Tauriel simply looked towards the town hall and said, "I think he was making sure that nothing would hinder the protection of this town."
The wind from the north began to carry a strange chill. The calm lake gently rippled, as if sensing the presence of something far greater than an ordinary storm. The night sky above Lake-town was slowly covered by dark, gathering clouds. In the distance, flashes of fire looked like falling stars—but they were not stars.
It was Smaug, the Fire Dragon.
Thalion stood in the middle of the town's narrow street, gazing at the sky that was beginning to glow. Beside him, Arwen and Tauriel were on alert, while the residents began to flee, seeking shelter.
"Time is very short," Thalion murmured.
He turned to Bain, Bard's son, who stood with a pale face but eyes as sharp as his father's.
"Bain," Thalion said firmly, "take Tauriel to the prison. Save your father. Tell him that Smaug will come tonight. Also tell him that his black arrow is the last hope of this town."
Bain swallowed, then nodded quickly. "I-I understand."
Tauriel gave Thalion a brief glance—full of understanding and respect—before chasing after Bain, who had already run ahead.
Arwen looked at Thalion anxiously. "Are you going to stay here?"
Thalion smiled faintly. "I will not let fire burn this town without a fight. Ryujin Jakka will face him."
He moved quickly, ascending the tallest building in Lake-town—the old bell tower that stood tall at the end of the dock. The night wind whipped his cloak as he stood at the top of the tower, Ryujin Jakka clutched tightly in his right hand.
"Arise, deepest flame...," he whispered softly.
He sat cross-legged on the weathered wooden planks, the sword plunged before him. His eyes were closed. The air around him began to vibrate, warm, then hot. Even the wood beneath him seemed to emit a thin vapor.
Ryujin Jakka was no ordinary sword. It was the guardian of an ancient flame. In his meditation, Thalion summoned the sword's full power, enveloping himself and the tower in a blazing red fire that did not harm, but contained the heat from outside.
In the distance, a roar like a thousand storms exploding simultaneously. Smaug had arrived, cleaving the sky and raining down sheets of fire that swept over roofs and docks.
But when the fire touched the space around the bell tower, it fractured. Like ripples of water hitting hot rock, the tongues of flame recoiled from the energy shield surrounding Thalion.
From below, the hiding citizens witnessed the miracle. One tower that did not burn. One person sitting still, protecting them from death.
And behind the fire and chaos, Bard, now freed, prepared his black arrow atop another tower, gazing at the enemy glowing golden-red in the night air.
Meanwhile, Thalion remained in meditation, not moving an inch, guarding the town with a breath united with embers.
Smaug glided low over the lake, his eyes burning like embers, and his chest heaving with unspoken fury. With a single flap of his wings, he ascended into the night sky and turned. He unleashed a breath of fire that exploded like an ocean of magma—hot and savage, aimed directly at the heart of Lake-town.
But the fire... stopped.
It did not burn.
Not a single house was consumed.
The tongues of flame veered in the air, scattering before touching the town's roofs. They flowed aside, then vanished like smoke swallowed by the wind. The fire seemed to recoil, or—even stranger—to be repelled by an invisible force.
Smaug roared in anger.
"What is this?!"
The dragon's voice echoed like thunder between the mountains and the lake. His eyes narrowed, staring at the town center, and he saw—atop the tallest tower—someone sitting cross-legged, unmoving. Before him, a sword glowed red like embers within a mountain's belly.
Thalion.
Ryujin Jakka stood plunged into the ground, emitting a different kind of heat aura. Not a destructive fire, but a repelling fire. A guarding fire. That aura created a kind of spiritual shield that enveloped all of Lake-town.
In the distant mountains, the Dwarves—who had just escaped Mirkwood—paused for a moment. Thorin stood at the edge of a cliff, gazing at the fire Smaug was unleashing.
"Why isn't the town burning?" Bilbo asked in astonishment. "Smaug spewed fire repeatedly..."
"And the town remains intact," Dwalin added, almost a whisper.
Balin narrowed his eyes, then said, "There's someone there... on top of the tower... Sitting amidst the flames."
"That person... is holding back Smaug?" Thorin muttered softly, almost disbelieving.
