"Kill the dragon? Leave that to my warriors," Miquella replied with a confidence bordering on arrogance. "But... perhaps that destiny includes you as well, dear archer."
Miquella fixed his golden gaze on Bard, while Thorin tilted his head, studying the human with severe scrutiny.
"Me?" Bard asked. Although his voice did not tremble, uncertainty clouded his eyes for a moment. He did not understand what role they expected him to play in the death of the fire-beast.
"We know you keep a Black Arrow in your house," Miquella stated.
Bard's eyes widened in surprise, but the expression was quickly replaced by bitter realization. The boy knew everything. He had been in his home, he had seen his secrets, and now he was claiming them for his war.
"You want me to shoot the dragon?" Bard asked, with a mix of tension and fatalistic acceptance.
"Only as a backup," Miquella consoled him, though his tone suggested nothing was accidental. "We hope it won't be necessary, but if Smaug manages to break the circle and escape the Mountain, it will be your duty to bring him down before his flames reach the valleys. Thorin still doubts your nerve; after all, he is no ordinary prey. During these days, it would be wise to prove him wrong. Practice, Bard. Fate often has poor aim with those who are unprepared."
Ignoring the sidelong glance the dwarf shot him, Miquella initiated a long strategy session where maps of the Mountain and war strategies became the sole protagonists.
...
The normalcy of Esgaroth fractured. The air, once heavy with the smell of fish, now vibrated with tension. Despite his initial reluctance and the lingering disgust at Miquella's manipulation, Bard assumed his role as the people's leader with silent determination.
As the new regent, he walked the docks house by house. Alongside Bain, he distributed the gold recovered from the Master, but every coin was accompanied by a warning: somber news of a forced "relocation" and the shadow of an imminent war. The people listened with a mixture of gratitude and dread; Bard's figure began to grow, leaving the bargeman behind to make way for the ruler.
Meanwhile, the dwarves of the company, acting as makeshift engineers, evaluated and maintained a certain dwarven ballista. Bard spent long hours training with the great wind-lance. He practiced with large wooden bolts, aiming at targets that grew increasingly distant and difficult.
Thorin, whose resentment toward Girion's failure prevented him from feeling warmth for Men, could not help but recognize Bard's skill. Bringing down Smaug would not be as simple as hitting those inert targets, but still, a spark of hope—and excitement—began to kindle within him. Perhaps victory was not so distant. He couldn't help but sigh at Miquella's foresight: he never would have considered Bard a key piece in felling the dragon.
For his part, Miquella received the rest of the Elden who arrived in Esgaroth and settled them into the Master's mansion, which was already beginning to feel crowded. It was they who, during the journey, had defeated another orc squad. Following Trina's orders, they left a few alive… and it was precisely those survivors who ended up reaching the city.
Since their arrival, the demigod had hardly been seen. He secluded himself in his quarters, transforming the mansion into a command center. There were moments when he simply locked himself in his room, in silence, with the black arrow he had handed to Latenna. Were it not for Trina's whispers, which carried his orders like echoes on the wind, many would have believed he had already abandoned Esgaroth.
That intangible presence only unsettled the inhabitants. Both the dwarves and Bard felt uncomfortable, even disturbed. Trina rarely showed a physical form, yet her words—appearing out of nowhere—were enough to cause more than one jolt.
Thus passed a period of tense calm in Esgaroth, a time of rest and preparation. Each group readied themselves for their own destiny: the company for the dragon; the soldiers and the people for a possible evacuation and war. Although Bard tried to contain the panic, some had already considered fleeing.
Alfrid was one of them… but he didn't get far. Miquella's warning—that he might run into the orc army on the road—was enough to break his resolve. He ended up returning, taking refuge in what he considered the safest place: near Miquella, adopting the role of a servant as faithful as he was terrified.
The preparation bore fruit sooner than expected. It didn't take long for a real orc incursion to arrive. Unlike the attack orchestrated by Miquella, this one sought blood.
However, fate brought new allies. Legolas and Tauriel, the elven captains of the Woodland Realm, burst into the fray just as the orcs reached the outer docks. Their arrival, added to the patrols Bard had arranged and the firm arms of the dwarves and Eldens, turned what could have been a massacre into a systematic execution. The new militia of Esgaroth fought with the Master's steel and the courage of those defending their home.
The attack was repelled without significant civilian casualties. When the last orc fell, Miquella broke his seclusion. Sending a message through Trina's whispers, he invited the two elves to the Master's mansion. He knew the tension between dwarves and elves would explode at any moment, and he wanted to act before insults turned into swords.
Once again, Miquella sat in that chair in the main hall of the mansion. Around him, the Elden occupied various spaces: some appeared distracted by their own affairs, but all maintained constant, almost instinctive attention on their lord.
Thorin, for his part, leaned against a wall, watching the elves with a scrutiny laden with distrust… and contempt.
"And what brings you here?" Miquella asked, extending his hands with hospitality.
Tauriel and Legolas exchanged a brief look. Then they observed the youth before them… and, from the corner of their eyes, Thorin, whose expression made it clear he needed no words to convey his hostility.
