Inside the grand hall of Erebor, beneath the mountain's crown, Thorin Oakenshield sat upon the throne carved into the stone itself, majestic, yet weathered by war and loss.
To his right and left were seated his most trusted guests: Sylas, Gandalf the Grey, Dáin Ironfoot, Bilbo Baggins, and Bard. The long hall echoed faintly with the crackle of braziers and the distant clink of gold being tallied in vaults beyond.
Beorn, having played his part in the battle, had already departed, borne aloft by a Great Eagle, returning to the wild woods and meadows of his homeland.
Thorin rose to his feet, the weight of kingship settling on his shoulders once more.
"These past few days, I have seen to the distribution of Erebor's treasures," he began. "You have each been summoned here so that you may receive what is rightfully yours."
He paused, eyes shadowed with regret.
"The only sorrowful news is that the Arkenstone, heirloom of my house, jewel of my people, is missing. We searched the vaults high and low, but it is nowhere to be found. Perhaps it perished in the dragon's fire. I had hoped to let you behold its radiance with your own eyes."
As he spoke, Thorin's gaze swept subtly across the chamber, reading every flicker of expression like a seasoned commander.
Dáin Ironfoot was the first to react, rising from his chair with a sharp intake of breath.
"What? The Arkenstone, lost?" he blurted, his bushy brows knitting with alarm. "How can that be? It was always kept in the vault, deep in the mountain! How could it simply vanish?"
For the Dwarves of Durin's line, the Arkenstone was not merely a treasure, it was a crownless crown, a token of divine right. To hold it was to be hailed as the King Under the Mountain by all seven houses of the Dwarves.
Without it, Thorin was merely ruler of Erebor. With it, he was the voice of all Durin's folk.
The seven clans, Longbeards, Firebeards, Broadbeams, Ironfists, Stiffbeards, Blacklocks, and Stonefoots, each held their own strongholds across Middle-earth. Independent, yes, but bound by ancient oaths and rivalries. The Arkenstone was the one relic acknowledged by all.
The seven clans of the Dwarves were scattered across the vast reaches of Middle-earth, each proud and self-reliant, yet bound by ancient ties of kinship and shared legacy.
Long ago, in the shadowy years following the forging of the Rings of Power, Sauron himself had distributed seven Dwarf Rings, one to the leader of each clan. Though they resisted his domination, the rings stirred greed and ambition in their hearts, and the memory of those days still lingered in Dwarven lore.
It was during the reign of Thráin I, Thorin Oakenshield's revered ancestor, that the Arkenstone was unearthed, gleaming like a star from the heart of the Lonely Mountain. The Dwarves of Erebor had shaped it with unmatched craftsmanship, and it became more than a jewel. It was the pride of Durin's Folk, a symbol of their kingship and destiny.
The seven great Dwarf houses had once sworn loyalty to the one who bore the Arkenstone. To possess it was to be recognized as the rightful King under the Mountain, more than just a lord of Erebor, but the ruler to whom all Durin's descendants would give heed.
So when Thorin announced that the Arkenstone was missing, shock rippled through the hall.
Bilbo looked down, guilt shadowing his face.
He couldn't help but wonder, if he had only been more careful back then, if he'd searched a little deeper, maybe the Arkenstone wouldn't be lost now.
In Bilbo's mind, there was only one likely explanation. As Sylas had once speculated, the Arkenstone must have perished in the fiery wrath of Smaug.
Gandalf, upon hearing this, besides being somewhat surprised, also thoughtfully glanced at Bilbo and Sylas.
As for Sylas, he remained seated with his arms lightly crossed, gaze calm and untroubled, as though this entire conversation had little to do with him. The storm of sentiment and sorrow sweeping through the room passed right over him like mist over the mountain peaks.
Then Thorin turned his gaze directly toward Sylas.
His voice lowered, solemn and sincere.
"Sylas," he said, "I would ask a favor of you."
The murmurs in the hall quieted instantly.
"Could you lend me the Palantír so I can search for the arkenstone's whereabouts and fulfill a wish of mine?"
Everyone's eyes turned to Sylas.
He lifted his gaze slightly, a faint flicker passing through his eyes, but his voice remained calm.