Back in Lake-town, Smaug grew increasingly enraged. He circled the town, assaulting from another angle, breathing fire from the east, then the north, then the west—still nothing burned. Ryujin Jakka repelled all incoming flames, and the tower where Thalion sat began to glow like a giant torch, forming a symbol of pure, impenetrable flame.
Arwen, standing below the tower, watched all this in silence. The wind caressed her hair, and her eyes gazed at the sky—filled with both awe and anxiety.
"He truly... changed the destiny of this town," she whispered to herself.
In the distance, Bard, now free, took his position behind a ruined house overlooking the lake. His black arrow was ready. His eyes focused on one point: the exposed part of Smaug's chest, not covered by scales.
And Smaug—unaware—faced that direction, his eyes still fixed on Thalion, the small being who somehow... thwarted his wrath.
The night air tensed as Smaug, the master of fire and destruction, slowly lowered himself. His massive wings flapped powerfully, creating a small storm that shook buildings and sent dust swirling throughout Lake-town. The heat from his body spread throughout the town, yet not a single house was touched by embers. Ryujin Jakka remained standing, elegantly plunged, forming a layer of air impenetrable by fire or malicious intent.
Thalion stood at the edge of the tower, his body upright, his hair gleaming under the dancing flames around him. Ryujin Jakka was now clutched back in his hand, emitting a fiery red aura like an angry sunset.
Smaug landed on a large building not far from where Thalion stood. Tiles cracked and collapsed under the immense weight of the gigantic dragon. His eyes, blazing like two pits of hell, stared directly at Thalion, filled with fury and a gnawing curiosity.
"Who are you?!" Smaug roared. His voice shook Lake-town to its foundations. "What kind of Man dares to withstand my fire?! What are you doing?! DO YOU THINK YOU CAN FIGHT ME?!"
Thalion merely stared at him, unafraid. He did not answer. Only gripped Ryujin Jakka tightly, and the air around him rippled with the rising heat.
Smaug roared once more, this time not just from anger—but also from losing control of the situation. He lifted one gigantic foot, preparing to crush the tower, to crush this small human, to crush everything!
However…
WHUUUUP.
The sharp sound of air being cleaved echoed amidst the roar of fire.
THWACK!!
A black arrow pierced the night air and struck squarely into Smaug's chest—in the gap Bard had long known about—the soft spot unprotected by scales.
"GAAARRHHHHH!!"
Smaug shrieked. A shriek that made the sky fall, and the earth tremble. Fire erupted from his mouth not by intent, but by wound. His eyes widened as he realized that it was... the last arrow. The arrow destined to end his life.
Hot blood gushed from his wound, flowing like lava. His wings flapped powerfully, trying to fly, trying to escape death.
He flew into the sky, roaring, spinning in uncontrolled movements. His body burned the wind, but lost direction and strength. He hovered for a moment... then fell.
Smaug's body slammed into the lake with a terrifying explosion, destroying some houses on the lakeside. Water and fire shot high into the air, then silence—profound silence.
Thalion still stood on the tower, his eyes fixed on where Smaug had fallen. Ryujin Jakka slowly faded from its blazing red glow. Arwen ran towards the base of the tower, her face anxious yet filled with emotion.
In the distance, Bard bowed his head, gripping his bow and taking a deep breath. He knew: the dragon had fallen.
And the world… slowly began to change.
Morning dawned slowly. A thin mist hung over the lake's surface, still rippling from the dragon's fall the night before. The scent of burnt wood still lingered, but there were no corpses, no mournful cries—because not a single resident of Lake-town perished that night.
In the ruined courtyard near the dock, the citizens gathered. Some still shivered, some wept with relief, and many stared at one figure: Bard.
He stood silent, still clutching his large bow. Beside him stood Bain, his son, who watched everything with wide eyes full of respect and pride. Behind Bard, several young men held fragments of black arrows they had managed to retrieve from the dragon's ruins.
Thalion and Arwen stood a little distance away, observing in silence.
On the other side of the dock, the Dwarves—Kili, Fili, Bofur, and others—gathered. They had not yet left. They watched how the people of Lake-town looked at Bard… as if seeing a shadow of the past.
An old citizen slowly rose from the crowd. His robe was tattered, but his eyes were clear and full of conviction.
