Lord Of Stone , Blood Oaths

Chapter One: The Night the Mountain Burned

The first warning was the wind itself.
It came down the ravine hot and pine-scented, carrying cinders that bit the skin like red snow.
Thorin Urkingkm stood on the outer balcony of Gaebor’s eastern keep, shirt unlaced, watching the black ridge beyond the river.
He thought it was a summer storm until the ridge spat a ribbon of fire straight into the sky.

“Highness,” old captain Bael whispered behind him, “the beasts have breached the lower gate.”
The words felt thin; the roar that followed was not.
It was the sound of stone cracking under impossible weight, the sound a mountain makes when it decides to die.

Thorin ran.
Boots slapped wet stone, torch-smoke stung his eyes.
In the court below, elk-riders of the Elf-Organization wheeled in frantic circles, bows drawn but with no target—only falling embers and the hot reek of animal fear.
A copper cauldron burst overhead, showering warriors with boiling broth.
No one screamed; they were past screaming.

“Form on me!” Thorin shouted, though his voice cracked like a boy’s.
He was twenty-two, crown prince for exactly eight days since his father’s hunting accident.
The warriors looked at him, then past him, as if waiting for the late king to step out of the smoke and take command.
None came.
Thorin drew the short sword at his hip—a coronation gift still un-bloodied—and slapped the flat against a shield.
“To the bridge!”

They obeyed, not because he was royal but because movement felt better than standing still.
Across the bridge lay the Deep Armory and the secret postern that opened onto the goat paths.
If the mountain was lost, at least the line might survive.
That was the single thought Thorin allowed himself; more would have snapped the last thread of strength in his knees.

Halfway across the span he glanced back.
The keep’s roof rose like a black ship adrift in a red sea.
On the highest gable crouched Jungle Animals Smaug—part leopard, part lizard, wings folded tight as wet sails.
Even at this distance the dragon’s eyes found him, yellow, unblinking.
The beast smiled, showing every tooth, and leapt into the night’s furnace.

Stone groaned.
The bridge lurched.
Warriors pitched forward, mail shirts scraping sparks.
Thorin’s captain caught him by the collar and dragged him on.
“Keep your feet, lad. Grief comes later.”
They spilled through the postern just as the parapet behind them folded into the gorge.

Outside, the world was cold stars and the smell of burning orchards.
Refugees already clogged the path: drof craftsmen with scorched beards, elf children clutching harps without strings, goats bleating like lost trumpets.
No one had told them where to go; they simply climbed because down meant dragon.

Thorin tried to count them, to organise, but numbers slipped his mind.
He kept seeing his father’s face in the torchlight two nights earlier—tired, kindly, promising to teach him the mountain’s deeper songs once the harvest feast ended.
The feast was ash now, the songs buried under molten gold.

“Give them a banner,” croaked Bael.
The old captain ripped the embroidered hem from his own cloak—silver stars on midnight—and pressed it into Thorin’s fist.
“Hold it high so they know the line endures.”
Thorin raised the scrap of cloth.
It fluttered small and pathetic, yet heads turned.
A dribble of hope, bitter as old honey, kept them walking.

They marched until the soles of their boots smoked.
At the tree-line they looked back once more.
Middle Mountain stood outlined in fire from summit to root, a colossal coal in the night.
Every quarter-hour a tower collapsed inward, sending up whirlwinds of sparks.
The sparks looked like fleeing souls; perhaps they were.

Dawn found them on a bare ridge called the Widow’s Spine.
Frost silvered the grass, cruel against the memory of heat.
Two hundred souls had followed the scrap of banner; by sunrise thirty more lay still, wrapped in cloaks that could not warm the dead.
Thorin walked among them, closing eyes with fingers he could no longer feel.
No tears came.
He wondered if the dragon’s breath had dried something inside him forever.

Captain Bael built a meagre fire of sagebrush.
They passed one tin cup of water, each sip measured by heartbeat.
When the cup reached Thorin he stared at the rust inside it and saw his own reflection: soot-striped, eyes too wide, a stranger wearing the face of a prince.
He drank anyway.
The water tasted of tin and guilt.

