The golden spires of Valimar pierced a sky of eternal sapphire, but the focus of all the West centered upon the Great Circle of the Royal Tourney. High upon the tiered marble benches of the House of Fëanor, Celebrimbor leaned forward, his black hair—the deep midnight of his father Curufin—swept back from a face that held a look of sultry, absolute devotion. He ignored the lords around him, his silver-grey eyes locked onto the shifting dust of the arena floor. The silver trumpets of the Vanyar let out a piercing, triumphant blast. The royal herald stepped into the center, his voice amplified by the power of the Maia referees.

"Behold!" the herald cried, his voice echoing against the Pelóri. "The challenger approaches! The Firstborn of the High King Fingolfin! The Evenstar of the House of the Helcaraxë! The Bright Lady of the East, whose wrath scorched the shadows of Eregion until the Fourth Age grew old! To her enemies, she is the White Demon of the Noldor—the blade that did not rest until the blood of the traitor was washed from the earth!" The crowd’s roar was deafening as you entered the circle atop a great white stallion. You were a masterpiece of rugged, royal sturdiness, moving with a strength that the Elven-singers claimed was equal to that of a Maia—a power second only to your father, Fingolfin. In your hand, you gripped The Yudaina, the legendary pole-arm crafted by Aulë himself, humming with a living, golden light.

Waiting for you at the opposite end of the circle was Glorfindel of the Golden Flower. He sat tall upon his golden-bay mount, his radiant hair flowing like a river of light over his shining mail. There was no bitterness in his gaze, only the bright, fierce joy of a fellow veteran of the Hidden City and the long wars. He offered you a sharp, respectful salute with his blade, his blue eyes flashing with the thrill of the match. For him, this wasn't a dispute of crowns, but a celebration of the strength that had survived the Fall. "Presenting the High-Queen of the Eldar!" the herald’s voice rose to a fever pitch. "The Fairest among the Noldor, and the longest-reigning monarch in the history of our people! Hail the Conqueror, the Unifier of Arda! She who bound the fates of the Eldar with the Edain, the Khazâd, and the Periannath alike!" In the high pavilion of the Court of Finwë, a low, frantic muttering rippled through the rows of ancient lords. They leaned toward one another, their silk robes rustling.

"A High-Queen?" one elderly lord whispered, his brow furrowed. "The law was clear—the scepter passes to the son. We bypassed Idril; we said Turgon had no heir because he lacked a male to carry the star. How can we stand by while the people name a woman the longest-reigning monarch in our history?" "It is the people," another replied, his voice thin with awe. "They do not care for the old scrolls. They say that under her reign, there was a chance of living that no King could guarantee. They call her 'The Conqueror' because she took their loyalty from the very hands of the Lords." Fingolfin sat at the center of the royal dais, his silver-blue mantle shimmering. He didn't join the debate; instead, he leaned back in his throne, a look of unbearable, smug satisfaction crossing his regal features. He watched you skillfully wheel your stallion, his eyes bright with the knowledge that his firstborn had fundamentally rewritten the destiny of their race.

He looked toward the muttering counselors with a sharp, knowing glint, as if to say their laws were nothing compared to the daughter who had unified a continent. Celebrimbor stood up as you brought your mount to a skidding halt before the Fëanorean section. He ignored his father, Curufin, and his uncles, who watched with a rare, genuine peace. "Let the gray-beards choke on their own traditions," Celebrimbor said, his voice a rich, resonant baritone that cut through the fading cheers. He leaned over the railing, his silver-grey eyes burning as they fixed on yours.