Those present stood staring at Tilda, who began to recount the story, stammering with her heart racing.
"We were playing and ended up talking about clothes, and she… he said he had some clothes from his land. He made them appear and… we thought about trying on different dresses and… I saw it…" she said, pointing at them, remembering that small thing she had seen—the thing that distinguished men from women.
With such an explanation, the mystery was solved, though the impact was evident. Tilda was the most affected because the "friend" she thought she had made was a boy, despite being so pretty. She couldn't believe a boy could look like that, and her blush persisted while the images kept racing through her mind. Sigrid also let out an exclamation upon learning the youth's gender. Bard and Bain already knew—or at least suspected—Miquella's gender, especially thinking he was an elf, as they were quite androgynous.
Finally, with everything cleared up, Bard was about to remove Miquella from his daughters' room. Although elves were not known for that kind of "wickedness," he didn't intend to let this boy—who had passed himself off as a girl to get close to his daughter with what he considered malicious motives—remain in the room for another second. But before he could take a step, a strong, feminine hand stopped him. Leda, looking at him coldly out of the corner of her eye as if warning him, blocked his path.
"We'll play again later, Tilda," Miquella said, breaking the silence as if nothing had happened. "Keep those dresses; I'll see if I can get something similar for your sister later. I like you. Perhaps, when I reclaim my realm, you shall become one of my maidens." He said it with absolute naturalness, with the authority of one who possesses vast lands and titles, and left the room with a light step.
"So... you are a prince..." Tilda whispered to herself.
She had spent the last hour talking to him; she knew Miquella's mother was a queen and had thought he was a princess, getting excited about this "friend." Now she had another shock realizing he wasn't a princess, but a prince, and thus the idealized image she had of princes was subverted. At this moment, her thoughts were completely muddled: princes weren't supposed to be this pretty, nor have hair of spun gold, nor give away dresses. Her world, much like her father's, had just become much more complicated.
...
Back in the main room, the atmosphere had become stifling. Bard stood before his guests.
"You have to leave," he stated coldly. "Right now. I want nothing more to do with you."
"Fine, but give us the weapons we paid for," Thorin countered, maintaining that defiant tone that so irritated the bargeman.
"Don't bother, Thorin. He cannot give us the steel you seek," Miquella intervened, with a calmness that contrasted with the urgency of the situation. "The equipment you need is in the municipal armory, under lock and key and guard, is it not?" Miquella fixed his gaze on Bard, waiting for confirmation.
Bard did not answer. He simply remained silent, but it was enough to confirm it. At this point, he didn't care about denying anything; he just wanted them gone and, if possible, for them to fail in their task so that Smaug would not return to unleash reprisals upon the city.
"Why don't you ask Thranduil for weapons?" Bard spat with contempt, trying to shift the problem onto the elves. "I'm sure the Master would be delighted to escort the Wood-king's nephew back to his palace."
Miquella let out a melodic chuckle as he tucked a lock of hair behind his ear.
"I already said I am not his nephew. I am not even an elf. We simply have a good cooperation. And Thranduil would not give weapons to dwarves, just as they would never accept help from him."
"You are not an elf?" Bard exclaimed.
He had suspected something was strange about the relationship between this youth and the dwarves. After seeing his pointed ears, he had assumed it was perhaps a special situation. Maybe part of his story was real: a child who wanted to see the world. But now… Anger began to bubble in his chest. "Do you know what trouble you'll get us into when the Master hears of your farce?!" he hissed in a whisper, fearing the walls had ears.
"That is of no importance," Miquella replied, dismissing the weight of it with a wave of his hand. "As I understand it, your Master is a man whose only loyalty is to gold. Here you have the dwarves who come to reclaim the treasure of the Mountain. A simple promise of future riches will be enough for him to treat them like kings and hand over the weapons we need." Miquella turned his head toward the entrance with a knowing smile. "And speaking of which..."
*Knock!* *Knock!* *Knock!*
"Open up in the name of the people! The Master demands entry!" an authoritative voice boomed from the other side of the wood.
Bard's heart sank as he heard it, as if all the problems of that day were about to explode at the same time. Although, thinking about it, it was also an opportunity. If the "elf" child's farce was discovered, perhaps they would all be arrested. That would likely include him. But at least the Mountain would remain silent and the dragon, asleep. And perhaps, just perhaps, Esgaroth would be saved from the fire.
The door gave way with a creak, forced open just seconds after no one responded. The Master, his portly figure squeezed into frayed silks, burst into the room followed by Alfrid, his shifty-eyed assistant, and a small detachment of guards. The house, already crowded, seemed to shrink under the presence of the newcomers.
With affected pomposity, the Master scanned the humble dwelling, not hiding his disgust at the poverty of the place. Finally, his eyes landed on Miquella, and his expression changed drastically to one of rehearsed servility.