An elf woman named Mairen produced a single crust of journey-bread and broke it into exactly forty crumbs.
She did it slowly, as if carving gems.
Warriors watched the crumbs the way starving dogs watch meat, yet no one reached.
Mairen looked at Thorin.
“Your Highness,” she said, voice steady, “bless the bread.”
He almost laughed—what blessing could a prince give who had lost his mountain before the crown touched his brows?
But the silence pressed; they needed words to hold the pieces of their hearts together.

He took a crumb between thumb and forefinger.
“For the living,” he said, the simplest prayer he knew.
One by one they ate, forty mouths, forty chews, as if the world itself hung on the ritual.
When the last crumb vanished, the wind felt colder.
Thorin realised they were waiting for orders.
He had none to give.

Days blurred into a single colour of hunger.
They moved at dusk, hid at dawn, circling the mountain’s skirts like wolves afraid of the carcass they once ruled.
Game had fled; berries were blackened by ash.
They gnawed pine bark and called it bread.
Thorin learned the sound a belly makes when it gives up hoping for more: a small wet click, almost polite.

On the seventh night they reached the ruins of Highbridge, an ancient aqueduct raised by dwarf masons in the First Deep.
Arches stood broken teeth against the stars.
Bael said the place was cursed; Thorin cared only that the wind could not bite through stone.
They lit no fire.
Instead they sat in a semicircle, passing a helmet filled with rainwater.
When the helmet came to Thorin he saw his own reflection again—cheeks hollow, beard patchy with soot.
He tried to imagine the man who would one day walk back into Gaebor and seat himself on the obsidian throne.
That man felt deader than the towers still glowing behind them.

A young drof named Gríss cleared his throat.
“Highness, what’s the count now?”
Thorin blinked.
“Count?”
“Of us. How many blades still answer your call?”
He looked around.
In the starlight he counted ninety-four.
Ninety-four left of the once-Three-Hundred Royal Guard.
He told them the number.
No one spoke, yet he felt the silence thicken, as if each soul weighed the odds and found them wanting.

Mairen broke the quiet.
“My mother used to say a mountain is only rock; kingdom is the people who sing beneath it.
We still breathe.
So the kingdom breathes.”
Her voice shook on the last word, betraying the cost of hope.
Thorin wanted to embrace her, to borrow some of that courage, but his arms felt made of lead.
Instead he nodded, a motion small as a heartbeat.

That night he dreamed of gold.
Not coins or goblets but molten rivers pouring through corridors he had walked since childhood.
The gold whispered his name, promising that if he would only dive, it would harden into armour no claw could pierce.
He woke with the taste of metal on his tongue and the certainty that the dream had been a message.
Greed, he told himself, was a survivor’s instinct, nothing vile.
Yet the memory of the river lingered like perfume from a forbidden room.

On the tenth dawn, scouts brought word: elf clans of the western vales were mustering under a cedar-banner, debating whether to swear fresh oaths or scatter forever.
Thorin felt the moment arrive, heavy as a headsman’s axe.
If he approached as a beggar, they would feed him once and forget him.
If he came as prince, he needed proof the line still carried steel.

He stood beneath the tallest arch of Highbridge, moonlight striping his face through cracked stone.
Ninety-four warriors formed a ragged crescent.
He drew the short sword—still unbloodied—and raised it.
“By this steel,” he said, voice rough as river gravel, “I will take back what was torn from us.
Not for glory.
Not for pride.
For the right to stand beneath our own stars without fear.”
He paused, tasting the enormity of the promise.
“Who rides with me?”

One by one they knelt, mail clinking like distant hail.
Old Bael was first; Mairen was last.
Ninety-four blades lifted in salute, catching moonlight like shards of broken mirrors.
The sound they made was thin, almost lost in the wind, yet to Thorin it rang louder than temple bells.
He sheathed the sword, feeling the first true weight of kingship—not the crown, but the oath.
Behind him the ruined aqueduct groaned, as if the stones themselves warned how easily vows could crumble.

He turned east, where the mountain still smouldered, a black tooth against the paler dark.
“Then we ride,” he said, though they had no horses, only feet blistered raw.
The words were not true yet, but saying them made the next step possible.
One step, then another, ninety-four shadows following the tattered star-banner.
Somewhere far off, Jungle Animals Smaug laughed inside a golden hall, counting bones like coins.
Thorin could not hear it, yet the sound waited for him, patient as death.
He walked toward it anyway, because a prince who has lost everything still owns the path he chooses.
Behind him the archway stood empty, moonlight slowly sliding from the stones, taking no side in what would come.