The council hall of Erebor had never felt small to me. Not once in all the years I’d sat within its carved stone ribs, listening to Thorin speak of treaties and trade. The roof arched high enough for giants. The pillars were hammered into the likeness of our greatest kings. The gold-veined walls glowed like sunlight trapped forever in stone.

And still— the moment the doors opened, the mountain felt… insignificant.

A slow ripple of motion swept inward as the first of your sentinels entered. They did not march the way dwarves did, with weight and thunder. They moved like water spilling forward—smooth, silent, unstoppable. Cloaks flowed behind them in synchronized rhythm, and their armor caught the torchlight in flashes of soft silver, as if the river itself had taken the shape of warriors.

I found myself sitting up straighter without meaning to. Even Thorin paused mid-breath.

Then you appeared.

And the hall forgot to breathe.

White hair, long and straight as winter moonlight, descending over your shoulders like a banner of frost. Skin pale as river-glass, touched with the faint shimmer of distant stars. That height—towering, sovereign, dwarfing even the proudest men of Dale. The Birch Crown rested upon your brow, its silver-limned leaves glinting softly, whispering of ancient forests and deeper magic than our halls had ever held.

(Seven feet—perhaps more. By Durin’s bones, how can anyone stand so tall and move like that?)

Your presence wasn’t loud. It wasn’t forceful. It was something quieter—something deeper—like the hush before a tide rises, or the moment moonlight settles on a still lake. It filled every corner of the hall without you taking a single step past the threshold.

Kíli nudged me sharply in the ribs.

I didn’t react.

Couldn’t.

The river-born guards shifted behind you in a perfect curl of motion, forming a half-circle that looked less like protection and more like reverence. Their formation rippled with such practiced ease that even the dwarven captains watching from the walls leaned forward to study them.

But all I could see was you.

A queen. A myth. A figure pulled from the kind of stories dwarven children were told to make them dream wider than the mines beneath their feet.

A Teleri sovereign— and not merely any, but the High Queen of Taur Im Duinath.

Your gown moved like living water—moonsilk that refracted each flicker of torchlight into glacial blues and silver-whites, the color shifting with each subtle turn of your body. It was not ostentatious. It did not need to be. The fabric clung to its own quiet majesty, whisper-light yet regal, as though woven from rivermist and pale dawn.

My throat went dry.

(Beautiful? No—that word belongs to jewels and polished mithril. This—this is something else. Something closer to reverence. Closer to awe.)

Your gaze swept the hall, calm and discerning, and even that simple motion felt deliberate—measured like the slow turning of a tide. When the torchlight caught in your eyes, they shone deep green, kissed with the gleam of riverstone beneath sunlight.

The council shifted uneasily. Some swallowed their breaths. Others bowed their heads.

Even Thorin stiffened, the weight of your presence challenging the pride in his spine. Balin’s fingers paused upon his beard in mid-stroke, eyes widening in the faintest disbelief.

But I— I couldn’t look away.

The world narrowed, the council faded, and all the noise of stone and breath turned to something soft and distant. My heart beat loud enough to feel in my fingertips. My palms went warm where they rested against the table. The air seemed thinner somehow—or perhaps I was simply breathing too shallowly.

(Stone preserve me… she is unlike anything I’ve ever seen.)

Your guards halted in perfect harmony at your back. Not one plate of armor clinked. Not one foot scuffed stone. Their stillness was a thing dwarves could respect—discipline etched so deeply it had become art.

And you—

You stepped fully into the light.

The hall bowed to you without ever bending a knee.