He stepped toward the center of the open space. He parted the crowd with a firm stride and, raising his arms, declared:
"People of Esgaroth!" His voice resonated with a force that brooks no reply, silencing even the Master, who seconds before had been about to order his soldiers to disperse the crowd he so disliked. "I stand before you! I am Thorin, son of Thrain, grandson of Thror! Heir of Durin and rightful King under the Mountain!"
The silence that followed was absolute, broken only by the lapping of water against the docks. The prophecy had just come to life, and Miquella watched.
"We are the dwarves who have returned to reclaim what is theirs by right: the Mountain of Erebor," Thorin proclaimed, pointing toward the horizon with a solemnity that made the skin of those present crawl. "I myself witnessed the greatness of your ancestors. Dale was a prosperous community, a beacon of trade that fell into darkness the same day the Mountain was stained with blood."
Thorin's words spread like wildfire through the crowd. The Master frowned, torn between suspicion and interest, while among the people blossomed an electric mixture of nervousness and hope.
"But the time of the fall is over. It is time to rise once more!" Thorin continued, raising his voice. "We plan to recover our home and, with it, the treasures that the usurper guards. Therefore, today I appeal to you, our ancient allies... Will you help us restore the glory of the Mountain? A glory that will bring with it riches capable of returning this people to their former splendor."
Thorin walked before the throng, holding the gaze of the men before stopping defiantly in front of the Master.
"Riches are shared among friends. The Mountain hides enough gold for all of us to leave behind the cold, hunger, and poverty. Are you willing to extend your hand for a prosperous future for all?"
The burst of joy was deafening. The spark of the prophecy had found dry tinder in the hearts of the inhabitants of Esgaroth. The younger ones, who knew only the misery of the lake, shouted for a future they could barely imagine, while the elderly wept, remembering the tales of their parents.
Even the Master was swept away by the tide, though his excitement was of a much darker nature. In his mind, he saw not public welfare, but his personal coffers overflowing. As the ultimate authority, he was already calculating how to "administer" gold that did not even exist yet.
"Of course we are willing!" the Master exclaimed, opening his arms with feigned generosity. "Esgaroth has never turned its back on its dwarven brothers. Not a man will hesitate to put his life at risk for this noble cause!" he promised lightly, offering the blood of his subjects while he remained safe behind his desk. "What do you need? My people shall grant it. My soldiers will prepare for war!"
"It will not be necessary for your people to sacrifice themselves," Miquella explained with a serene smile. "We only require equipment, supplies, and a place to rest before our departure. We do not ask for your lives, only your hospitality."
A new roar of approval shook the square. The confidence with which the young elf spoke fed the illusion of an easy victory. The Master sighed in relief; gaining a fortune without spending a single soldier was the best deal of his life.
"You shall have it! You will receive the finest steel and the most exquisite delicacies. While you remain in Esgaroth, you will be treated with the same distinction as myself," the Master declared, inviting them into his palace with a servile gesture.
Miquella gave Thorin a brief nod, acknowledging his performance. The demigod entered the palace followed by Leda and Ansbach, whose silent footsteps marked the end of the scene. Thorin, for his part, frowned with a hint of bitterness; he disliked this "game" of promises with humans, but he knew Miquella was right. Using the gold of the Mountain as a bargaining chip was a small price to pay if it bought their way to the top.
What would come later would be fire and death, but that night, at least, Esgaroth would dream of gold.
...
The entrance to the palace was nothing but an excuse for the Master to make a boastful display of his domain, disguising his bragging as a guided tour to "entertain the guests." Neither Thorin, who held in his memory the stone glory of Erebor, nor Miquella, son of Queen Marika, showed the slightest impression at such decadent luxury; however, both maintained the mask of courtesy.
Shortly after, a banquet was served where the hierarchy became clear: the company was placed at one side of the table, while the Master sprawled in an excessively extravagant chair at the other end. Noticing that his "elven" guests appeared reserved and almost humble, the man began to exude an unearned sense of superiority.
"Look at us: humans, dwarves, and elves sharing bread, united to reclaim the Mountain," the Master declared, laughing with greasy complacency. "Alfrid, more wine!"
Alfrid, acting like a hound after its master, hurried to pour the liquor with servile gestures and flattering looks. The dinner passed under a tense calm. While the Master went on discussing the future distribution of riches as if they already belonged to him, only Miquella played along with soft nods.
The dwarves, for their part, were blunt by nature, and such human social banquets had never been their thing. One had already seen how things ended during the elves' feast.
Thorin, meanwhile, grew increasingly irritated; he felt a vein throbbing in his forehead as he listened to that fat man talk about his ancestors' treasure as if it were his own loot. It was an insult bordering on the intolerable. Every time the dwarf was on the verge of exploding, a look from Miquella managed to appease him, reminding him that silence was his best weapon for now.
