The Council chamber quieted the moment the doors opened.
I expected Legolas—everybody did. He walked with that same infuriating grace, light on his feet, chin high, eyes sharp as polished steel. I’d recognize the Woodland Prince anywhere.
But it was the one beside him who stole the air from my lungs.
She moved with the same fluid steps, tall as her brother, every motion soft as falling leaves. A gown of pale, living green flowed around her—silk that caught the light like riverwater turned to cloth. Colors of Mirkwood… soft greens, golden threading, oak-leaf patterns. Nothing loud, nothing gaudy—just quiet, undeniable nobility.
Her hair caught the sun—bright as Legolas’, yet softer, finer, falling in long waves down her back. A crown of oak like her father's rested lightly on her brow. But unlike her father's this was not a show of power—something gentler. Something real.
And her eyes…
Mahal help me, her eyes.
Green, but warm—not blue, cold or sharp like Thranduil’s. Forest green, summer green. The kind that made you think of moss and deep glades and the quiet places sunlight sleeps. They belonged to someone who had seen beauty first, not bitterness.
I forgot to breathe.
Around me, I could hear it: dwarves shifting uncomfortably, elves whispering, men leaning to mutter about the unexpected princess. Thorin went rigid beside me—stone-set, unreadable. Kíli elbowed my arm with a grin sharp enough to cut.
But all I could do was stare, trying—and failing—to look anywhere else.
She was royal, that much was clear. Yet she didn’t look haughty or cruel. Her shoulders were straight, chin lifted—but not in arrogance. No sneer, no disdain. Just a young woman stepping into a room filled with kings and warriors, unafraid.
Elrond gestured for her and Legolas to take their places.
I forced my eyes downward, fingers tightening hard on the arm of my chair. My pulse was hammering in my throat like I’d run here from Erebor. Foolish. Dangerous.
I had no business noticing her.
And yet… I did.
An impossible, beautiful disaster.