"It's possible," he said evenly. "But you should know, the Palantír has already been discovered by Sauron. He once attempted to corrupt me through it. I was only spared because of the protection of Lady of Lórien."
"If you use it, you must be prepared. He may see you. He may touch your thoughts. He may twist your will into something you no longer recognize."
Before Thorin could speak, Gandalf's face darkened with alarm.
"If Sauron has access to another Palantír," the wizard said gravely, "then he can peer through this one. He can see us, see you."
"His shadow is more insidious than dragon sickness, Thorin. You would never know when it takes hold. Thorin, you cannot risk using the Palantír!"
But Thorin, though clear of mind, remained ever the proud and stubborn heir of Durin.
"The Arkenstone is the heart of my people, Gandalf," he said. "If there is even the slimmest chance to recover it, I must take it. I'll not be swayed. If darkness falls upon me, I alone will bear its weight."
With that, he stepped down from the dais and approached Sylas directly, meeting his eyes.
"Sylas," he said solemnly, "please… grant me this request."
Sylas didn't flinch. He held Thorin's gaze for a moment, then let out a quiet chuckle.
"Since you insist, I have no reason to refuse."
From his pouch, he drew out the Palantír, and placed it carefully on the table before them.
"Thank you," Thorin whispered, reverently cradling the orb in both hands.
He closed his eyes and concentrated, focusing on the Arkenstone, the symbol of his line, his birthright, his burden.
The dark mist inside the Palantír stirred… then parted.
A vision emerged: a glimpse of the vast treasure hoard in the vault beneath Erebor.
Thorin's heart leapt.
Could it still be there, hidden among the gold and gemstones?
But as he scanned the shimmering mounds of treasure, his excitement faded. There was no glint of the Arkenstone. No sign of the jewel he longed to see.
He searched longer, unwilling to let go. Yet the stone offered no answer, only a silent, indifferent view of riches piled high.
Eventually, with a weary sigh, Thorin lowered the orb.
"Could it truly have perished in dragonfire?" he muttered, his voice hollow.
Sylas, meanwhile, made no comment. He simply reached forward and returned the Palantír to his pouch.
"Well, now that we've confirmed it," he said, tone dry, "shall we move on to more practical matters?"
Still silent, Thorin nodded and gestured to Balin and the others.
"Distribute the shares. Everyone is to receive what they are owed."
Thorin was somewhat dejected at the moment. He waved his hand, instructing Balin and the others to lead everyone to the vault to retrieve their share of the treasure.
He himself remained silent, staring at the empty space on the throne.
...
Upon entering the vault, everyone was once again awestruck by the treasures within.
The vault beneath the Lonely Mountain was vast, its towering ceilings echoing with the glint of gold and glittering jewels. Inside, the immense hoard had been divided into neat portions, each one still a veritable mountain of treasure.
"Sylas, this portion here is yours. One-tenth of the entire hoard," said Balin, leading him to the tallest mound of gold.
"And these nearby mounds belong to Lord Dáin, Bard, and you, Bilbo," he added, gesturing toward several smaller but still substantial hills of treasure.
Dáin's eyes sparkled the moment he saw his share. No Dwarf could resist the call of such wealth, especially not one of Durin's folk.
Bard, too, was visibly pleased. With this treasure, he could restore Dale to its former glory and ensure his people would want for nothing. It was the kind of fortune that rebuilt kingdoms.
But Bilbo… Bilbo looked at the gold before him and felt only unease.
He shuffled backward, his brow furrowed in guilt. "No, I didn't fulfill the task I set out to do. I didn't recover the Arkenstone… I shouldn't take any of this. I can't."
Before he could walk away, Fili and Bofur pushed him gently back toward his gold, laughing heartily.
"Come now, Bilbo, don't be so modest! You're one of us, our burglar, remember? You saved us in Mirkwood from those vile spiders, and you got us out of the Elvenking's dungeons too! You've earned every coin of this!"
Despite their words, Bilbo still looked reluctant, tugging at his collar and mumbling, "Even so, it feels wrong…"
In the end, Bilbo agreed to take only a small amount, just enough to feel comfortable, no more.
