At the breaking of dawn, sleep had already abandoned Esgaroth. The entire town crowded the docks, forming a tide of anxious faces. In the canals, Bard's barges and other smaller boats bobbed on the water, their cargoes, supplies, and weapons secured firmly with thick hawsers.
Bard was bidding farewell to his children, dictating last-minute defense orders before leaping onto his vessel. Behind him, the dwarves—some still staggering from the previous night's mead—climbed aboard amidst the cheers and clamor of the crowd. The elves, in contrast, glided to their posts in absolute silence.
Miquella walked among the villagers, returning greetings with a smile that instilled courage in the fishermen's hearts. His Eldens followed at a short distance, hands always near their steel. Despite the imminent abandonment of their homes, the people of Lake-town showed a feverish exaltation; in their eyes shone not just the fear of war, but the golden promise of a better life among the riches of Erebor.
With the signal to depart, the oars struck the water in unison. The boats slipped through the canals while the people saw them off with a roar of well-wishes, though in the eyes of some, a deep worry could be read that no promise of gold could erase.
Once outside the city limits, the rhythm of the oars quickened. The expedition advanced with determination toward the shadow of the Mountain, taking care not to exhaust their strength prematurely. Miquella, sitting at the prow, remained in a state of absolute receptivity, absorbing the ambient energy of the waters and the northern winds. Although his reserves had been depleted, he trusted he would recover enough power for the encounter with the dragon; just in case, the weight of the glintstones in his tunic offered a guarantee of explosive strength should the need arise.
After hours of navigation, the keels ran aground on a pebbly shore. Bard's boat was the first to touch land.
It was a brief stop. In the distance rose the ruins of Dale, the ancient city of commerce, now reduced to a skeleton of charred stone. Miquella and Bilbo contemplated the place with the curiosity of one observing a relic of an alien time, admiring the scale of the devastation. However, for Thorin and Bard, the sight was an open wound. The sepulchral silence of the crumbled walls and the echo of the wind through broken arches were a brutal reminder of the malice of the beast that waited ahead. The ache of a lost glory hung in the stagnant air, reminding them all that they were finally entering the domains of death.
There was no time for melancholy. Under Thorin's clipped orders and the precise gestures of the Eldens, the gear began to be unloaded with feverish efficiency. The central element of their backup strategy, the great wind-lance, was assembled onto a reinforced wagon, becoming a piece of mobile siege equipment ready to be deployed in its final position.
At this point, the company's destiny bifurcated.
"Then, here we part," Bard said, scanning the ranks of dwarves, elves, and warriors from another world.
Worry clouded his features. He knew the confrontation was an inevitable certainty, but the weight of leading the contingent that would serve as the last defense pressed upon his chest. A single mistake, a hesitation at the moment of the shot, and his lineage would be extinguished under fire. At least he had the bitter consolation of knowing that Esgaroth would be empty; if the dragon awoke with a thirst for vengeance, it would find nothing but deserted docks.
"Do you remember the position I indicated?" asked Miquella, whose voice sounded clear and authoritative despite his stature.
Bard nodded firmly.
"Good. Stay alert. Your intervention may not be necessary, but you must be ready to act. Moore will go with you to ensure the ballista reaches its destination," Miquella declared, signaling the imposing Elden.
Moore stepped toward the wagon. With a gesture of brute strength, he shoved aside the citizens struggling with the weight of the wood and steel, taking control of the steering while Bard's men positioned themselves behind to push.
Miquella and the elves watched as the cart pulled away, disappearing among the rubble of Dale heading toward the path to the main entrance of Erebor. Without wasting a second, the rest of the group returned to the boats to use the riverbed a bit longer.
Finally, after a short stretch over the water, they abandoned the vessels. After securing the last provisions and their weapons, they began the silent ascent toward the secret entrance of the Mountain.
Time dissolved in the effort of the march. The terrain, once docile, grew increasingly steep; the vegetation retreated, leaving only a few hardy plants in its wake. No one stopped. No one dared complain. Regret was a luxury they could no longer afford.
Soon, the natural ramparts of the Mountain rose above them, flanked by the colossal statues of the dwarf kings of old, carved directly into the roots of the world. Beneath the shadow of these granite sentinels, a discreet and almost invisible path revealed itself at their feet. Thorin and his kin led the single file, followed by the Eldens and, closing the march like watchful shadows, the elves.
The ascension became an exercise in faith. The company had to climb the effigies themselves, traversing the stone embroideries of the royal robes, ascending by arms that held titanic axes, and winding through the sculpted beards of the ancestors. Perhaps the one who had it most difficult at times was Latenna and her wolf, but with help, both were able to climb. Finally, after one last stretch, they reached a hidden path that led to a blind wall, invisible to any eye looking from the valley.
"This must be it!" Thorin exclaimed, the first to touch the cold stone.