"Your ancestor... Girion," he murmured to Bard. "He once tried to shoot the dragon. But his arrow failed. Everyone said it was just an old tale. Just a legend."
Bard looked at the old man calmly. "Girion did fail. But not because he was weak. He only lacked one thing: an opportunity."
"And you got it," another woman from the crowd said. "Not only did you succeed, but you saved all of us. Smaug's fire didn't touch a single house. That... was a miracle."
Kili stepped forward from the group of Dwarves, looking at Bard with profound respect. "You are not just an archer. You are the successor of Girion… and the guardian of this town's destiny."
People began to cheer. Not boisterous, not wild. But a gentle ripple of applause that spread like sparks through the crowd. Bard's name was uttered with reverence. Some embraced him, some knelt before him.
"You must lead us," Bain said in a small but firm voice. "We have no leader left. The Mayor is gone. All that remains is hope."
Bard sighed deeply. He looked at the lake, then the ruins, then the sky where Smaug had last flown. In his silence he said:
"I am no king. But I will take responsibility. Because tonight, history is not just repeating—but being set right."
Thalion turned to Arwen, who smiled faintly.
"It seems destiny is truly moving," Arwen whispered softly.
"And we are just witnesses to important chapters being rewritten," Thalion replied. "One arrow... one bloodline... and all of history changes."
The morning sky began to brighten. The Dwarves prepared to leave Lake-town for Erebor. But before they left, they looked at Bard and bowed respectfully.
"We will open the doors of our kingdom to you," Bofur said with a smile. "Because without you, that dragon would still be guarding our gold."
Bard merely nodded. But his eyes conveyed something deeper—he did not want gold. He only wanted his town... and his son's future... to be safe.
A cold mist enveloped the foot of the Lonely Mountain, Erebor. Light snow began to fall, marking the changing season—and changing temperaments.
The small company slowly approached the tightly sealed great gate of Erebor. At the front, Bard walked upright, still in his battle attire from Lake-town. Beside him stood Tauriel, her face stern but her eyes watchful. Behind them, Kíli and Fíli walked alongside Bofur and Óin. Some Lake-town citizens joined them, some carrying stretchers laden with supplies, others just carrying thin hope.
The Gate of Erebor, vast and gloomy, loomed like an eternal wall. There was no sound from within. No greeting. Only silence.
Kíli stepped forward and knocked on the massive stone door with his bow hilt.
"Thorin! It's me, Kíli! With me are our kin, Fíli, and Bofur, Óin—we've returned from Lake-town. We are safe!"
Silence.
Kíli tried again. "We bring news. Bard has come. He represents the people of Lake-town who fought and helped us! They are entitled to a share of that gold—as promised!"
Still no reply.
Bard slowly stepped forward. His face was stern, but his voice was calm.
"I have come not to demand. But to ask with honor. My people fought alongside you. And have defeated the dragon that once guarded your treasure."
He stared at the silent gate. The mountain wind rustled softly.
"I know gold can blind. But this is not the Thorin spoken of in songs. This is not the king we thought would return."
Still no answer.
Behind the gate, within the mountain's belly, now glittering with gold and jewels, Thorin sat on the Throne of the King Under the Mountain. The ancient crown of Durin was now upon his head. But his face was clouded, his eyes burning with agitation. His hands clutched the arms of the throne, as if to melt them.
"This gold... is ours," he murmured softly. "None of them... will get a single coin."
Bilbo stood not far from him, head bowed in distress. He had seen the change in Thorin. Not just greed—but a poison from within. The sickness of gold. "Dragon sickness," as the Dwarves called it.
Outside, Tauriel turned to Kíli. Their eyes met. No words, just shared sorrow. Erebor, which should have been hope, had now become a fortress for madness.
Bofur sighed deeply. "He won't open the gate. Not for us... not now."
Bard looked at the massive stone wall once more. He could have ordered a forced entry. But that would be war. And blood would flow for gold that had fractured this world more than once.
"If he will not speak..." he murmured, "then we must speak to the world."
He turned and began to walk down. Tauriel followed him. The others came along, one by one. But occasionally they looked back, hoping... perhaps... the door would open.
But it did not.
From behind the shadows of black stone, Thalion and Arwen watched silently. Thalion narrowed his eyes.
