"And what do you expect to gain from all this… Eldens?" Thorin asked coldly.
The dwarven prince didn't really care who those strangers were, who had just given themselves that name. The only thing that concerned him was his campaign toward Erebor… and the possible interference of this mysterious group.
"As I already said: to help you… and to do business. We want to join you in your journey and your mission," Miquella replied with his usual serenity, his voice gentle, almost familiar. "At worst, you may consider us mercenaries willing to see your task through. Or, if you allow it… companions who wish to help you reclaim your home."
His words were neither urgent nor aggressive, yet they carried a subtle weight. A mixture of diplomacy and empathy that was hard to reject.
"I deeply regret your plight, truly. I know what it means to lose a home," said Thorin gravely, "but we have no need of your services."
The dwarven prince tried to be curt enough to end this quickly, but calm enough that no weapon would be drawn from its sheath.
"You needn't be evasive, heir of Durin," Miquella countered, this time with a more direct tone. "I know more than you think… and believe me when I say you truly need help. You will not reclaim the Lonely Mountain easily… not without an immense amount of luck and even more coincidences. Besides," he added, his gaze hardening, "in case you didn't know, there is a bounty on your head. And your enemies do nothing but multiply."
At those words, the dwarves grew tense, nearly rising to their feet, as though they wished to prove they were ready for anything. The mere use of Durin's name in a conversation of that kind could be taken as an insult. Not against Thorin alone, but against the entire dwarven race.
"We don't need anyone's help!" Dwalin growled, slamming his fist against the table.
"Aye, what could you do that we cannot?" Gloin added heatedly.
"The thirteen of us are more than enough," Bofur chimed in, arms crossed.
Though caught in the quarrel, Thorin's attention was fixed on Gandalf. The wizard had not said a word. He only watched, stern. Too stern. And Thorin knew him well. Tharkûn had always been enigmatic, but there was a difference between being quiet… and being silent out of concern.
At times, the old man might seem aloof, but his calm had always been that of someone who knew the board and its pieces well. Now, however, that calm was gone. There was tension in his eyes. Doubt. Alertness.
Thorin and Gandalf exchanged a silent glance, almost as if they spoke without words. A slight gesture was all that passed between them.
"Silence!" Thorin commanded firmly, quieting his companions. Then he interlaced his fingers on the table and addressed the boy, who stood before him unflinching. "Well then… what is it you can offer us, Eldens? For this mission, quality outweighs quantity. Our number is already right. Thirteen… or fourteen, counting the burglar," he added, casting a glance at Bilbo, which made all the others do the same.
Bilbo stiffened, visibly uneasy.
"To kill the dragon," said Miquella calmly.
The room fell into utter silence, as though the very air had frozen. Though he spoke in a normal tone, his words seemed to echo with a strange resonance.
Thorin let out a short, dry laugh, almost mocking.
"I think you should check your informants. Our goal is not to kill Smaug," he answered with scorn.
"You're mistaken," Miquella denied, shaking his head gently. "You want to kill the dragon more than anything. You just have no way of doing it… which is why you seek to recover the Arkenstone, hoping to summon the dwarven armies and slay him together… even if that means war and countless deaths."
His words struck like a blow to the chest. The faces of the dwarves and the wizard twisted, for they knew he spoke the truth. A bitter truth.
Thorin did not take his eyes off Miquella. Yet throughout this conversation, his expression had changed more than it did in entire weeks.
"And you believe you can slay him?" he asked bitterly. "Our plan relies on stealth, on Smaug's ignorance. If you alert him when you fail, you'll ruin everything. Gandalf has already secured Bilbo Baggins as our burglar, able to steal right under the dragon's nose. We need not have someone spoil it all," he said, gesturing at Bilbo.
"What!? Me!?" Bilbo exclaimed, startled to hear his name in such a dangerous sentence.
"I don't doubt Mister Baggins' ability to fulfill his role…" Miquella continued respectfully. "But I do not think he'll have enough luck to escape Smaug's wrath once he has stolen from him."
"I don't plan to—!" Bilbo began, but no one paid him heed. The conversation had left him behind.
"Think about it, Thorin," Miquella pressed, with a hint of melancholy in his voice, as if regretting what he was offering. "You have nothing to lose. You and your burglar may reclaim the Arkenstone while we battle Smaug and keep him occupied. If we prevail, the dwarven peoples need not spill any more blood. If we fall… you will have bought time to escape, and all blame will fall upon us. You gain in every outcome. You are betting on the winning horse… without paying the cost."
"Even if all that were true, I doubt you'd last a moment against Smaug. What could a child and seven companions do against such a colossal evil?" Thorin asked skeptically, unwilling to be convinced.
"For a start," Miquella replied with a faint smile, "you should stop judging me by appearances. Could you tell us how old you are? Perhaps, in the end, we'll find we share the same age."
He said it as a jest, though with no intention of revealing his true antiquity.
The dwarves and the hobbit stared, bewildered. They had always assumed he was some young noble of certain authority, but his serene bearing and composed nature suggested something more. Could he truly be as old as Thorin, who was 195 years of age?
