Gandalf gave me a warm, knowing smile beneath his wide-brimmed hat.
But Thorin looked at me intently, his eyes sharp and solemn. "It is far more than a little favour. Much has been lost to time and tragedy. If you are willing to teach us, even a fraction of your craft, then when we reclaim Erebor, you shall have your pick of the treasures within."
I shook my head gently, placing a hand over my heart. "I appreciate the sentiment, truly. But I believe knowledge should be shared, not hoarded. Especially if it helps preserve something beautiful, something sacred. If these books can be of use to you… they're yours."
There was a moment—just a moment—when I felt the weight of many gazes settle on me. Grateful. Hopeful. Honoured.
Then Bombur let out a contented sigh and patted his belly. "Well, that was a fine lunch."
And just like that, the moment passed, but the warmth remained.
We packed up, slung our packs over shoulders, and pressed on into the mountain path once more, hearts a little lighter despite the thinning air.
---
We made camp that evening beneath a weather-worn overhang of dark stone, the kind that looked like it had once been part of something greater—perhaps a fortress wall long lost to time, or just the stubborn spine of the mountains themselves. Overhead, the stars glittered in a velvet sky, scattered thick like spilled salt across black silk. The air was crisp, the kind that hinted at frost once the fire died, and the scent of pine and cold granite wrapped around us like a cloak.
As the plates were cleared and pipe smoke began curling lazily into the air, the dwarves began to gather near me with a kind of shy expectancy. I'd seen the look before—eager but uncertain, as if they were afraid they'd fumble something important. Each of them had a notebook in hand—smooth leather covers, cream parchment, pens charmed to write smoothly even in the cold. Gifts, all of them. Tools for minds as keen as their axes.
I opened my own copy of Foundations of Enchantment and Applied Runecraft: Volume I and set it beside me. Its pages were thumbed and scribbled with my own notes from years ago. A good book for beginners.
"Right," I said, rubbing my hands together for warmth and clarity both. "Let's begin with the foundation—something called sympatheticresonance. At its heart, it's the idea that objects can be linked through intent and form. That by shaping energy a certain way, you awaken something in the material—a memory, a purpose."
Balin, who'd been scribbling quietly already, looked up. His eyes had that ancient gleam to them, the kind that came from having forgotten things others had never learned. "Aye," he murmured, "our old smiths called it heart-binding. Said that stone and steel remember—if you know their name."
I nodded, delighted. "Exactly. And in enchantment, that 'name'—or its shape, rather—is often a rune. A sigil that carries meaning, intent, memory. It's not just a symbol. It's language. Power shaped into script."
I drew a few Runes in the dirt with my wand tip—simple ones at first. The glyph for durability, a curling loop like a twisted tree root. Then the symbol for weightlessness, jagged and lean like mountain peaks. As I drew, the lines pulsed faintly with light, just enough to glow.
"These are the building blocks," I explained. "What matters isn't just what they mean, but how you place them. Alignment. Sequence. Structure. Like poetry or architecture—or a battle formation."
The dwarves leaned in. Some copied diligently. Others just stared.
Ori, sweet Ori, had a kind of wide-eyed wonder about him. He squinted down at his page and began to trace the shapes slowly, tongue poking from the corner of his mouth in concentration. The pen danced in his fingers with growing confidence, and the faintest pulse of magic flickered around the ink. The lad had it. No doubt.
Then there was Dwalin.
Trying to teach Dwalin felt like reciting elvish poetry to a boulder. He sat there with arms like tree trunks crossed tight over his chest, glaring at the pen as if it had insulted his great-grandmother. He didn't say much, but he was trying—reluctantly. The big man had patience for battle, not quillwork.
Fíli and Kíli turned the quiet exercise into a competition, naturally.
"I bet my rune will glow first," Kíli whispered, eyes gleaming as he scribbled.
"Yours barely looks like a rune," Fíli shot back. "It's more like a squashed spider."
"Spiders are magical if you enchant them properly," I muttered dryly.
Fíli's were elegant—clean lines, sharp angles—but too careful. Magic doesn't like fear. Kíli's were crooked, wild, but buzzing with energy. The boy had a spark in him—wild, unfocused, but raw talent nonetheless.
Balin, unsurprisingly, was the most knowledgeable. He peered at my demonstration with a scholar's eye, occasionally comparing my tri-bonding structures to older rune-lattices he remembered from Khazad-dûm. He made thoughtful noises, sometimes jotting a dwarf rune beside a modern variant. That kind of quiet, grounded intellect was gold.