"Dragon's poison does not only burn the body. But also the heart."
Arwen nodded. "And sometimes, the most impenetrable wall... is avarice."
Heavy footsteps traversed the rocky mountain slope towards the valley that was once full of life. A cold wind from Erebor's peak seeped through their clothes, but none of them stopped.
Bard walked at the front. His gaze no longer carried the hope of that morning. Now there was only decision: if the doors of Erebor remained closed, then they would open new doors elsewhere.
Dale.
The old city stretched in the mountain's shadow. Once, houses soared, markets sang, and children ran to greet the harvest season. But after Smaug's rampage, Dale was a ruin. Its walls had crumbled, streets cracked, and the clock tower that once chimed was now just a silent skeleton, wrapped in wind.
Tauriel walked slowly beside Bard, occasionally glancing at Legolas who was helping to carry some small children from Lake-town. Behind them were the Lake-town citizens who accompanied Bard to Dale.
When they entered Dale's broken gate, Bard paused for a moment.
He looked around—the former pillars of blacksmith shops, moss-covered walls, and the ruins of the old town hall. But beyond that destruction, Bard saw something more important: a place to begin anew.
"This is where my blood comes from," he said softly. "My ancestors were raised here, before the dragon came and destroyed everything."
He turned to the others. "Now, we will rebuild. From the ashes. From the wounds. From the remnants of history."
An old man from Lake-town stepped forward, grasping a cracked wooden staff.
"We don't have much, Bard. No gold. No homes. Only hands and courage."
Bard looked at him deeply. "That is enough. Because destiny does not wait for those who have gold. But for those who dare to step forward."
So they began to erect simple tents among the ruins. Some people started clearing debris. Children lit fires. Women sang soft songs from their childhood, songs of Dale, to warm the night.
In the distance, standing alone on a high rock, Thalion and Arwen observed the town from afar.
"Do you see that?" Arwen whispered softly. "Men... always have the strength to rise, even without magic or long life."
Thalion nodded slowly. "And perhaps, that is why destiny always chooses them... to begin both war and peace."
Behind them, the wind blew softly, carrying the shadow of approaching battle.
The war was not yet over. But hope had begun to reignite—in a city that had once fallen, now stood.
The gray sky over Dale turned red on the eastern horizon, as the morning mist began to lift from the slowly rising city ruins. The campfires that had burned throughout the night still emitted thin smoke, while the faint sound of hammers clanging from the rubble echoed—a sign that hope had not died.
In the distance, the thud of hooves and the rhythm of marching columns sounded like drums from another world. The cloud mist slowly parted as the Elven army from Mirkwood appeared from the east. Their green cloaks waved in orderly fashion, and long bows appeared ready on the backs of each archer. They were silhouettes of wind and shadow—beautiful, disciplined, and deadly.
In the midst of the ranks, walking calmly and with full dignity, King Thranduil himself led. His long cloak was layered with silver leaves, a crown of branches still encircled his head, and his gaze was fixed sharply forward, as if piercing through time.
Bard stood in Dale's former market square, with Tauriel, Legolas, and some citizens. He raised his hand in a sign of respect. As Thranduil and his army stopped a few paces in front of him, silence fell for a moment.
Then Thranduil spoke, his voice calm and cold like winter lake water:
"We come not to conquer, but to remember. We have a right to an item in Erebor, and we hear that the dragon has fallen. We wish to claim what is ours… and to help those who suffer from his flames."
Bard looked into the Elven king's eyes—there was tension, but also mutual respect. He bowed his head briefly, then said in a firm voice:
"We have no intention of hindering anyone's rights, O King of the Forest. But what we seek is not gold. We only want protection and justice for my people. They have fought. This city is now a refuge. And I... I am no king, but I will stand for them."
Thranduil observed Bard for a long time, then slowly turned around, seeing the people of Lake-town building tents, helping each other, even welcoming the arrival of the Elven army without fear.
A small smile appeared at the corner of the king's lips. Not a warm smile, but an acknowledgment of courage.
"Then we stand on the same side," he said finally. "We will help prepare defenses, if war truly comes. I will await Thorin Oakenshield's answer. If he refuses, then war may be inevitable."
Bard nodded slowly.
"If that happens... then we will stand together."