"Don't look at me like that. I am not lying. My sister and I were cursed at birth. I stopped growing long ago," he sighed with resignation. "But that doesn't mean I haven't matured in other ways. To doubt my power… is unwise."
Then he turned his gaze to his group.
"And we are no band of aimless wanderers. Here stand my most loyal servants, each with their own story, their worth, their virtue. None are weak. And they are far more capable than they appear." Then, with a defiant gleam in his eyes, he looked back at Thorin. "Moreover, our land too was once plagued by dragons. Some roamed entire regions freely. They are not unknown to us, and it would not be the first time my people faced them. Believe it or not… that is your choice. But it is the truth."
"Four hundred and fifty feet… scales impenetrable… fire-breath to raze towns… and the strength to break through tons of rock and steel," Thorin recited gravely, as if recalling an ancient warning engraved in memory. "Allow me to doubt your confidence… and the dragons you claim to have faced."
*Fwooh…*
The boy let out a short whistle, impressed. Yet his face remained unchanged.
"Now that is large," he admitted evenly. "Impressive for some dragons… but…"
He paused. Then, with his back straight and a trace of pride in his voice, he continued:
"Our capital, Leyndell, too was attacked by a colossal dragon. One even greater, if memory serves. Its name was Gransax. It could have sealed the fate of our civilization, just as Smaug did with Erebor… but it was slain by my elder brother, Godwyn. Its petrified corpse still lies there, part of the city itself."
He recalled its image with both nostalgia and reverence. Then he lifted his gaze, meeting the dwarves' eyes with unyielding determination.
"We come from a realm that faced its end… and prevailed. A realm that survived the devastation of a dragon as terrible as yours. And I… am the brother of the one who made that possible. I may not have his same strength, and it is true we are no longer in our golden age. But if there are any with the experience and the resolve required, it is us. And I do not think there exists anyone more capable of accomplishing it."
The room fell into silence.
The dwarves did not know what to think. They wanted to believe it. And at the same time, they could not. The idea that another city —though unknown to them— had suffered the same fate and, unlike them, had triumphed… was both a wound to their pride and a spark of hope.
"I think we should consider it, Thorin," Gandalf finally intervened, breaking his silence with a grave voice, as if awakening from a trance. "I have bad news… news I had hoped to handle delicately, since they are not yet fully confirmed. But I can no longer postpone them."
"What is it?" asked the dwarven prince, frowning, his mood soured. He was not in the spirit for bad news, not in the midst of a discussion like this. Though he wanted to believe Miquella's words —that other dragons of such size had been defeated— he knew all too well that deceivers with honeyed words were never lacking. He could not risk his people's fate on an unproven tale.
"In recent times," Gandalf began, in an even more solemn tone, "there have been reports of unknown dragons sighted in different regions of Middle-earth. They appear suddenly, in random places. They are not like the ones we know… they are different. Quieter, perhaps less malicious, but no less dangerous for it. They are formidable."
He paused.
"And though their number is small, some of them have begun to settle among their kin… in the Grey Mountains, and perhaps even in Forodwaith."
The effect was immediate. The dwarves shot to their feet, and even Thorin lost his composure at such a revelation.
"And when did you intend to tell us such a thing!?" Thorin exclaimed, more angered by the worry than by the concealment itself. "Our brothers are suffering dragon attacks, and you keep it secret?!"
"Calm yourself, Thorin," Gandalf said firmly, raising his hand to steady them. "The dwarves of Ered Mithrin are well, for now. The appearance of these dragons caught us all by surprise, but the situation is not out of control. As I said, these new dragons are not so aggressive, at least not immediately. However, their presence has stirred the old ones. The native dragons of the Grey Mountains have grown more restless since their arrival."
He leaned forward slightly, resuming his serious tone.
"What I truly fear," Gandalf explained, his gaze shifting toward the Eldens, "is that these dragons may have roused Smaug's vigilance. Before, it was only a distant fear; the number of dragons was small, and there were no signs it would come to this. I even thought that, if it did, they would kill one another… but now…"
"What I told you about Gransax… it made you fear that another dragon of that scale might appear, and that the situation could escalate," said Miquella calmly, as though reading the wizard's mind. "You need not worry too much. Dragons of that size were few, and as far as I recall, most perished. However… smaller ones, ranging from twenty to eighty meters, may also have crossed over from our land."
Silence fell once more. Gandalf slowly nodded.
"Thorin, perhaps all may yet proceed as planned. Perhaps nothing needs to change. But in times like these… having an insurance may make all the difference. We do not know if Smaug is ready to face a threat. And if he is… we do not know how he will respond."
He tapped the table softly with one finger, as though to drive home his point and soothe his own doubts. He had received a warning from his superior… and he could not ignore it.
He still did not know if he could fully trust the Eldens. But he had been warned that new allies —and new enemies— would arise. And at least, during the journey to Erebor, he would have the chance to discover which they were.
"As he himself said… we need help. And you have nothing to lose," Gandalf added at last, as though delivering the final stroke in a duel of words.
