In LOTR with Harry Potter system

The arrival of Sylas and Gandalf filled the room with relief and joy.

Even Thorin Oakenshield, usually stern and guarded, allowed a rare smile to touch his face.

Since the two had parted ways with the company back in Wilderland, the group had endured one disaster after another. First, they lost their way in Mirkwood, overcome by the forest's heavy air and strange illusions. Disoriented and dizzy, they stumbled straight into the webbed lairs of the Giant Spiders, barely escaping with their lives.

No sooner had they cut their way free than they were captured by the Woodland Elves and thrown into the dungeons of Thranduil's palace. After a daring escape involving barrels and swift currents, they were chased by Elves from behind and hunted by Orcs ahead.

It had been a harrowing journey, wild and dangerous, nothing like the smoother travels they'd had when Gandalf and Sylas were with them.

All previous grievances seemed forgotten as Thorin stepped forward, his voice low but firm.

"Welcome back, Sylas. Welcome, Gandalf," he said with unexpected warmth. "With the two of you by our side again, I believe this journey to reclaim Erebor will succeed."

But Gandalf didn't smile.

Instead, he shook his head slowly, his expression clouded with concern.

"I'm afraid not, Thorin. We may not continue to the Lonely Mountain."

The room fell silent at once.

Thorin's smile faded, and his face darkened. His sharp gaze locked onto Gandalf with sudden intensity.

"What are you saying?" he demanded. "What do you mean the quest ends here?"

Gandalf looked around at the others. All eyes were on him, expectant, uncertain. He let out a quiet sigh.

"We've learned troubling news," he said. "From the Orc commander we captured on the riverbank. The dragon inside Erebor, Smaug, has awakened."

He paused. The weight of the next words was heavy.

"Worse still, he's made a pact with Bolg, Azog's son. They're working together."

There were audible gasps. Several Dwarves clenched their fists. Others sat back in stunned silence.

"To march into Erebor now," Gandalf continued, "would be like sheep walking into the dragon's jaws. It would be suicide."

He turned to Thorin, voice growing more urgent.

"The plan to sneak in, take the Arkenstone, and rally the other Dwarf clans, it's no longer viable. We must reconsider. We need a new strategy."

For a moment, no one spoke.

The house fell into a heavy silence, broken only by the soft crackle of the fire. Even the bravest Dwarves wore grim expressions. They all knew what it meant when Smaug awakened.

The Dwarven Kingdom at its height had failed to stand against him. What chance did a small band of thirteen hold?

To the dragon, they wouldn't even be a snack.

Thorin's jaw clenched. Though clearly shaken, his eyes burned with something else, unwillingness. His fingers tightened into fists.

"No," he whispered. Then louder, "No! I won't stop now."

He stepped forward, voice growing sharp and wild.

"Let the dragon awaken! I will take back the Arkenstone, whatever the cost!"

He began pacing, muttering to himself.

"We can divide our forces. One group draws Smaug's attention at the front gate. The other sneaks in through the hidden passage and retrieves the Arkenstone. If we're fast..."

"You're mad," Gandalf interrupted, stepping in front of him. "You know what Smaug will do if provoked. If he flies into a rage, he will not only destroy your company, he will rain fire upon Lake-town. Innocents will die, Thorin. Children. Families."

But Thorin's eyes had lost their reason. They were filled with fire and shadow.

"War," he said coldly, "always demands a price."

Everyone stared at Thorin in disbelief. Even the Dwarves, his closest kin and most loyal companions, were stunned by what he had just said.

"You've truly lost your mind," Gandalf growled, his voice trembling with restrained fury. His fingers clenched tightly around his staff, and for a moment, it looked as though he might strike the Dwarf just to knock sense back into him.

The tension in the room thickened like storm clouds.

Sensing that things were spiraling out of control, Sylas finally stepped forward.

"Enough," he said calmly. "There's still over a month until Durin's Day. We have time. Let's all take a breath and think this through together."

His words were steady, rational. And they worked.

The oldest Dwarf among them, Balin, quickly nodded in agreement. "That's right. There's no need to rush to madness. We'll come up with a new plan. We always do."

Bard, the host of the house, stepped in next. Though clearly uneasy about the dragon talk, he did his duty and gestured toward the chairs and table.

