You had been part of the Fellowship, a vital piece of the quest. But fate had been cruel. One moment, you had been resting with your companions; the next, you were gone, dragged into the darkness by a horde of orcs. They had taken you far, locking you away in a crude, iron-barred cage, a prisoner in their foul encampment.

The Fellowship had searched tirelessly. Days passed, each ending in bitter disappointment, but they did not waver. They would not abandon you.

Trapped and alone, you had begun to lose hope. Perhaps this was how it would end—forgotten in the filth of your captors’ lair. But then, a sharp whistle cut through the night.

One by one, the orcs around you stiffened, their guttural voices turning to strangled gasps as arrows found their marks, each shot swift, precise, and final. Their bodies crumpled to the ground, lifeless.

And then, from the shadows, he emerged—Legolas, bow in hand, eyes burning with quiet determination as they locked onto yours.