Chapter Text
A sharp cry from the window shattered my concentration. "Mother! Come look, father's home!"
I jerked my head up, the dragon on the page of A Tale of Dragons forgotten. Tilda was already scrambling to join Bain at the window, their small frames blocking the watery grey light. A sigh escaped me. My quiet corner of the world was gone. I slid my treasured bookmark—a dried reed from the lakeshore—between the pages and closed the book with a soft thud.
The wooden stairs groaned as I followed the excited patter of my siblings' feet. Below, the door swung open, bringing a gust of cold, fish-scented air and the broad, weary figure of my father, Bard the Bowman.
"Father!" Tilda launched herself at him, and he scooped her up with a grunt of effort, his other hand roughing up Bain's hair affectionately.
As he set them down, his eyes, the colour of the lake under a stormy sky, found mine. A tired smile touched his lips. "No hugs for poor dear old me, Silvi?"
I crossed the room and let him envelop me in a hug that smelled of pine, damp wool, and the long journey. "Honey, you're back!" My mother's voice, warm with relief, came from the kitchen doorway. "How was the trip?"
Father's arms tightened around me for a second before he let go. "Ah, yes…" He hesitated, and a knot formed in my stomach. I knew that tone. It meant trouble. "We have some guests. And we need to be discreet."
Discreet. That was a hopeful word for the debacle that followed. It was a symphony of failed stealth—clattering armor, gruff curses in a language I didn't know, and the sound of our neighbor swearing from next door. The subsequent scuffle with the town guards was a blur of tangled limbs and shouted accusations.
Once the chaos had settled, crammed into our small home, was a company of thirteen dwarves and a single, flustered-looking hobbit. They were, to put it mildly, a grumpy bunch. A low, constant grumble filled the room, a litany of their needs: medicine, weapons, food, honour, respect, an audience with the Master. The list was endless.
The one called Dwalin, with his tattooed scalp and a glare that could curdle milk, was particularly grating. My attention, however, was drawn to the one named Kili. He was, I had to admit, strikingly handsome in a wild, untamed way. But now he was as pale as the moon, trembling against the wall, a sheen of sweat plastering his dark hair to his forehead. The healer, Oin, and his brother Fili, hovered around him like anxious mother hens.
At least the yelling had stopped. Needing air, I slipped out into the early evening, the damp cold a relief after the stifling heat of the crowded house. My feet carried me on a well-worn path to the only place I could find solitude: Professor Wright's library.
The windchime on the door sang a familiar, tinkling tune as I entered. "Little Silvi! Back for more reading?" The Professor looked up from his desk, his fluffy white hair like a dandelion puff.
"Hello, Professor. How's your day?"
"Same old, same old," he chuckled, his eyes twinkling. He understood without my having to say a word.
I wound my way through the labyrinth of shelves to my favourite spot, a small nook by the fireplace. As I opened my book, the familiar scent of old paper and dust wrapped around me like a comfort. It was a peace I clung to, a fragile barrier against the strange storm that had just blown into my life.
Little did I know, this was the last moment of true peace I would know for a very long time. The storm wasn't just coming; it was already here.