To the company's relief, the dinner concluded and the quarters were prepared. Miquella and Thorin were settled in the palace, while the rest were led to separate lodgings. Once alone in the demigod's room, Thorin was quick to give vent to his contempt.
"Is all this... paraphernalia truly necessary?" the dwarf growled, pacing back and forth. "If that man thinks he is going to receive a single copper piece from my people's Ark..."
"I know, Thorin. Believe me, I know," Miquella replied patiently, but upon seeing Leda enter the room and receiving her report with a brief nod, his tone became more playful. "It will only be for a short time. Hold out until tomorrow... after that, leave it all to me. You just limit yourself to smiling and nodding."
Miquella sketched a cunning smile that made Thorin shudder slightly. Confused but exhausted, the dwarven prince decided to trust him once more.
"I hope you're right," he finally muttered before retiring to his own quarters, dreaming of the moment he could leave behind the stench of human corruption.
When Thorin departed, Miquella reached out his hands toward Leda. Under the excuse of not wanting to sleep alone in a strange place, he invited the knight—who was now playing the role of an "elven mother"—to share his rest.
In the shadows of the bed, the whispers began. Leda confirmed that her lord's orders and Trina's visions had been fulfilled; everything was set for dawn. However, a strange sensation overcame the warrior. While she felt the warm, small embrace of her lord on one side, she perceived another presence, identical and ethereal, embracing her from behind.
Miquella and Trina shared a silent laugh at the bewilderment of poor Leda, caught in that double embrace, between the physical and the dreamlike. Thus, wrapped in the twins' magic, sleep finally claimed her.
...
The following morning arrived quickly.
Miquella woke early. Leda and Ansbach were already busy carrying out his orders, and according to Trina's reports, his sister and the rest of the Eldens would not be long in arriving at the city.
Everything was going quite well. That was why Miquella ate breakfast with a calm smile.
Of course, there were some inconveniences. Bard, after hearing what Thorin had promised and what the Master had accepted so cheerfully, had been trying since early morning to convince the people that this was madness—warning that the arrival of the dwarves and their intention to reclaim Erebor would only end in tragedy.
But for Miquella, that was irrelevant. In fact... it was something he had expected.
The Master woke up late, though not as late as usual. Alfrid accompanied him, as always. The assistant, true to his servile and opportunistic nature, had gone to wake him with the news that the "elves" were already awake... and were waiting for him. Or at least that's what Leda had said when she opened the door of his room to give notice.
Neither Alfrid nor the Master liked being woken up, but if the guests were elves, appearances had to be maintained.
The Master descended from his quarters at the top of the palace... and stopped upon reaching the dining room. Miquella was sitting at the table, eating breakfast with total tranquility. Before him was an extraordinarily elegant breakfast: fine breads, perfectly cut fruits, honey, butter, fresh milk... dishes that clearly did not seem to be the work of the usual palace cooks.
"It seems I arrived just in time for breakfast," the Master said, trying to sound cordial while hiding a slight frown. It deeply bothered him how naturally that child occupied his table, but it bothered him even more that his own cooks were serving delicacies that had never been offered to him.
"Good morning, Master," Miquella responded calmly, drinking from a cup of milk. "I hope you slept well."
His tone was so natural that it seemed he was the host... and the Master, the guest.
"Yes... of course..." the man replied with a tense laugh. "In fact, I should be the one saying that..." the man muttered, feeling the air in the room grow heavy. That child was not acting as submissively as the day before.
"Sit down, or remain standing. It doesn't really matter," Miquella stated, returning to his plate without looking at him.
"But what is go—?!" The Master could not finish the sentence. At that moment, Thorin and the rest of the dwarves burst into the room.
"Miquella! The bargeman is outside," Ori announced, his voice breathless with worry. "He's gathering the people and trying to convince them not to help us!"
"He's doing what?!" the Master bellowed, turning toward Alfrid. "Where are my guards?!"
"They're outside," Bilbo replied, peeking his head through the dwarves. "But it's strange... they aren't stopping Bard. On the contrary, it seems they're clearing the way for him to speak."
"What!?" The Master roared.
"It's fine," Miquella said with absolute tranquility, finishing the last bite of his breakfast. "Those are the orders I gave them."
"Your orders?! What kind of outrage is this?! How dare you defy my authori—?!"
The Master's fury was extinguished in an instant. Miquella had made a slight gesture with his hand toward his own neck. It was an almost imperceptible movement, followed by a metallic hiss and a strange sensation of lightness. The world, suddenly, began to spin for the ruler.
"AAAAHHHH!!" Alfrid's scream was a high-pitched shriek of pure terror as he saw the Master's head detach from his torso and roll across the floor.
Leda, who stood behind him, sheathed her sword with mechanical precision. She pulled out a silk cloth to wipe the scant blood staining the steel, maintaining an expression of absolute severity. However, in the depths of her gaze, a spark of cold satisfaction gleamed: she had finally silenced the man who had dared to act with arrogance before her lord.