When the secret door of Erebor creaked open, its age-old hinges groaning in protest, the Dwarves stood frozen—then wept.
Tears welled in their eyes, and many fell to their knees. After a century of exile, wandering and dreaming, they had at long last returned to the halls of their fathers.
Thorin Oakenshield stepped through the threshold and into the dim tunnel, his gloved fingers brushing across the familiar chisel marks on the stone wall. His voice, hoarse with emotion, echoed softly.
"Erebor… our kingdom. I remember these walls, every corridor, every hall. Balin, do you remember them too?"
The eldest among them, Balin, choked on his reply. "I do. I was born here, raised here… until the dragon came…"
"But we will drive it out," Thorin said fiercely. "Kaen will aid us. Smaug will fall, and the Kingdom of the Dwarves will rise again—be reborn in fire and stone. Even if we all perish here, Erebor will be rebuilt."
He turned then and looked to the south. The others followed his gaze, and their eyes came to rest on distant Lake-town, glittering under the pale moonlight.
In that moment, they understood.
They understood why Thorin had left Kíli behind.
Thorin's gaze shifted to Fíli. "Do you blame me?"
Fíli smiled faintly and shook his head. "Uncle, I am Kíli's brother too."
A smile touched Thorin's lips, the weariness of years easing for just a heartbeat. He looked over his company, eyes gleaming.
"Tonight—whether we live or die—we shall become legends."
And one by one, the Dwarves nodded, faces grim and proud. They were ready.
To die, if need be.
….
Back in Lake-town, Kaen stood motionless atop a roof, both hands resting on the pommels of his swords, eyes tightly shut.
Below, Captain Tauriel watched him from the street, puzzled. "What is he doing?"
Legolas shook his head. "I do not know. He's done this every day since the Dwarves departed."
Standing beside them, King Bard of Dale said with quiet respect, "When Kaen acts, there is always purpose. He is not merely a great king, but a sorcerer of no small power."
Not far off, within a small house, the Grey Wizard Saruman stood at the window, observing Kaen with narrowed eyes.
"He's journeying in spirit," he muttered, glancing at the puffing Gandalf seated nearby. "His consciousness is watching over the Dwarves. Don't you worry about his strength being drained? What if he pushes himself too far?"
Gandalf exhaled a perfect smoke ring, shrugged, and replied, "Worrying changes nothing. They can only stand guard and hope. Kaen holds a bond with Dwarves and Elves both. He cares for Thorin Oakenshield more than he lets on."
Saruman sighed. "I've seen it too. This… watching, guiding—this should have been our role. And yet he performs it better than any of us. Sometimes I wonder if he might be the sixth Istari, a wizard sent by the Valar."
"Impossible," Gandalf said, shaking his head. "When I first met him, he was but a gifted wanderer."
Still, he fell silent, his pipe growing cold between his fingers. He, too, had no more taste for smoke.
For Saruman's words rang true.
Of the five Istari sent to aid Middle-earth, two Blue Wizards had vanished into the East and never returned. The Brown Wizard spent his days with birds and beasts in southern Mirkwood, shirking the purpose for which he was sent.
Gandalf himself wandered endlessly, and Saruman remained locked away in Isengard, watching the Misty Mountains from afar.
Their aid had been fleeting. Meanwhile, the shadow grew stronger.
And now Gandalf questioned everything. Had they been mistaken all along? Was it right to focus solely on fighting shadow, without tending to the failing strength of the Free Peoples?
The Elves were leaving. The Noldor and the Sindar were sailing west to Valinor.
Rohan waned. Gondor strained beneath the weight of Mordor, Corsairs, Haradrim, and Easterlings.
The peoples of Middle-earth no longer had the strength to fight back—except one.
Kaen.
The young king whose rise had been as swift and brilliant as a falling star. His kingdom thrived, his sword struck hard at the dark, and he stood as a friend to Elves, Men, and Dwarves alike.
Now, he united the three races in this quest for Erebor—something not seen since the War of the Last Alliance.
Gandalf pondered long. Then, turning to Saruman, he spoke quietly.
"After this war, I shall take up residence in the Kingdom of Eowenría. I will serve Kaen as a wizard, and stand beside him."
Saruman blinked. His lips parted as if to protest—but in the end, he only nodded, silent.
….
Above, upon the rooftop, Kaen's mind drifted far from the Lake. His spirit soared through the skies, hovering over the Lonely Mountain.
Since ascending to the fourth level of his system, and becoming a Legendary-tier Hero, he had gained the ability to project his sight far beyond his body.
And now, with that power, he watched.
Just as in the tales of old, once the door had been opened, Thorin and his company did not rush inside. Instead, they turned to Bilbo Baggins.
It was the Hobbit who would go alone to seek the Arkenstone.
They could have stormed the mountain, made a clamor, drawn the dragon's rage, and led it to Lake-town—but Thorin chose a different path.
This time, it was not recklessness that guided him. It was wisdom born of growth.
He wanted the Arkenstone in hand—so that even if he fell within the mountain, Kíli would still have the heirloom of the House of Durin, and could rise as king beneath the mountain.
Bilbo, standing small among armored Dwarves, took a deep breath.
Then, under their watchful eyes, he stepped into the gloom.
His heart trembled with fear. Smaug awaited.
He whispered reassurances to himself, willing courage into his bones.
Then, like a whisper carried on the wind, Kaen's voice reached his ear.
"Fear not. I walk with you."
"Your Majesty… Kaen…" Bilbo breathed.
But no reply came.
Even so, he felt emboldened. His limbs no longer trembled. His eyes sharpened. He pressed on, down into the depths of Erebor.
Kaen's consciousness followed him, witnessing what lay within.
Unlike the woodland halls of Thranduil, Erebor was a city beneath the earth. Towering halls, grander than any palace, rose all around. Runes glowed faintly on lamplight sconces. Even after more than a hundred years, their enchantments still burned bright.
Bilbo wandered for hours—from dusk until deep night—before at last he reached the treasure vault described by the Dwarves.
It was vast.
So vast, a dragon could spread its wings and fly within.
Gold, silver, gems beyond count—piled like mountains across the floor.
Bilbo's mouth went dry. He swallowed hard, heart racing.
Even Kaen, observing through spirit, was momentarily stunned.
He had assumed the treasure of Erebor might amount to millions—certainly not the oceans of wealth depicted in film.
But now, faced with the truth, he realized even the films had understated it.
A fifteenth? No.
Even one percent of this hoard would be worth untold millions.
Kaen's thoughts were simple, for once.
"I'm rich."