Hearing that name, Bard froze for a moment.
As a man born in the late Third Age, his knowledge of ancient beings like Balrogs was limited. Those creatures were legends from the First Age, long vanished from the world. Yet he had heard enough to know this much: if something could single-handedly destroy an entire dwarven kingdom, and even battle Eric for several days without being defeated, then it had to be a being far more terrible than a dragon.
"Alright," Bard said finally, exhaling softly. "But I'll say this again. If you ever need me, I won't take a single step back."
That ended the grim subject for now.
Watching Eric's calm expression, Bard took a sip of tea and felt his tension ease.
"Has anything unusual happened lately?" Eric asked.
"There has," Bard replied.
"Oh?" Eric raised a brow. He had only asked casually, not expecting an actual report.
Bard cleared the table and unfurled a map across it. "Since Riverdale's development, we've seen an increase in merchant ships from Dorwinion passing through. Some of those traders brought news: their eastern neighbors have grown... restless."
"Their old neighbors," Eric murmured. "You mean the Easterlings. What about them?"
"Rumor has it they're in turmoil. Their border garrisons have tightened security and even turned away Dorwinion's caravans entirely."
"That's unusual."
Eric tapped a finger thoughtfully on the table, recalling the vision he had seen through the Seeing-stone atop Orthanc.
A vast army, bearing the banners of Mordor, had marched north through the mountain passes, straight toward the lands behind the Easterlings.
Something was happening there. But why would Mordor send an army against its own ally? Unless the Easterlings were... turning away from the Shadow?
"Keep gathering information about that region," Eric said. "And reinforce our border defenses. You can also expand the army if needed."
Bard tilted his head. "Expand... by how much?"
Eric shrugged. "As much as you can."
"I understand."
He spoke lightly, not realizing how that single offhand instruction would soon trigger a long chain of consequences.
Though Bard often appeared relaxed—always with a cup of tea in hand and a mild smile—no one could deny his dedication to his duties.
Under his careful management, Riverdale thrived. Laketown prospered. Trade with the Dwarves and Woodland Elves flourished, and the region's exports and influence grew steadily.
He might look like a man who loved leisure, but every policy, every construction project, every diplomatic effort under his watch was executed flawlessly. If anything, his work often exceeded expectations.
"I trust you'll handle it," Eric said with a nod.
Bard smiled. "You always say that. And somehow, I always do."
As Eric prepared to leave, his thoughts lingered on the East. Lately, the Easterlings had been too active for comfort.
"I'll go see for myself when I can," he muttered.
After a brief farewell, Eric set his teacup down and departed northward toward Erebor.
At the gates of the Lonely Mountain, Dwarves stood guard and greeted him with booming laughter.
"Look! It's that bottomless stomach! The champion of feasts! The human chef of legends! The wildlands wanderer, Eric!"
A chorus of Dwarves cheered.
Apparently, Eric had far too many titles among them—some of which he would rather not be reminded of.
As he entered the grand gates, a short and broad figure came hurrying toward him.
"Eric! Hah! I saw you coming from miles away!"
It was Gloin. The Dwarf rushed in for a bear hug that only reached Eric's waist. Out of politeness, Eric let him squeeze for a moment before gently prying him off and coughing lightly.
"I came to see Thorin," Eric said. "There's something I need to give him. Nothing secret—you can come along if you like."
"Perfect timing! He's in the hall. Come on."
Moments later, they entered the great hall of Erebor.
Thorin Oakenshield sat slumped in his high chair, rubbing his temples after a long series of exhausting reports. When he finally looked up and saw who had arrived, his face brightened instantly.
"Eric!"
"Thorin. How've you been?"
"Still alive, at least," Thorin replied dryly.
"That bad?"
Thorin sighed. "A few short-term problems. They'll sort themselves out soon enough."
"I hope so," Eric said with a small grin.
They sat down around a broad stone table. Gloin poured ale, curious about Eric's mysterious visit.
Without a word, Eric reached into his pack and drew out a gleaming silver axe.
The air seemed to hum.
The moment Thorin's eyes fell on it, he shot to his feet.
Gloin's jaw dropped. "Wait... is that...?"
Thorin's voice trembled slightly. "Durin's Axe. The royal relic of Khazad-dûm itself!"
He accepted the weapon reverently, running his fingers over the engraved runes. "Long ago, it was the symbol of our royal line. Tell me, Eric—where did you find it?"
"In Moria, of course," Eric replied. "Along with a few blocks of mithril—enough for a single mail shirt. I hope you don't mind if I keep that part."
"Mind? Not at all!" Thorin said, barely able to contain his joy. "We'll even forge it for you ourselves if you wish!"
Compared to Durin's Axe, a bit of mithril was a trivial price. Even if he doubled the reward, no one would have dared to seek it in the deeps of Moria.
"I don't know how to thank you," Thorin said, voice steady again though his eyes still shone.
"You don't have to. I didn't do it for a reward."
"That's exactly what makes it so difficult," Thorin said with a sigh.
Eric laughed. "What, you think I'm one of those treasure hunters who'd risk life and limb for gold? Or a sellsword trading blood for coin?"
Thorin's expression hardened. "Never. And I'll not let anyone say such a thing about you."
Eric chuckled. "Funny thing is, I used to call myself an adventurer. I liked wandering about, finding trouble to get into... and I suppose I still do."
"Then let's say the axe found its way back through one adventurer's good fortune."
Thorin smiled and nodded slowly. "That does sound like you. You've always been more adventurer than lord anyway."
After all, what sort of lord vanishes for months at a time, wandering from one corner of Middle-earth to the next?
"Aha!" Gloin suddenly shouted, finally processing what he'd just witnessed.
He slapped the table. "I have to tell everyone! Durin's Axe has been returned!"
Before Thorin could stop him, Gloin was already dashing out the hall, shouting names as he went.
"Dwalin! Balin! Kili! Fili! Dori! Nori! Everyone, come see what Eric's brought!"
Thorin could only sigh and laugh at the same time. "I suppose the whole mountain will know within the hour."
Then he turned serious again. "By the way, what's Moria like now?"
"Not good," Eric answered. "It's crawling with orcs—more vicious than the ones in the Misty Mountains. There are trolls and beasts everywhere, and I barely got out alive."
"That sounds dire indeed," Thorin said gravely. "I hope you won't put yourself in such danger again."
Eric smirked. "The orcs and trolls I can handle. If I want to leave, they can't stop me. The problem was the Balrog. That thing's clingy. I fought it for days. From the West Gate all the way to the East Gate, neither of us could finish the other."
Thorin blinked. Then frowned.
"Wait... what do you mean you fought it from the West Gate to the East Gate?"