When Thorin came in person to find him, Kaen did not waste a moment on ceremony.
"Thorin," he said quietly but firmly, "you've been facing trouble of late, haven't you?"
The Dwarven king blinked, caught off guard. Then a rough chuckle escaped his chest. "Ah... so Fíli and Kíli have been speaking, have they?"
Kaen nodded once.
"Well," Thorin said, trying to sound at ease, "there have been... a few matters. But nothing beyond control. A little time, a little effort, and all will be well."
Yet even as he smiled, the shadow in his eyes betrayed the truth.
Kaen's tone softened. "My brother, I can help you—truly help you. I can see to it that not only your reign, but the reigns of your descendants, will be free of the dangers you now face."
Thorin hesitated at once. He had long felt that Kaen had already done enough for Durin's Folk. Yet before he could voice refusal, Kaen added with a faint, knowing grin, "You won't even hear what the solution is?"
Thorin fell silent, and after a long breath, nodded.
...
So Kaen told him everything.
He spoke of Saruman's design, of a rune-forged heart, a sacred core that could strengthen stone, cleanse the deep, and banish corruption from beneath the earth.
"This power," Kaen said, "was once forbidden by your ancestors. They feared it would encroach upon the authority of Aulë, the Father of the Dwarves. But now you may rest easy—for the Maker Himself has given His blessing. The White Wizard, once His own servant and disciple, will oversee the forging of the Rune Core."
Thorin's eyes gleamed with wonder, his hands tightening upon the armrests of his chair. "Such a thing... could truly exist?"
"Yes," Kaen said simply. "But the materials are rare beyond measure. Erebor alone cannot provide them. You have mithril in your vaults, yes—but the other metals and gems must come from the other clans. You will need their hands, their faith, and their fire."
He paused, his gaze burning bright. "There may be seven Rune Hearts, one for each of the Seven Clans of the Dwarves. Each heart would guard a realm, each would be a pillar of strength untainted by shadow. No rings, no curses, no deceit. Power born not of greed, but of craft and unity."
Thorin's thoughts flew back to the tales Kaen had told him once, the story of the Seven Rings, and how each Dwarven kingdom that bore one had fallen to ruin or madness. But this... this was different. This was sanctioned by Aulë Himself.
After a long silence, Thorin slammed his fist upon the table, his voice ringing through the stone hall. "Then so be it! In the name of Durin's line, I shall summon the Dwarven Council. The Seven Clans will be called to Erebor. Together we shall decide the fate of our people!"
...
From the Lonely Mountain, black ravens took flight, streaking across the lands of Middle-earth, bearing word to every Dwarven hold.
For the Dwarves, though scattered across mountains and mines, were bound by the ancient Oath of Stone and Forge—an oath older than the First Age itself. Though quarrels might arise among them, when one clan suffered, all others came to its side.
Thus when word of this Runic heart spread across the land, from the Blue Mountains to the far East, every Dwarven king answered.
Three months later, as winter's first chill swept the world, they arrived at last, lords of iron and flame, of hammer and craft.
Within the vast council chamber of Erebor, the Dwarven kings assembled.
There were eight of them in all.
...
Thorin Oakenshield of the Longbeards, and Dáin Ironfoot—rulers of Erebor and the Iron Hills.
These were the heart of Durin's Folk, the mightiest and wealthiest among all the Dwarves, their line descending directly from the first Father himself.
Amzar of the Firebeards, and Omtar of the Broadbeams—the clans who once ruled of Belegost and Nogrod, the twin city-states of the Blue Mountains, famed for their mastery of metalwork and weaponcraft.
Rorg of the Ironfists, and Sarnis of the Stiffbeards—kings of the eastern lands of Rhûn, whose people were hardened by constant war against Orcs and savage men.
Amur of the Blacklocks, and Kambet of the Stonefoots—rulers of the far eastern holds, the smallest of the Seven Clans, yet as enduring as the roots of the world.
In all, the gathered strength of Dwarfkind numbered over half a million souls across their realms. And now their kings stood united beneath Erebor's crown once more.
...
When the eight kings had taken their seats in the throne hall of the Lonely Mountain, they greeted Thorin and Dáin first, for Durin's Folk held the chief place among the Dwarves. The sacred mountain of Gundabad had long been their council ground, yet it was fitting that now they met in Erebor, rebuilt and reborn by Thorin's hand.
All held the King Under the Mountain in high esteem, for none could doubt that he had achieved what none since Durin himself had done: the reclaiming of a lost realm. Dáin, his cousin, was likewise revered, ruler of the Iron Hills and commander of the greatest Dwarven army in Middle-earth.
And so, as tradition decreed, Thorin Oakenshield took the high seat and presided over the council.
He rose, his deep voice echoing through the hall. "Brothers! Since Erebor's fall, long have our people been scattered. Now, after a hundred years, we are gathered again. Let this be a day remembered in the annals of stone."
A murmur of agreement rolled through the chamber like distant thunder.
"This council," Thorin continued, "is convened to speak of a new craft—a gift from Aulë the Maker Himself, to be shaped by His servant, the White Wizard Saruman. The Rune Core—" he lifted a hand, "shall be sanctified by the light of Kaen Eowenríel, King of Men and friend of Elves and Dwarves alike.
"When it is wrought, it shall restore to our people the strength of ages past. The Dwarves shall rise again in Middle-earth, their glory as of old."
...
The meeting lasted three days and nights. The kings spoke fiercely, arguing their rights, their resources, their shares in the work.
Some claimed they had brought more materials and demanded more than one core.
Others complained of the long distances traveled and sought equal reward.
The debates grew heated until Thorin and Dáin rose together, their voices cutting through the quarrel like steel through smoke.
"Enough!" Thorin thundered. "There shall be eight Rune Cores—no more, no less. Each kingdom shall have one. Let none covet his brother's portion."
"And remember," Dáin added, his axe haft striking the floor, "it is not our hands that will shape them. The forging lies with the White Wizard and the King of Men. We are but the bearers of the flame."
Silence followed, then nods all around. The council was settled.
...
When word reached Kaen, he and Arwen were far to the north, watching the first snow descend upon the world in quiet wonder.
Upon hearing the news, they turned their steeds south once more, and rode through the frozen valleys until the Lonely Mountain rose before them like a crown of white stone.
They were welcomed by all eight Dwarven kings, who bowed low before Kaen, the bridge between their races, the King of Three Peoples. His presence alone filled the hall with calm authority.
He and Saruman stood at the heart of the assembly, chosen as the chief forgers of the new relics.
And as winter wrapped the North in a shroud of snow, the forges of Erebor roared to life, burning ever brighter.
Within those blazing halls, amid the ring of hammers and the song of flame, the creation of the Rune Cores began—the dawn of a new legend in the deep places of the earth.
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