Emotion overcame him with such force that, for an instant, his hatred dissipated; he almost forgot he brought with him two elves of the Woodland Realm. The dwarves crowded behind him, caressing the wall as if it were the most precious treasure.
But the day was dying fast, staining the sky a bloody orange. Urgency erased hierarchies; no one cared anymore about keeping the elves away from dwarven secrets, for the mystery of the closed door consumed them all.
"Where is it?" Thorin growled, fumbling over the smooth surface with trembling fingers. "The map is clear: the keyhole will reveal itself with the last light."
He exchanged frantic glances between the sinking sun and the immovable wall, but the stone would not yield its secrets.
"Perhaps our shadows are hiding it," Bilbo suggested, trying to remain calm amidst the chaos.
"Everyone, to the sides! Now!" Thorin ordered, desperate.
They pressed themselves against the walls, holding their breath so as not to disturb the last trace of light. But the final rays of the sunset slid over the stone without revealing a crack, a relief, or a trace of the promised lock.
"It could be a riddle. Perhaps we are not understanding the clue correctly," Legolas intervened with a sharp seriousness. Seeing the desolation of the dwarves, he could not help but offer his perspective.
Thorin turned toward him with eyes burning with blind fury. Exhaustion and the fear of failure exploded in his voice.
"This is not one of your hateful and incomprehensible elven games!" he roared, venting his anger on the prince. "There are no riddles here, no misunderstandings, no poetic mysteries. This is dwarven construction, solid and true. If the map says the last light will reveal the lock, so it shall be!"
His shout echoed against the deaf wall as the last spark of the sun died on the horizon, plunging the platform into a gloom heavy with defeat.
Thorin opened his mouth to unleash a tide of insults upon the elves, but the words froze in his throat. The last golden thread of the sunset vanished, night fell like a heavy shroud, and the wall remained mute and blind. All the energy the dwarf had built up for the argument evaporated in an instant, leaving him with slumped shoulders, the living image of a will broken by disappointment.
The silence that followed was absolute. Everyone gazed at the empty stone, feeling the weight of failure on the appointed day.
"Then..." Gloin began, breaking the silence with a voice laden with uncertainty.
"We will have to take the main entrance," Thorin stated with a devastating flatness. The infiltration plan was crumbling, forcing them to resort to the Plan B Miquella had outlined. Though he did not lack courage, the idea of facing the Beast head-on, without the advantage of stealth, made him waver. "Do you really think you can kill him?" he asked, turning toward Miquella.
Dwarves and elves fixed their eyes on the Elden prince, awaiting an answer.
"Of course. If it were not so, we would not have come," Miquella replied with a smile so full of confidence it seemed to ignite a spark in the chests of those present. However, his expression turned mischievous. "But I think it is too soon to give up on this door."
"The sun is gone," Thorin denied with bitter disagreement.
"Perhaps today is not the right day," Tauriel intervened. She felt the need to support Miquella's vision in her role as 'right hand,' but she was also irritated by the speed with which the dwarves accepted defeat.
"Today is Durin's Day, and the last light has abandoned us," Balin explained with the patience of one comforting a child.
"As I recall, it is still a long way from midnight..." Miquella tilted his head, observing the map playfully. "Besides, I think you are forgetting a fundamental detail about how we read this parchment the first time."
Thorin frowned, searching his memory while his eyes jumped from the map to the wall. Suddenly, realization struck him like a lightning bolt. He looked up at the firmament, where the Silver Lady already claimed her throne.
"The moon!" he exclaimed, his voice regaining its vigor.
As if responding to his call, the clouds dispersed, allowing the moonlight to bathe the stone wall in radiance. The silver rays traversed the surface inch by inch until stopping at an almost imperceptible irregularity, a small depression that looked like a simple defect in the rock. But as the moonlight saturated it, the relief began to transform. Through an ancient optical artifice, an illusion etched into the stone itself, the depression gained depth until revealing, with astonishing clarity, the carved slit of a lock.
A burst of contained joy swept through the ranks of the dwarves. Thorin raised the key with trembling fingers, as if he still feared the object was a mirage of his own desperation. He approached the wall with almost religious reverence; the metal fit into the slit. As he turned it, the internal mechanism exhaled an almost imperceptible click.
Without setting aside the doubt in his heart, Thorin pressed his palms against the cold stone and pushed. The door yielded with a dull groan, shedding a rain of sediment, dust, and dry moss accumulated through the desolation of the years.
Before them, the throat of the Mountain opened at last.
Thorin turned toward the group with an expression where his usual pride had been replaced by fierce determination. The dwarves gazed at the threshold with a mixture of ecstasy and dread; Balin's eyes misted over, seeing in the darkness the reflection of a glory he thought lost forever.
"Erebor..." Thorin whispered to his companions. "Welcomes us once more."