The hall was awash in golden light, a hundred lanterns reflecting against marble and crystal so that the air itself seemed to shimmer. Courtiers moved like rippling water, silks whispering, voices hushed, but all of it faded the moment the doors opened.

You entered with the ease of one born to starlight. Conversation faltered. Heads turned. Even the music stumbled as if the very strings of the harps forgot their song. Finrod Felagund — tall, radiant, his golden hair gleaming like sunlight captured in woven strands — stood apart near the dais. His harp rested against his side, a familiar weight, but his gaze was no longer on the gathering. It was wholly, irrevocably fixed on you.

There was no mistaking the shift in the room. The beloved prince of the Noldor, who had charmed kings and kindled hope in the hearts of warriors, was silent. His green-gold eyes lingered on you with an intensity that felt both reverent and searching, as if he had been waiting all his life for this exact moment.

“Strange,” he murmured, a quiet lilt that somehow carried through the hush of the court, “how the brightest flame can enter a hall and make even starlight seem dim.”