"Miquella?! What have you done?!" Thorin exclaimed, completely stunned.
The other dwarves stood paralyzed, exchanging looks of pure shock; Bilbo, for his part, seemed to have turned to stone, unable to tear his eyes away from the Master's body.
"A good deed..." Miquella replied with total naturalness, dabbing the corner of his lips with a silk napkin before standing up. "I expected to see you more satisfied, Thorin. You yourself complained all through dinner about how hateful this man was."
"Are you mad?!" the dwarf roared, his anger competing with panic. "We cannot afford trouble with the locals! Not now! We have to leave, now! Before the guard finds out and locks us all up. We cannot lose our chance to enter the mountain. Pack your things and...!" he ordered his kin, preparing for a desperate flight that would likely end in disaster.
"Calm yourself, Thorin. Everyone, stay still," Miquella said, walking slowly through the room with his hands clasped behind his back. "Everything is under control. You surely don't believe I acted on a simple mad impulse... All of this was planned."
Miquella turned his gaze toward Ansbach, who entered holding Alfrid by the collar of his tunic. The assistant had tried to slip out through a side door, but the warrior's hand had intercepted him effortlessly. Ansbach let him go, and Alfrid fell to his knees, crawling toward Miquella.
"Please, don't kill me! I have three wives and a son who cannot walk! They will starve without my support!" he began to shriek, his voice cracking with sudden weeping, failing to notice his numeric error. "And my mother! My poor, elderly, arthritic mother, who only has me to rub her ointments...!"
Alfrid's lies poured out with astonishing speed, weaving a tragic biography that grew more absurd with every word. The dwarves and Bilbo listened in disbelief; no one could have a family so numerous, ill, and wretched all at once. It was a masterful performance.
"Enough..." Miquella said.
"And my dog! My beloved lame dog waiting for me at the door...!" (Alfrid)
"I said I am not going to kill you," the demigod reiterated.
"No? I mean... of course not!" Alfrid stopped dead. He swallowed his next sob, wiped his tears with his sleeve, and stood up, regaining his composure as if he had never cried. Then he shifted his tone to one of cloying flattery. "Someone as dignified and magnificent as you would never stain your divine goodness with the blood of a humble servant. Your righteousness... no, your magnificence shines with its own light. You have done the right thing! This man was a vile being, a tumor on this city who deserved death," he declared, casting a look of disgust at the corpse of the man who, five minutes ago, had been his master.
To prove his new loyalty, Alfrid approached the Master's body and gave it a kick.
"A corrupt tyrant! You have no idea of the miseries he caused! Your arrival has been our blessing, young lord. Your grace in ridding us of him has saved us all." Alfrid was about to prostrate himself again, this time to worship his new patron.
"I am glad we are in agreement," Miquella said, showing no trace of emotion at the assistant's change of sides. "Because I need your cooperation out there." He pointed toward the main door with his thumb.
"Whatever you command, your highness. I am your most devoted servant..." (Alfrid)
"Miquella, what on earth are you plotting?" Thorin watched the scene with deep suspicion.
"I am just making things flow, Thorin... and while I'm at it, helping some good people take their rightful place. If you want the path to the Mountain to be easier, I need you to help me with a couple of details," Miquella concluded with a smile that did not reach his golden eyes.
Thorin looked at his companions and sighed. At this point, there was no turning back. He could only hope that the "child's" plan wouldn't end with them in regret.
...
"We cannot risk the dragon waking and raking across everything we have!" Bard shouted to the crowd. "What they promise aren't riches, but death and destruction!"
The murmur of the throng grew in front of the Master's house, a tide of doubt crashing against greed. Bard was a respected man, someone who had always extended a hand to those in need, and his words weighed like lead on the conscience of his neighbors.
However, in that instant, the heavy palace doors swung wide open. Miquella stepped outside with a calm and ethereal expression. There was something about him… a nearly sacred serenity that caused the noise of the crowd to die down little by little. Conversations faded into whispers as every gaze turned toward the youth.
"Thank you, Bard, but it is no longer necessary for you to entertain them," Miquella said, giving him a smile filled with an almost brotherly gentleness. "It has been achieved. The tyrant has fallen and Esgaroth, at last, is free."
The crowd exchanged confused glances between Bard and Miquella. But no one was more confused than Bard himself. The youth looked at him with such trust, such familiarity… as if they were old allies.
Miquella made a slight gesture backward. Ansbach, with cold efficiency, cast the remains of the Master before the steps, letting the head roll until everyone could see it.
"Is that the Master?!"
"He's dead! They've killed him!"
Panic and disbelief erupted in the square. The soldiers gripped their spears, but the spell Miquella had woven over them that morning kept them anchored to their posts. They felt the urge to act, but at the same time felt their duty was to remain like iron statues holding back the mass.
