Thorin eyes Zac with undisguised doubt, his gaze moving from the stranger to the wizard, then back to Zac. "A dragon?" His voice is heavy with skepticism. "You claim to have killed a dragon, when even Gandalf the Grey does not boast of such?"
The dwarves exchange glances, murmuring among themselves. Some openly snicker, others observe Zac with renewed curiosity.
"Men and their stories," Dwalin grumbles. "All liars and braggarts."
"Prove it," Thorin demands, his tone leaving no room for escape. "If you have truly faced such a creature and survived, you must bear its marks."
In response, Zac slowly draws from beneath his cloak a blade that catches the candlelight. A sword of blue-grey that seems to absorb then transform the surrounding light, creating around it a subtle halo not unlike starlight. Without hesitation, he plants it in the wood of Bilbo's table, where it remains embedded, vibrating slightly like a note of music made visible.
A new silence, this time filled with wonder, descends upon the assembly. The dwarves, master smiths and connoisseurs of precious metals, lean forward as one, their eyes wide before this marvel.
"Mithril," Balin murmurs, his voice trembling slightly. "The purest I have ever seen."
"This blade was not forged by mortal hands," Gloin adds, not daring to touch the weapon but examining it with the expert eye of a treasure appraiser.
"It has the balance of an elven blade," Dwalin observes, "but no elf has ever created such a wonder."
Thorin himself seems momentarily speechless. He who has seen the greatest treasures of Erebor, the works of the greatest master smiths of his people, appears troubled by the evident beauty and power of this weapon.
"How?" he finally asks, his voice softer, almost respectful.
"In the depths," Zac replies simply, "where horrors older than your mountains sleep. I have faced what should not exist, and I returned changed."
He does not mention Ancalagon's name. He speaks neither of the depths of Mordor, nor of his conceptual prison, nor of his struggle against the primordial Hunger. These truths are too strange, too complex for this moment. But what he says is true, and this partial truth resonates in the room with a force that silences even the most skeptical.
Gandalf observes the scene with undisguised curiosity, his eyes moving from the sword to Zac, then to Thorin. The wizard had clearly not anticipated this revelation, and for the first time since their meeting, he seems to be reassessing his understanding of this strange companion.
Thorin rises slowly, his gaze never leaving the sword embedded in the table. Then, as if galvanized by this tangible proof that there are means to defeat the most terrifying creatures, he draws himself to his full height and addresses his company with renewed passion.
"If we have read these signs, do you not think others will have read them too?" His voice is a deep rumble that fills the room. "Rumors have spread. The dragon Smaug has not been seen for sixty years. Eyes turn toward the Mountain, assessing, wondering, weighing the risks. The vast wealth of our people may lie unprotected. Shall we sit idle while others claim what is rightfully ours? Or shall we seize this chance to reclaim Erebor?"
The dwarves react with enthusiasm, striking the table with their fists, their faces illuminated by the inspiration their leader instills in them.
"You forget that the Great Gate is sealed," Balin tempers, ever the voice of caution. "There is no way to enter the Mountain."
"That, my dear Balin, is not entirely true," Gandalf interjects, drawing from his robes an ancient key of solemn appearance. The candlelight reflects off the aged metal, creating dancing shadows that seem to amplify the importance of the object.
Thorin stares at the key as if contemplating a ghost. "How did you come by this?"
"It was given to me by your father, Thrain, to keep safe," Gandalf replies. "It is now yours."