Thorin surprised me. He said little. But he watched everything, absorbed it like the mountain did snow. When he did try, he did so with precision and a slow, determined grace. He hadn't learned these things before—never had the time, I guess. But the desire to master them was there, deep and quiet.
Bilbo lasted about twenty minutes before tossing his pen aside with a sigh. "Squiggly lines and talking rocks. You might as well ask me to court a troll."
I chuckled. "If you ever do, ask it about cave fungus. They're quite passionate about their recipes."
He gave me a look.
From the other side of the fire, Gandalf had been watching in silence, arms folded inside the sleeves of his cloak, smoke rising from his pipe in lazy spirals. His expression was unreadable, but not unfriendly.
As the dwarves dispersed—some still scribbling, some already discussing rune placement and enchantment potential—I remained seated, brushing stray ash from my book.
Gandalf wandered over and sat beside me on a flat rock. "You've a strange gift for teaching, Benjamin," he said softly. "Not all students make good masters."
I shrugged. "Maybe. But they're good students. Curious. Eager. That's half the battle."
He nodded, staring into the fire. "Still, you're doing more than teaching runes by moonlight. You're rekindling a fire long thought cold. There was a time when the dwarves of old etched runes with reverence, singing as they carved. That craft was nearly lost."
I closed the book slowly. "I'm just sharing what I know."
Gandalf smiled faintly. "Perhaps. But sometimes sharing what you know can change the course of mountains."
---
The climb through the mountains had been going surprisingly well—at least at the beginning. For the first three days, we made steady progress. The path was rough and winding, but the weather had been manageable, and spirits were high. Even in the cold, the dwarves had been sleeping like hibernating bears, bundled in their magically-heated sleeping bags. Each evening, I erected a layered ward field around us that kept the worst of the biting mountain winds at bay, letting us rest without shivering ourselves to madness.
Meals were, of course, not a concern. My enchanted satchel continued to provide hot meals with a variety impressive enough to earn nods from even Bombur. Nori had just announced that we were nearly halfway through the mountains, which raised everyone's morale. That should've been my first warning. After all, moments of optimism are almost always cursed.
The next morning, the sky had turned a dirty, churning grey. Clouds hung heavy and ominous above us, and before we could finish our morning tea, thunder growled across the peaks like some ancient beast just waking up. Within minutes, sheets of rain began to fall, soaking through our coats, even the enchanted ones.
And then came the lightning.
We were clinging to a narrow, treacherous trail that wound around a mountainside—cliff to our left, a yawning drop to our right—when the sky split open with a crack of white fire. The mountain above roared in answer as a cascade of rocks broke free and hurtled toward us.
"Move!" Thorin shouted, instinctively, but I was already reacting.
I raised my hand and conjured a glowing shield overhead. The first few rocks slammed into it with teeth-rattling force, bouncing away with hollow thuds.
"Thorin!" I shouted over the roar. "We need shelter—fast!"
His eyes scanned the cliffs, and he pointed. "There! A cave—just ahead!"
It was farther than I liked. And the trail ahead didn't exactly inspire confidence.
"Hold on," I called. "Don't move!"
I focused on the spot Thorin had pointed to, and waved my hand. A glowing blue portal shimmered into existence beside us. I stepped through and emerged instantly at the mouth of the cave out of another matching portal on this side.
I turned and cupped my hands. "Alright, everyone! Through the portal! Now!"
They hesitated, as expected. Most people don't process magical spatial folding very well the first time. But Thorin was the first to move, leading by example. One by one, the rest followed—dwarves, hobbit, and wizard alike—emerging on the dry stone of the cave with various degrees of amazement.
Dwalin pointed behind him at the fading portal. "What in Durin's beard was that?"
"Portal," I said. "And before you ask, I can only open them to places I've been or that I can see clearly. So don't ask me to open one to Erebor from here. Yet."
A rumble shook the ground beneath us, and I turned just in time to see a boulder bounce down the mountain path where we had just stood. But that wasn't the truly shocking part.
A huge stone hand gripped the edge of the nearby cliff, followed by a head and torso rising from the very rock itself. A stonegiant—easily 300 feet tall—wrenched a boulder from the mountain's summit and hurled it across a nearby chasm. Another giant caught it like it was a child's toy and retaliated by throwing it back with enough force to crack a cliff.
Balin stood beside me, slack-jawed. "A thunder-battle," he whispered, voice awed. "I've only heard of such things in stories."
I pulled out my camera, the flash reflecting in the downpour, and snapped a few photos. "Well, now we've got proof for the historians."