Ori and Dori, under the demigod's orders, placed a small platform in front of him. Miquella ascended with light steps and, spreading his arms as if he wished to embrace the entire city, let his voice resonate in every corner.
"People of Esgaroth, hear me. I am Miquella... not an elf, nor a common man, but an Elden. I came to this city with a dual purpose: the first, as you already know, is the reclamation of the Lonely Mountain. But the second... the second is to free your souls from misery."
His voice possessed a supernatural charm that forced men to pay attention—a melody that numbed judgment.
"This man who lies before you was judged and condemned just moments ago after his abject corruption was proven. Unfortunately," he added with a note of feigned sadness in his tone, "he had to be executed on the spot when he attempted to violently assault us upon being detained."
No one knew how to react. It was too violent a paradigm shift: the ruler of years, erased at breakfast. Bard felt an electric tension running down his spine; something didn't fit. He opened his mouth to speak, but before he could utter a word, another figure jumped into the light.
"He's right! Our lord Miquella speaks the truth!" Alfrid exclaimed, coming forward with the momentum of a newly converted martyr. "The Master wallowed in luxury while you starved! He considered you inferior beings, cattle born only to serve him! He planned to exploit you until your very last breath!"
Alfrid's words were a hammer blow to the hearts of the citizens. They all knew Alfrid; he was the Master's lapdog, the executor of his injustices. To see him now, transformed into a vigilante confessing his former master's sins and swearing loyalty to the foreigner, left them in a state of absolute stupor. The accomplice had become the star witness for the prosecution.
"This man was not a ruler, he was a parasite! A tyrant with a heart blacker than the cruelest orc!" Miquella's voice cracked like a golden whip over the square, igniting a collective indignation that boiled in the people's blood. "He condemned you to hunger while he drowned in wine and delicacies! He slept by the warmth of the firewood your children needed so as not to die of cold! He trampled on those who sought only justice!"
Under the influence of his voice, the crowd seemed to move in unison, hypnotized by the youth's divine cadence. Miquella then pointed toward the mansion doors.
"Look at what this man tore from your hands at the cost of your suffering!"
The dwarves emerged one after another, carrying heavy chests of reinforced wood. As they dropped them in front of the platform, the lids flew open, spilling out a tide of gold coins, crafted jewelry, and ancient relics. For the treasure of Erebor, this was pocket change; for the people of Esgaroth, it was an unimaginable fortune that brought the sparkle back to their eyes. Even the dwarves—who, following Miquella's directions, had found the secret chamber behind a false wall—were surprised by the deceased's accumulation.
"Here is your sweat! Your tributes!" Miquella shouted, his voice rising above the gasping of the crowd. "Money that you earned with blood and that he left to rot under lock and key to fuel luxuries he did not deserve! Look at your own bread turned into useless gold!"
Every eye was fixed on the gold. Not even Miquella's magic would have been necessary now. The mere sight of that wealth was enough to capture all attention. Some people even took a step forward, but the guards—whose minds already belonged to Miquella—maintained the line with iron discipline.
"Fear not! This money is yours and it shall be returned to you!" Miquella declared, unleashing a roar of joy so powerful that the Master's corpse was forgotten on the ground. "I have come to punish evil and restore the order that was taken from you!"
The square filled to the brim; more and more people left their houses and joined the throng. Even Sigrid, Tilda, and Bain appeared in the crowd, ignoring their father's orders to stay home. Miquella smiled upon seeing them and then fixed his gaze on the bargeman.
"But before restoring your prosperity, we must thank the one who made all this possible," Miquella pointed with a graceful gesture. "Bard!"
Bard felt a chill. He tried to shake his head, but Miquella's voice buried him.
"Thank you, Bard! I did not know this people were agonizing in such a way. Esgaroth, listen! This man is your savior! He knew of your misery and the Master's poison. He called to us! He humbled himself before us, pleading for help for his people!" Miquella bowed his head in a feigned gesture of respect. "At the risk of losing everything, Bard planned this coup. His courage has eradicated evil from these streets."
"No! I didn't do that!" Bard shouted, but his words were drowned in a thundering ovation. The people did not doubt: they knew Bard's integrity, and if anyone could have orchestrated such a miracle, it was him.
"Leave modesty to common men, Bard! You are an honest hero and you deserve this acclaim," Miquella continued, stepping down from the platform to approach him, forcing the crowd to part. "What is a King? What is a Ruler? A people does not exist to maintain the luxuries of a throne! It is the government that exists for the people! A King is one who ensures the well-being of his people!"
Miquella turned back to the mass with a smile of absolute justice.
"That man who lies dead failed in his duty and has paid the price. You do not need a parasite... you need a worthy leader. Someone who cares for your tables and your homes. Look at the hero who has made it possible! Tell me, people of Esgaroth... now that you have no guide, who is the only choice to lead you into this new era of prosperity?"