"You need not worry about us," said Miquella serenely. "We bear our own weight and our own needs. We will not hinder your march, and if we do, you may leave us behind. Even counting our number, we are not so many, and those who hunt you, Thorin, will do so regardless of how few we are. We only ask to join you, to reach your land… and to kill the dragon."
"Wait…" Thorin stopped him, unsettled by the conviction with which Gandalf seemed to require the Eldens' aid. Though he too was tempted by the thought of reinforcements at no apparent cost. "You said this was business, that you would work as mercenaries. What is it you want in return?"
"Several things, I suppose… gold?" Miquella answered with a shrug and a disarmingly casual tone.
"Hmph… others who covet the wealth of the Mountain," Thorin growled with a dry, almost defiant laugh, believing in them even less, for he had known many such. "You would not be the first to die at a dragon's claws for greed. And I do not want that kind of lust in our company."
"We do not covet your gold. It would be but a symbolic payment to aid our situation. I don't know… the dragon's weight or size in gold… I'm poor at bargaining; I should leave that to another," he admitted sincerely.
When it came to gold and money, he was never especially skilled; he had never lacked it, and so had trouble valuing it.
"I know the Mountain holds vast riches, and it will not be a burden to you, as it was not for us. In our capital dwelt the so-called Golden Order; you can imagine how much gold was required for so many things… Thinking on it, our realms were quite alike," Miquella remarked with confidence and camaraderie.
"I think it is acceptable," said Balin, who until then had kept silent. He was a wise dwarf, and though he did not believe things would go smoothly or without sacrifice, he considered that help in the right moment could make the difference. Especially now, when the rising presence of dragons weighed heavily on his mind.
"Only gold?" Thorin pressed, his skepticism plain. "You said there were several things."
"Yes," Miquella nodded. "We also wish to accompany you on your mission, to explore the region and seek a place to settle, to rebuild our homeland. To aid those reclaiming theirs… and perhaps gain your aid in raising ours. We would forge a friendship with the dwarves, that in times of hardship we may turn to one another." He paused. "And lastly, but most important… I want Smaug's corpse."
There was a brief silence, followed by the inevitable question:
"What would you want with a dragon's corpse?" asked one of the dwarves, in genuine confusion.
"To restore my sister," Miquella replied, his tone heavy with solemn coldness. "I know you do not yet trust us, and in some ways, the feeling is mutual. But there is one thing you must understand: for me, family is what matters most. No matter how great or splendid a kingdom rebuilt may be… without them, it is always a kingdom without a soul. Sacrifices must be made to regain what is lost. And Smaug… may be one of them. Reject us if you will, but our fate is set. With or without you, we march toward it."
The air grew thick, heavy with tension and awe. The dwarves saw in that boy a fierce, pure, desperate resolve. They understood he was willing to do anything to fulfill his purpose.
"Give us a moment to discuss it," Thorin said at last, trading glances with his companions and with Gandalf.
Miquella and the Eldens withdrew to another room, where they served themselves tea while they waited. Thorin, Gandalf, and Bilbo remained behind. The hobbit, still not fully grasping what it meant to be a burglar, soon fainted and was carried unconscious into the next room by a pair of dwarves.
From there, the echoes of the wizard's argument with the dwarves could be heard, but Miquella feigned indifference. He spoke lightly with his companions, feigning calm, though their faces showed a gravity more fitting to the situation.
The debate between Gandalf and Thorin grew intense. In Miquella's favor, the hobbit's fainting and his questionable reliability perhaps tipped the scales. Many dwarves sympathized with the Eldens, and the wizard's words —reminding them of the growing threat in the Grey Mountains— carried weight. It was wise to have allies when dark times loomed.
At last, the debate ended. The Eldens were summoned back to the main hall. Upon the table lay a parchment: a contract, shorter and plainer than the one prepared for Bilbo, sealed and signed by Thorin.
Miquella took it, read it carefully, then passed it to his companions. Some nodded in approval. When all found it acceptable, Miquella took up the quill.
"I do not know if I can trust you," Thorin said solemnly. "But as you said, you are mercenaries. And this is business. If you do what you promise, you will be paid as agreed. If you fail at any point from the signing of this contract onward, you are on your own. We will assume no responsibility. And if there is even a hint of betrayal…"
He could not finish.
Miquella interrupted by placing his small hand upon the dwarf's chest with unexpected closeness, leaving him momentarily taken aback.
"Then your sword may meet my neck whenever you deem it fit," he said calmly, and at once signed firmly, using an improvised seal made with his ring: the symbol… of the Elden Ring. "It is a pleasure to embark on this journey with you."
No one mentioned it, but in the instant Miquella spoke of a sword at his neck, every Elden present instinctively gripped their weapons. Thorin noticed, and though he did not show it, he knew he was not dealing with some unstable, fleeting band.
"We leave at dawn tomorrow. See that you have all you need," Thorin said at last, wishing to close the matter. The problem of the burglar still remained, and all signs pointed that they would have to force him, for his absence now would be a disgrace before these strange allies, who were clearly more than they seemed.