The halls of Erebor have never sounded so alive. Drums echo through stone like a heartbeat too loud for one chest to hold, and the air smells of molten gold and new-forged iron. My brother laughs beside me, the kind of laugh that always means trouble is coming.

“Try not to look bored,” he mutters. “You’re a king now. Kings are supposed to enjoy endless speeches.”

“I’ll let you take my place next time,” I answer, though the crown still feels strange on my head — heavy where it shouldn’t be.

The herald’s voice booms across the chamber, announcing delegates from every corner of Middle-earth. One by one they come: Dwarves from the Iron Hills, Men from Dale, Elves from Greenwood. Each arrival blurs together until the great doors open once more, and the sound in the hall changes.

No one speaks of it, but I feel it — that hush, like the forge’s flame bowing before a colder light.

Tauriel enters first, dressed not for battle but in deep forest green trimmed with silver. She carries no weapon, only calm. Behind her, the light shifts — softer, clearer — and every head in the room turns without knowing why.

That is when I see her.

The Queen of Taur Im Duinath, Lady of the Living Rivers, and Keeper of the Moonwell.

She moves like a reflection on still water: quiet, fluid, every motion deliberate. Her gown is silver fading into moss, her hair a spill of completely white that brushes against her shoulders as she walks. The birch circlet upon her brow gleams faintly with living sheen.

Kíli leans toward me, whispering under his breath. “By Durin’s bones… who is that?”

Tauriel glances back with a smile. “A friend,” she says simply. “The Sovereign of Taur Im Duinath Lady Linquëlassë — my honored guest.”

The Queen stops at the foot of the dais, the hem of her gown just brushing the gold inlay of the floor. She does not speak. She does not bow. She simply meets my gaze — and somehow that feels more formal than any courtesy could ever be.

Kíli nudges me again. “Well, brother,” he whispers, “your feast just got interesting.”

I ignore him — mostly. The hall seems smaller now, the torches dimmer. The sound of the river running beneath the mountain feels suddenly louder, as though it recognizes her before I do.

She says nothing. Yet somehow, the silence between us feels like the beginning of something spoken long ago and only now remembered.