Thorin's hand remained wrapped around the hilt of his sword as he and Balin ran for the barracks. Some of the guards followed them, also having heard the deep booms and also going to investigate. The ramparts would be the best place to see anything approaching.

I serve you, Dwalin had said.

Thorin did not know what he had done to deserve such loyalty, but he was more grateful than he could say.

And even as he ran, fear for Arien gnawed at the back of his mind. And fear of what was approaching. If whatever it was killed her, or hurt her in any way...

He would hunt it to the ends of the earth and carve it into thousands of pieces. Slowly.

Thorin rounded the corner, the solid rock of his home beneath his feet steadying him. And to his horror he heard the creaking and cracking of the pines on the mountain tearing from their roots.

No.

It couldn't be what he suspected. Couldn't be, because...

Because if it was, there would be no going back from the destruction it caused. He would lose everything.

Balin reached the barracks first, Thorin, along with a few guards, sprinting after him. He stared up at the sky above the ramparts. The people in the Grey Mountains had been incinerated.

It seemed their destroyer was not satisfied with the mountain village.

He had come for a greater prize.

The prize of gold. Of riches.

The flags on the ramparts flapped in the wind.

"Balin," Thorin ordered, trying to keep the tremor from his voice. "Sound the alarm."

He hurried to Balin's other side, ducking as a flag whipped toward him on the hot, dry wind coming from the north, stronger than it had any right to be. Keeping his eyes fixed on the horizon, the fear and dread and desperation for it not to be true, for time to stop and not destroy everything he knew and loved pounding in his chest, he said

"Call up the guard, do it now."

He turned toward the wall that looked down at the courtyard below, the courtyard that bustled with innocent, untroubled life.

"What is it?" Balin asked, the fear obvious in his voice.

Thorin turned back.

"Dragon," he almost whispered.

Scanning the skies again, struggling to keep his hands from shaking, Thorin backed towards the wall. He turned, hands braced on the familiar stone, and roared down to the fire-lit courtyard which would soon be wreathed in scorching, unforgiving flame,

"Dragon!"

The dwarves down there began to scream, running in every direction, even as a world devouring, terrifying roar cleaved the air, laced with the promise of violence and destruction. A pine tree flew past the barracks, carried by the wind fuelled by the dragon's wings, and it was burning. Already burning.

The destruction had begun.

Balin backed away from the barricade.

And a wall of searing, red and gold flame slammed into the green marble of the ramparts. The flags on the turrets were nothing more than ash and cinders floating on the scorching wind as Thorin sprinted to Balin, the heat from the flames already breaking a sweat on his brow.

He grabbed his friend around the middle and hauled him toward one of the pillars stationed at regular intervals along the barracks, even as another roar shattered into the world, and a punch of hottest flame hit the walls, swarming around them. Thorin dragged Balin behind the pillar, gritting his teeth at the searing fire that wreathed around him and was gone. Balin cried out in shock or pain, pressing into Thorin.

Thorin grunted, turning his head away as white hot flame parted around the pillar, flowing around them like the water of a stream. Only far more deadly.

Smaug, last of the fire-drakes, had come.

Thorin had never known such terror.