A third giant rose from the mist and hurled a boulder that struck the first in the head. It stumbled backward, losing its footing—and with a terrifying roar, it tumbled into the abyss, dragging half a peak with it.
Bilbo exhaled slowly beside me. "You don't see that in the Shire…"
We stepped back into the cave, grateful for its shelter. The interior was dry, and though not expansive, it was comfortable enough for our group. The walls were solid stone, uncracked, and the floor was even, with a few natural hollows perfect for resting.
Dwalin gave it a once-over and nodded. "Looks safe enough."
"Let's check the back," Thorin said. "Caves in mountains seldom come unoccupied."
The dwarves turned on the enchanted lanterns I had provided them—simple devices that ran on glowstone magic—and they fanned out. The cave proved to be deeper than expected but mercifully empty of creatures or foul smells.
Oin and Gloin wanted to start a fire near the mouth to dry their clothes, but Gandalf shook his head vigorously.
"You might as well put out a sign that says Free Meal—In Here!" he grumbled.
I rolled my eyes but took pity. With a wave of my hand, a series of drying charms flowed over each member of the company. Wet cloaks lifted and steamed gently before settling down, dry and warm.
"Thank the Forge for that," Bofur said, adjusting his now-fluffy hat.
Dinner passed pleasantly, the meal warm and satisfying. Eventually, the conversation dwindled, and one by one, the dwarves drifted off to sleep, tucked into their sleeping bags. Bilbo curled up near the fireless hearth. Thorin leaned against a wall with his arms crossed, dozing but alert.
I didn't sleep.
I knew what was coming... probably.
So while the others snored, I activated a quiet set of tracking charms, marking each member of our group. Tiny green dots pulsed gently in the corner of my vision, superimposed over a mini-map in my glasses.
Gandalf, who hadn't moved from his place near the cave entrance, puffed on his pipe and raised an eyebrow at me.
"What are you up to, Benjamin?"
"I have a bad feeling about this place," I murmured. "So I'm putting tracking charms on everyone. If anyone gets lost or separated, we'll be able to find them."
"Good thinking," he said. "Now get some sleep."
"I'll try," I said, lying back.
But I didn't.
That's why I was the only one properly awake when the floor shifted under us. Just the faintest tremor at first.
Then… I heard it.
A faint clunk.
Machinery.
My eyes flew open, and I sat up fast. Across the cave, cracks were appearing in the ground—lines forming in the sand like a drawn map. I jumped to my feet.
"Everyone, wakeup!" I shouted.
Gandalf's eyes opened instantly. The others stirred sluggishly.
"MOVE! IT'S A TRAP!"
But it was too late.
With a thunderous grinding noise, the floor collapsed beneath us. The sand and stone gave way, and the entire company dropped like stones down a dark, gaping chute.
---
The company of thirteen dwarves and one hobbit hurtled down the steep, spiraling shaft with alarming speed. The tunnel, rough-hewn and jagged, twisted through the mountain's heart like a stone serpent, its incline steep enough to send them tumbling like children down a madman's slide. Elbows knocked against ribs, boots scraped against rock, and curses filled the air as they bounced and rolled, utterly helpless in their descent. There was no water to soften their fall—only splintered wood and craggy stone.
Then, all at once, the shaft ended. They were flung into a massive wooden cage—an enormous bowl-shaped contraption suspended precariously across the width of a yawning chasm. The cage creaked and groaned beneath their collective weight, swaying as it came to a shuddering halt. Far below, the chasm fell into impenetrable blackness.
Groaning, bruised, and disoriented, the dwarves struggled to sit up—only for shrieking goblins to erupt from trapdoors and shadowed niches in the rocks around them. The creatures descended in waves, clutching jagged blades, ropes, and whips, their foul breath hissing as they snarled in glee.
Weapons were snatched away. Arms and legs were grabbed, twisted, yanked. Thorin roared as he tried to resist, but even he was outnumbered ten to one. Bombur let out a terrified bellow as two goblins climbed atop him, trying to subdue the heft of him with snarled curses. Dwalin punched a goblin in the face, but was soon clubbed over the head for his trouble.
In the chaos, Bilbo tumbled behind a fallen beam, his small size and quick reflexes sparing him the goblins' notice. Heart pounding, he clutched the beam tightly, crouched low behind it as the goblins dragged his companions away. The clamor of chains and jeering voices echoed through the cavern as the horde disappeared into the tunnels.
The goblins were gone.
Silence descended—save for the flutter of distant bats and the creaking of ropes somewhere down below.