"Greetings, young elf. I am the Master of Esgaroth," he said, performing a slight bow. "I greet you in the name of the city and formally invite you to a welcome banquet in your honor... and that of your company." He looked up at the band of dwarves with condescension. "I have been informed that your royal guard has been sighted and is heading this way. I believe the wait will be much more pleasant in my palace."
The Master tried to appear fatherly, reaching out a greasy hand with the intention of patting Miquella's head. The youth, with a fluid and swift movement, stepped back, avoiding the contact with an elegance that bordered on disdain.
"I find it an appropriate proposal," Miquella replied lightly. "After all, we are no longer so welcome here."
"What?! You are not welcome in this house?!" The Master feigned absolute indignation, though inside he was brimming with joy. He turned toward the bargeman with fiery eyes. "Bard! Are you bothering our distinguished guests?"
He was about to give the order to his guards to beat Bard right then and there; it would be the perfect excuse to get rid of an agitator and, at the same time, win the favor of the "elves."
Sigrid hugged her father, terrified, while Bain took a step forward with clenched fists, determined to defend his home. Tilda watched the scene from the stairs, her heart in her throat.
"Guards..." the official began to order.
"No, it is not that," Miquella intervened softly, cutting the order out of the air. "It is simply that Bard's house is far too small for so many, and the aroma of fish is... persistent."
Miquella gave the Master a smile loaded with a sweet but hidden venom that the man mistook for a compliment.
"Furthermore, I wouldn't want my royal guard to have difficulty finding me in such a hidden corner of the town. Bard was recommending to my companions that we move to your palace to avoid trouble. It's curious... great minds think alike, don't you agree? You appeared just as we mentioned the need for a leader."
The flattery, though blatant, had an immediate effect on the Master's ego. His anger evaporated, replaced by an inflated satisfaction.
"Clearly, it was the most logical choice," he said, puffing out his chest with pride. "Then, onward! I shall show you the best Esgaroth has to offer."
The Master gestured for them to follow, but before leaving, he cast a conspiratorial and malicious glance at Bard. He didn't need to strike him today; in his mind, the bargeman's fate was already sealed.
Bard, rigid as a statue, felt the malice in the Master's gaze and knew that as soon as the house was empty, he had to flee with his family. However, Miquella read his thoughts. The youth gave him a fleeting, reassuring look before turning to the girl on the stairs.
"I will be back tomorrow to play, Tilda," he said in a clear, singing voice, making sure every guard and the Master himself heard him. Then he picked up one of the cooked fish on the table and took a bite, closing his eyes with an expression of delight. "It is good… I also want to taste Sigrid's cooking again," he commented, looking at the older sister.
With those simple words, he had shielded Bard's house. As long as the "elf" showed interest in returning, the Master would not dare touch that family. At least, not for now. However, he had also thwarted Bard's silent plan to flee Esgaroth. With the Master bent on pleasing his illustrious guest, he would not allow the bargeman to disappear so easily.
"Come, Thorin. I believe that of all of us, the Master will be delighted to hear your offer," Miquella said as he moved toward the door. "In fact, it should be made before all the people. After all, sharing the treasure of the mountain is good news for everyone."
He smiled softly, but his words were like storm-heavy clouds.
"What? Treasure?" the Master stammered, tripping over his own feet as he followed Miquella. Until that moment, the dwarves were nothing more than nuisances, but the word "gold" had activated his most primal instincts.
Thorin didn't fully understand what Miquella was doing. It wasn't part of the original plan. Still, he trusted him and followed, waiting for the elder to reveal his intentions. Behind him marched the other dwarves, crossing through the door with its shattered latch one by one.
Shortly after, the house fell silent. Only Bard's family remained.
"Da?" Bain asked, as if needing to confirm it was all over.
"What's going to happen now?" Sigrid whispered, overwhelmed by everything that had occurred since her father's return.
Bard inspected the empty doorway.
"I don't know..." he replied gravely. "But there will be trouble."
...
The company crossed the city under guard escort and arrived at the largest building in town. The inhabitants who saw them advancing began to surround them. Since their arrival, rumors had spread like wildfire: the dwarves, the prophecy of Durin's line returning to the mountain, the promised riches… and also the story of the mysterious elven child who had appeared in Lake-town. Now everyone wanted to confirm it with their own eyes.
"Are you sure about this?" Thorin asked in a low voice, watching the crowd circling them.
"It is for the best," Miquella replied with serenity. "We need to win the people's trust, recover, get equipment, and depart safely. Stop acting like a criminal... You are a king, Thorin." His words sought to stir the dwarf's pride. "Besides, it is only a fraction of gold. Insignificant compared to what lies in the mountain. Are you not willing to part with a portion you won't even notice? Just promise it… and all will be well. It's not as if you couldn't fulfill it, right? Because someone like you would keep his word… wouldn't he?" The final tone was colder, sharper. It wasn't just advice; it was a test.
Thorin was caught in his thoughts, not noticing that the Elden King was analyzing him, measuring the weight of his ambition and the reach of his honor. Finally, the dwarf snorted and nodded, making a decision.