"Sit. All of you. We'll talk this through properly."

Reluctantly, Gandalf and Thorin moved to opposite ends of the room. Thorin sat with his arms folded, staring at the floor. Gandalf took out his pipe and smoked in silence, his eyes hidden behind drifting rings of smoke.

The Dwarves glanced at one another, exchanging nervous looks. No one dared speak.

Bilbo shifted uneasily on a stool near the door, wringing his hands.

Sylas, on the other hand, wasn't troubled by the heavy silence. His attention had turned elsewhere, toward Bard.

Though the man now lived as a humble boatman and trader, Sylas knew his story well.

Bard was no ordinary townsman. He was the last known descendant of Girion, the former Lord of Dale, the city once nestled at the foot of the Lonely Mountain.

When Smaug had descended in flame and fury, Dale was reduced to ash. But Girion had stood his ground. With a mighty black iron arrow, he had struck the dragon, tearing away a single scale from its chest, the only wound Smaug had ever known.

That very black arrow had been passed down through Bard's family.

Sylas's eyes scanned the room and landed on something hanging against the far wall.

It was no ordinary arrow.

He stepped closer.

The weapon was over two meters long, forged entirely from blackened steel. It looked more like a harpoon or a ballista bolt than an arrow, with a thick shaft and razor-sharp tip. 

This was it. The legendary arrow. The only known weapon that had ever wounded Smaug.

"Guest?" Bard noticed Sylas examining the wall and walked over, curiosity in his tone.

Sylas gestured to the large iron arrow mounted above the hearth.

"May I take a closer look at that black arrow?"

Bard blinked, a little surprised. "You know what it is?"

Sylas nodded. "I've heard of it. A weapon said to have been forged by the Dwarves to pierce the hide of dragons. It's said to be strong enough to breach their armored scales and strike a fatal blow."

Bard gave a bitter smile and shook his head.

"If it were truly that powerful, the city of Dale would still stand, and my ancestor would not have perished in flame. He fired this very arrow at the dragon, but Smaug lived, and Dale burned."

Sylas said nothing, but he knew the truth.

Girion, Bard's ancestor, had not failed completely. His shot had knocked a single scale from the dragon's chest, creating the only known weakness in Smaug's near-impenetrable hide. That small wound, hidden on the dragon's left breast, would one day prove fatal.

Their quiet conversation had not gone unnoticed.

Balin leaned forward from the bench, peering closely at Bard. His eyes lit with recognition.

"You're a descendant of Girion, the Lord of Dale? I thought there was something familiar about you. Aye, you do resemble him!"

Bard offered a modest smile tinged with self-deprecation.

"Then you have sharp eyes, Master Dwarf. I'm no lord, though. Just a boatman trying to feed his family."

At that moment, Thorin, who had remained silent throughout the exchange, rose to his feet. His eyes locked onto the black arrow with a look of fierce longing.

"So this is it," he said softly. "The black arrow said to slay dragons."

Gandalf, watching closely, narrowed his eyes.

He saw where Thorin's thoughts were going.

"Don't be a fool," the wizard warned, his voice low and serious. "There's no guarantee that arrow will kill Smaug. The dragon is ancient, cunning. He won't give you a second chance if you miss the first."

"Even with that arrow in hand," Gandalf continued, "you are more likely to provoke the dragon's wrath than end his life. And if he rises in rage, he will burn everything, this town included."

But Thorin barely heard him.

His gaze remained fixed on the arrow, eyes gleaming with obsession.

"No. This is fate. It's no coincidence that we've found it. This weapon was placed in our path by destiny itself, to aid us in our mission."

He turned sharply toward Bard.

"How much?"

Bard blinked. "Pardon?"

"The black arrow," Thorin said. "I want to buy it. Name your price."

Bard stared at him, then shook his head.

"I'm sorry. It's not for sale. This arrow has been in my family for generations. It is the last of its kind."

Thorin's tone hardened. "You will sell it."

Bard's expression darkened, but Thorin pressed on.

"You're Girion's heir. You know the riches buried beneath Erebor. If you give me this arrow, I will see to it that you receive one fourteenth of the treasure once we reclaim the mountain."