In this world, there is neither telephone nor network, yet there is sorcery.
Through the manipulation of the unseen and the swift wings of messengers, information travels with a speed that defies the vastness of the wild. By noon, the news of the Fire-drake's emergence and his decree to establish a Kingdom of Dragons had already reached the ears of nearly a third of Middle-earth.
As evening approached, in the hidden valley of Rivendell, the Lord Elrond listened to the reports of his scouts. His reaction was far more grave than that of Thranduil. Elrond understood that while Smaug was arrogant, he was rarely erratic. A dragon does not talk of kingdoms without a purpose.
What shadow has stirred in the East to cause such a change? Elrond mused, his brow furrowed with ancient worry. He turned his thoughts toward Galadriel, the Lady of Light, seeking her counsel across the vast distances between their realms.
Meanwhile, in the tower of Isengard, the White Wizard Saruman—whose very presence radiated a cold, calculating ambition—let out a dry, mocking chuckle.
"A mere beast dreaming of sovereignty," he sneered. "A dragon's 'kingdom' is but a heap of ash and stolen coin. A farce, nothing more."
In the annals of pride, even Smaug might have found a rival in Saruman.
The news continued to ripple outward. However, the Shire, that land of peace and small things, remained blissfully unaware. It would take time for the tremors of the world to reach those quiet hills.
There, Gandalf the Grey sat enjoying a rare moment of tranquility, blowing smoke rings and awaiting the arrival of Thorin Oakenshield and his company of rowdy Dwarves. He knew nothing of the fire that had already begun to burn.
Night drew near.
On the mountain paths leading from the lake to the ruins of Dale, hundreds of refugees trudged through the dirt. Suddenly, as if moved by a single instinct, they stopped and turned their faces to the sky.
Under a sunset of vivid crimson and gold, the gargantuan form of Smaug eclipsed the dying light. With a beat of his wings that sent a howl of wind through the valley, he descended upon the wooden town.
The people watched in silence.
Within minutes, plumes of white-hot fire erupted from the dragon's maw. Lake-town—their home of generations—was swallowed by an inferno. The light of the conflagration turned the sky a violent, bloody red.
The refugees said nothing. There were no words for the terror they felt, only a crushing weight of grief. Their past was being reduced to embers before their very eyes.
High above the flames, Keith felt a surge of predatory exhilaration.
Human nature is inherently good? he thought, exhaling a gout of flame that leveled a warehouse. Nonsense. He had never believed that platitude in his old life, and he certainly didn't believe it now. The thrill of destruction, the absolute exercise of will—it was a primal, intoxicating truth.
He circled back, making sure no corner was left untouched. Finally, his eyes sought out the high watchtower. It was empty. The Dwarven Wind-lance, which had once stood there, was gone.
In the original history, that lance had been his undoing. Sixty years ago, Bard's ancestor had used it to pierce his hide, leaving a single, fatal gap in his scales. And in a stroke of poetic, cinematic luck, Bard was destined to use a single Black Arrow to find that exact spot.
"How droll," Keith rumbled to himself, the sound lost in the roar of the fire. "A miracle of destiny? Not this time."
He knew Bard had taken the lance. He didn't mind. In fact, he looked forward to the sport.
As the night fully claimed the world, Keith watched the lake reflect the glowing orange of the pyre. Satisfied that Lake-town was a skeleton of ash, he banked his wings and returned to the Lonely Mountain.
From the highest terrace of the Mirkwood, King Thranduil and his son, Legolas, watched the distant glow of the burning town.
"My Lord, the beast has kept his word," Legolas said softly.
There was a strange, chilling dread in his heart. If the dragon could burn a town on the water tonight, what would stop him from turning his fire upon the trees of the Elven-king tomorrow? Against such a calamity, who could stand?
"Yes," Thranduil replied, his voice devoid of emotion, though his eyes mirrored the distant fire. "It seems he truly intends to reign."
Legolas looked at his father. "Is it possible... that there are others? Can one dragon truly make a kingdom?"
"It is not possible," Thranduil stated firmly. "The great drakes of old—Scatha, Glaurung, Ancalagon—all were slain by the heroes of Men and Elves. Those who survived fled into the wastes or withered away. Smaug is the last. He is the end of his line."
Legolas remained silent, but the doubt lingered. Were we not certain there were no dragons left before Smaug fell upon Erebor?
"What shall we do, Father?"
"The world beyond our trees is not our concern," Thranduil said, turning away. "We shall fortify our borders. We shall prepare. But we do not march to meet a fire we did not light."
Legolas watched his father walk away, his youthful heart troubled by the king's cold isolation.
In Rivendell, on the Terrace of the Moon, the shimmering projection of Galadriel appeared.
Elrond, who had been waiting in the starlight, bowed his head in respect. He quickly relayed the day's events.
"Do you believe this is merely a dragon's whim?" Galadriel asked, her voice like the chime of silver bells.
"At first, perhaps," Elrond admitted. "But there is a focus to his actions that troubles me."
"I feel it too," the Lady of Light replied. "A shadow is stirring, regaining its form in the cracks of the world. Whether the dragon is a part of that shadow or a rival to it, we must watch him closely."
"It shall be done," Elrond promised.
The two spoke for a long while before the projection faded into the mist.
As the night grew deep, in the comfortable hole of Bag End, the Dwarves of Thorin Oakenshield's company were shouting and feasting, their manners as crude as their songs. Bilbo Baggins was nursing a headache, wondering how his quiet life had been so rudely interrupted.
Gandalf sat in the corner, puffing on his pipe and watching the merriment with a small smile.
Suddenly, a multi-colored butterfly fluttered through the open window, landing on the wizard's hand. Its wings beat a frantic rhythm.
As the message took shape in his mind, Gandalf's smile vanished. His face paled, and the light in his eyes turned to cold steel. The Fire-drake had awakened, and the game had changed before it had even begun.