Bilbo rose slowly, breath trembling in his chest. He adjusted his pack, tightened the strap on his bow, and drew his glowing sword. The blade gleamed an eerie blue, warning of nearby enemies. He didn't know where Gandalf or Ben had gone—had they been separated in the fall? Had they landed somewhere else? Resolving to follow the trail, Bilbo crept toward the edge of the walkway.
Then—SNARL!
A goblin lunged out from the shadows, screaming in rage, its yellow eyes wild and bloodshot. Bilbo cried out and swung wildly. The two clashed with blades in the dim light, elvish steel ringing against rusted iron. The goblin pressed forward, teeth bared, but Bilbo dodged instinctively, heart thundering. The narrow platform left little room to maneuver. They scuffled—scraping, stumbling—until suddenly, the platform cracked beneath their feet.
CRACK!
The wood split with a scream of breaking timber, and both goblin and hobbit went tumbling into the dark.
High above, from the mouth of the shaft, two figures emerged—gently drifting down, as if carried by invisible wings. The moment the floor had given way, Ben threw a Levitation charm on himself and the person nearest to him, which happened to be Gandalf. Ben hovered in the air, looking down warily. Beside him floated Gandalf, his long cloak billowing, staff gripped tightly in one hand, sword in the other. They descended steadily, riding a controlled column of magic.
Just as they neared the end of the shaft, they saw the two bodies falling.
"Bilbo!" Gandalf cried, his voice echoing down the abyss.
He made to dive after the hobbit, but Ben caught him by the arm. "Wait!"
Gandalf turned to him sharply, eyes blazing. "He'll be killed!"
Ben's face was grim, focused. "I'll go after him. You know the goblins better. Get to the dwarves, free them, and find an exit. I'll find Bilbo and bring him back."
The wizard hesitated, torn between wisdom and instinct. He looked again toward the pit, then toward the faint trail of chaos left by the dwarves' captors.
Finally, with a reluctant nod, he agreed. "Very well. But do not tarry, Ben. The deeper halls of the goblins are treacherous even for wizards."
Ben gave a faint smile. "We'll be back before you know it."
With that, the two parted—one ascending along a swinging bridge toward the heart of the goblin tunnels, the other plunging downward into the abyss after the missing hobbit.
---
The goblins drove the dwarves onward through a twisted labyrinth of wooden walkways and dangling bridges. The architecture was mad—impossible angles, no clear pattern, only a tangled mess of hanging structures that defied logic and any sense of safety. Planks creaked. Chains rattled.
They emerged into a cavern so vast, it might have been mistaken for a lost world beneath the mountains. The ceiling stretched high above, a black dome from which a monstrous stalactite hung like a sword tip frozen in time. Thousands of candles had been rammed into grooves and hollows along its sides, dripping wax like stalagmites in reverse. Their flickering light mixed with the blaze of hundreds of torches scattered throughout the cavern, casting a hellish glow across the entire chasm.
And everywhere—goblins.
They moved like insects, crawling across ropes, hanging from rafters, scuttling along bridges and beams. They numbered in the thousands, a seething tide of twisted limbs and gleaming eyes.
And they were singing.
The song came in fragments, chanted and howled in uneven waves, moving from cluster to cluster like a grotesque choir:
"Clap! Snap! the black crack!
Grip, grab! Pinch, nab!"
A chorus echoed from above. Then another from the walls:
"And down, down to Goblin-town
You go, my lad!"
The beat quickened.
"Clash, crash! Crush, smash!
Hammer and tongs! Knocker and gongs!"
The sound rose to a fever pitch, voices clashing like cymbals.
"Pound, pound, far underground!
Ho, ho! my lad!"
Then came the whip cracks.
"Swish, smack! Whip crack!
Batter and beat! Yammer and bleat!"
The goblins surrounding the dwarves lashed their whips into the air—and then onto dwarven backs.
Cries of pain burst from the group. Young Ori nearly fell. Nori caught him. Even brave Dori staggered forward with clenched teeth.
"Work, work! Nor dare to shirk,
While Goblins quaff, and Goblins laugh,
Round and round far underground
Below, my lad!"
Driven by pain, the dwarves ran. Not all of them were hardened warriors—many were craftsmen, apprentices, even musicians. But pride could only do so much when facing raw cruelty.
Only the eldest dwarves kept their footing with dignity—Balin with quiet strength, Dwalin with seething fury, and Thorin at the head, eyes like molten steel.
They were herded like livestock across a great wooden bridge, then shoved forward onto a circular dais at the center of the cavern. It hovered there like a sacrificial altar—suspended by a massive wooden arch and held aloft by titanic chains thicker than any man's torso.