Thorin, having calmed down since the earlier discussion, entered the vault and observed Bilbo's restraint. His respect for the Hobbit deepened. Without saying a word, he stepped forward and placed a shining mail shirt over Bilbo's shoulders.
It was a vest of Mithril, light as a feather and stronger than dragon-scale. A priceless heirloom.
"This was meant for a prince," Thorin said simply. "But you've more than earned it."
He then attempted to fill Bilbo's pockets with gold coins and sparkling gems, much to Bilbo's visible distress.
Seeing this, Sylas stepped in. With a small flick of his wand and a murmured charm, he cast an Undetectable Extension Charm on a worn coin pouch, causing its interior space to expand vastly.
Without waiting for protest, he began shoveling nearly half of Bilbo's treasure into it. The pouch gulped it all down like a bottomless stomach.
"Enough! Enough!" Bilbo cried, waving his arms frantically.
Sylas finally stopped, smirking. Even Thorin's expression twitched as if resisting the urge to laugh.
He had momentarily forgotten just how unnaturally resourceful Sylas could be.
Unbothered, Sylas then conjured a larger leather sack for himself. He muttered the same spell again, enlarging the inner space until it could easily fit the contents of half a football field. The pouch rose from the floor, hovering, and then, like a hungry beast, it dove toward his own gold pile and began swallowing coins, crowns, and gems at astonishing speed.
Thus, Sylas's one-tenth share of the hoard was secured, an astronomical sum of gold, jewels, and ancient relics that instantly made him one of the wealthiest individuals in all of Middle-earth, second only to the Dwarves of Erebor themselves.
Bard and Dáin, who witnessed the enchanted coin pouch swallowing the mountain of treasure, were momentarily struck speechless. Then came the envy, palpable and unhidden.
They, too, found themselves wishing they possessed such a wondrous item: a money pouch that could effortlessly carry an entire mountain of gold.
Seeing their expressions, Sylas gave a small smile and, with a flick of his wand, extended similar charms to their coin pouches. While the internal space wasn't quite as vast as his own, it was still enough to accommodate their full share of treasure.
To Bard and Dáin, those bags became priceless artifacts. After all, such magically expanded storage items were themselves rarer and more precious than much of the gold they now carried.
Having secured his share, Sylas did not linger. Together with Gandalf, Bilbo, and Bard, he departed from the Lonely Mountain and made his way back to Dale.
They remained in Dale for a few days, enjoying the warm hospitality and heartfelt gratitude of its people. Before leaving, Sylas handed Bard a small vial of Floo Powder and showed him how to use the now-permanent fireplace connection he'd left behind.
"If you ever wish to visit Weathertop," Sylas had said, "you're welcome anytime."
In gratitude, Bard had the house where Sylas and his companions had stayed refurbished with stone and timber, turning it into a fine manor second only to the Lord's hall. It would remain Sylas's home in Dale forever, his name etched into the town records as an honorary resident, welcome at any time.
But Sylas, unaware of these gestures, was already on his next journey.
He now rode upon Smaug's back, high above the clouds, accompanied by Gandalf and Bilbo, heading east toward Mirkwood.
He had promised Thranduil a visit to the Woodland Realm, and Sylas was not one to break a promise.
More importantly, he also had to take Smaug to Rivendell to have Elrond, the master healer, heal Smaug's wings.
Despite his magical knowledge, Sylas's current Undetectable Extension Charm wasn't nearly powerful enough to fit a dragon like Smaug into a confined space.
After all, Smaug's full length exceeded 140 meters, with a head nearly 12 meters high, and wings that stretched a staggering 120 meters across.
Containing such a massive being inside a pocket dimension was no small feat.
"If only I had Newt Scamander's suitcase…" Sylas muttered.
Lacking that, they had to take the long route, flying over the Misty Mountains and across Eriador to reach Rivendell.
Sylas had offered Gandalf and Bilbo the option of using the Floo Network from Bard's fireplace to travel directly to Rivendell. It would have been quick, clean, and free of high-altitude windburn.
But both refused.
After all, how often does one get the chance to soar across Middle-earth on the back of a dragon?