As a prince, it was Legolas who stepped forward.
"I have come to help you."
There was no doubt or hesitation in his voice. He knew enough: the dragon, the movement of the orcs… and also that this youth was not someone he could ignore. His father had already warned him.
"Ha. Over my dead body," Thorin spat from his corner, stepping forward with his hand on the hilt of his sword.
"Welcome aboard!" Miquella exclaimed, ignoring the dwarf's outburst with a radiant smile. "We depart for the Mountain soon. Rest and prepare your arrows."
"Miquella!" Thorin roared, his face reddening with fury.
"Thorin, we are in no position to reject allies," Miquella replied, remaining calm.
"I will not let any elf set foot inside Erebor while I draw breath!" the dwarf growled with iron determination. The grudge from past betrayal and the recent imprisonment in Thranduil's halls boiled in his chest. "Let them go back to their woods if they don't want to taste the weight of a dwarven axe!"
Miquella sighed, a sound denoting patience that was running thin.
"You are exhausting, Thorin... Do you not understand that their help would serve us well?" Miquella leaned forward, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial tone. "What if we used them to draw the dragon's fire while my Eldens strike the killing blow? It's likely they'll die in the process, of course... but they would make the path easier for us."
Thorin stopped in his tracks. The idea of using the elves as cannon fodder against Smaug made his refusal waver almost imperceptibly. Miquella's pragmatic cruelty appealed to the darkest part of his ambition, though his pride still resisted the presence of the "pointy-ears."
"Fine, we'll leave it as a maybe. We'll discuss it later, Thorin," Miquella said with a sharp courtesy, standing up to gently nudge the dwarf out of the center circle.
"It's not a maybe! It's a no!" Thorin insisted, planting his feet.
"We speak later, Thorin," Miquella declared. This time, his voice lost all warmth. It was a cold order, accompanied by an imperious gesture that admitted no reply.
The dwarf did not like the gesture, nor the way he was being expelled from his own war council. However, Miquella's plans had restored some hope to his goal; he could not afford to break the alliance. He left with a bitter face and a clenched fist, brooding over his hatred.
Miquella reassumed his affable expression as he turned to the elves.
"Well… he's a bit grumpy, but that's how dwarves are," he commented lightly. "I'll convince him. Get ready: we must kill Smaug. And I assume you are also aware of the approaching orc army."
"My father has told me of it. He is already preparing his forces," Legolas replied with his usual seriousness.
"Perfect. Rest or prepare, as you prefer. I will notify you when we depart," Miquella continued calmly. "Though, if you could do me a favor… I would appreciate it if you helped train the townspeople. They are not a considerable force, but the better prepared they are, the better for everyone."
Legolas studied the boy for a few moments, trying to reconcile the small figure before him with Thranduil's warnings about his danger. Finally, he nodded, accepting the task from this "Elden" prince. He didn't know if this was part of the "destiny" he sought, but he would have time to find out.
However, when Legolas prepared to leave, he noticed Tauriel was not following. The captain took a step forward, fixing her gaze on Miquella.
"Oh, my jailer... What a surprise to see you here," Miquella said with a voice heavy with hurtful innocence. "Have you come to whip me now that I'm no longer behind bars? How dedicated you are to your work..."
At those words, the air in the hall turned to ice. The Eldens present tightened their grips on their weapons; their murderous gazes converged on the elf with physical intensity. Even Legolas let out a rare expression of shock.
"My King gave me the order to capture you and return you to your cell," Tauriel said. Her voice sounded empty, but her hands shook imperceptibly.
The Eldens took a step forward, ready to take her down, but a slight wave of Miquella's hand stopped them in their tracks. Legolas watched the scene in confusion; he knew nothing of a capture order.
"My, how curious... I must admit I miss you a little," Miquella continued, feigning a melancholic shyness. "No one had hit me like you... making me bleed. I think I've developed that prisoner's sickness where they grow fond of their captors. I miss the attention you gave me when you mistreated me..." He rubbed an arm, looking down. "I suppose it's all due to my family issues. Mother, father... both."
Tauriel's heart sank. She failed to realize that Miquella was playing with her, systematically demolishing the strict façade of the elves. Leda, watching from a corner, recognized the trick instantly. She herself had been a victim of those "mind games" so many times that she was the only one who didn't bother to unsheathe. Everything was going as her lord desired... even if she had to see him debased in such a way.
"But I'm sorry, Tauriel. I cannot go back with you," Miquella denied with feigned resignation. "I have a dragon to kill, an orc army to annihilate, and a people to save."
"I... I have not yet decided if I will carry out the orders I was given," the elf stammered, hesitant.
Her King's words were clear: she must not return without him. But she didn't understand why. She didn't understand what crime this child had committed to deserve such a fate… or if she was willing to obey without question. Her loyalty was fracturing.
"Oh, well... then why don't you join us in this campaign?" Miquella proposed with his sweetest voice. "You are an exceptional warrior and we need you. Besides, that way you can keep an eye on me and prevent me from escaping. Once we have finished with the dragon, I will let you take me back to your prison... so you can scourge me as much as you like."