Kaen's army was close.
Well before the great host of Elves and Men reached Erebor, Kaen had already made contact with his own forces.
A company of rangers—one hundred strong.
A healing corps of the same number.
Five hundred mounted archers.
Five hundred heavy cavalry.
Five hundred heavy infantry.
A thousand foot archers.
And five thousand hillfolk longbowmen—tough, sharp-eyed men of the highlands.
They were joined by three hundred heavily-armored cavalry from Rivendell and five hundred seasoned warriors of Lothlórien.
A total force of 8,500 was now marching under the banner of light.
They had crossed into the Woodland Realm and were advancing in haste toward the Lonely Mountain. Their arrival was expected two days after the main elven host reached Erebor.
When they arrived, over fifteen thousand warriors would stand ready to face the legions of darkness gathering in the East.
…..
Dale.
Nestled south of the Lonely Mountain, between two of its long, stony arms, the valley cradled the ancient city of Dale.
Born from a spring deep within the mountain's heart, the River Running issued forth from the great Front Gate of Erebor. It cascaded into the dale below, forming a wide, protective loop that embraced the city's quays and bridges. It was this water that gave Dale its life, its trade, and its beauty in the days of old.
The architecture was a masterful blend of mountain stone and sturdy timber. Tall towers and proud belfries, which once rang across the valley, had stood in eerie silence for nearly two centuries of dragon-haunted desolation. Even now, they reached toward the heavens,ghostly remnants of a once-thriving realm.
It took the allied army of Elves and Men three days to reach it.
As they stood at its gates, gazing upon the ruins, Kaen spoke:
"We do not know when the dark army will arrive. My own men are still two days' march from here. Our first task is to fortify the walls."
No one objected. The troops began to move at once, digging, hammering, and rebuilding.
Dale sat upon the high western bank of the River Running—a position easy to defend, difficult to take. It was agreed that Bard would remain behind with his 1,000 soldiers of Dale, reinforced by 500 elven warriors.
The remaining 2,500 Woodland Elves continued their march toward the front—the gate of Erebor.
…..
Outside the gates of the Lonely Mountain was a broad plain, once farmland of Dale's people, now grown wild after an era of silence.
Now, boots fell again upon its soil.
Elves clad in leaf-green armor advanced in flawless formation, banners high and weapons sharp.
The gate of Erebor had been shattered when Smaug broke free, but the Dwarves within had rebuilt it—massive stone upon massive stone.
Thorin Oakenshield stood above that gate now, robed in the vestments of kings. A crown adorned his brow. His bearing was proud,but his face was hard, cold.
Only when he saw Kaen among the arriving army did a flicker of emotion cross his eyes. Something old. Something conflicted.
Kaen approached with Bard and Thranduil at his side.
Behind them: Gandalf, Saruman, Legolas, Tauriel, Kíli, and Bilbo Baggins.
They passed through the elven ranks and came to the base of the gate.
All the while, Kaen's eyes never left Thorin's.
He turned to the others and murmured, "Just as I feared. The Dragon-sickness has taken root."
The others nodded grimly. They had expected it,but seeing it so plainly still chilled the blood.
The three kings rode forward.
Kaen raised his head and called up to Thorin and the Dwarves gathered at the battlements.
"I do not understand," he began. "Thorin Oakenshield,once my brother in arms. The King Under the Mountain. I slew Smaug, the great wyrm, and now come to your kingdom. Why then do you greet me not with joy, but with a locked gate and a guarded wall?"
Thorin's face twitched—an uneasy flicker—but he quickly covered it with disdain.
"I welcome all friends," he said coolly. "But you come with an army, camped at my doorstep. That is not the way of friends. It is the posture of raiders, of claimants, of those who hunger for what is not theirs."
"Thorin!" Kaen called sharply, locking eyes with the Dwarf King. "Do you not remember our pact?"
"The pact?" Thorin's voice darkened. "You speak of the division of the treasure, do you not? A clever move—an illusion to tempt fools. I simply used your greed to reclaim my kingdom."
The words stung more than expected—even though they had all feared such a change.
Gandalf stepped forward. His voice was firm. "Thorin Oakenshield—begging your pardon—but you no longer speak with a king's grace. You shame the crown you wear."
Thorin flinched. It was brief, but it was there.
Kaen saw his chance and turned, signaling to Kíli and Bilbo.
When the two stepped forward, the Dwarves on the wall gasped.
"Bilbo Baggins?!"
"By Durin's beard—we thought he was dead!"
"How is he outside the mountain?!"
"Kíli too?! What are they planning—do they mean to use him against us?"
"Don't be a fool. King Kaen would never stoop so low."
The Dwarves muttered among themselves. Whatever poison had taken hold of Thorin had not corrupted them all. Many still held deep respect for Kaen.
Were Thorin not their king, the gate might already have opened in welcome.
But Thorin's face darkened as he saw his nephew.
"You would use him to threaten me?" he growled.
"No." Kaen shook his head, smiling faintly. "I would never resort to such cowardice. But not long ago, Bilbo removed something from the mountain. A treasure. And I thought… it might clear your vision."
"A treasure?" Thorin paled. He suspected already.
"There are countless treasures within Erebor," he said, voice strained. "Why should one matter?"
And then Kíli drew it forth.
The Arkenstone.
Its light burst over the plain like dawn.
Thorin's mask shattered.
"Thieves!" he roared, his voice breaking into madness. "Thieves and liars! You dare steal our birthright?!"
The Arkenstone glittered in the light—but to Thorin, it was no longer a gem. It was everything.
It called to him.
And it was beyond his reach.
Below the wall. Surrounded by elven spears.
The Dwarves near him shifted uneasily. Their faces grew grim.
The loss of their clan's greatest heirloom—stolen, displayed before them—was a deep wound.
But Kaen's next words cut through their anger.
"The Arkenstone," he said, voice calm and clear, "was never outside Dwarven hands. It has always been with one of your own. So where, Thorin Oakenshield, is this thief you rage against?"
Balin and the others froze.
Kíli stood below the wall, stone in hand.
Indeed, the Arkenstone was still among their kin.
Thorin faltered—but anger returned to his voice.
"You've held him hostage. That's no better than thievery!"
Kaen's gaze did not waver. "If Kíli wished to leave, I would not stop him. Even if he took the Arkenstone with him."
All eyes turned to Kíli.
Thorin's voice cracked. "Kíli.Come back to us. Return to your people. Leave these traitors."
Kíli's face was torn.
"I can't," he said finally. "You've shut the gates. Locked us out. And you… you don't feel like my uncle anymore. Kaen says the dragon's shadow still coils in your heart."
And for the first time, Thorin did not have an answer.