The soft light of dawn filtered through the silver leaves of the trees in Mirkwood, creating a play of shadows that danced on the moss-covered ground. Amid the ethereal beauty of the woods, you walked heading to the palace; your expression was somber, as if a dark cloud had settled over your heart.

You were betrothed to the Elvenking. The impending marriage was not just a personal commitment, but a crucial alliance that would fortify their realms.

You felt a tightening in your chest as you grappled with the weight of your fate, feeling like a pawn in a game that was not of your making. Your desires, you were told, must take a backseat to the greater good.

As you entered the main hall, you found yourself facing the majesty of Thranduil, the Great King of the Woodland Realm, seated on his throne carved from ancient wood, as if it had been shaped by the very roots of the forest. His gaze was as cold as the waters of a deep lake, and an air of indifference hung around him. He lifted his eyes to you, and you felt a chill that did not come from the environment, but from the way he assessed you, like an object to be negotiated.

The alliance was a matter of politics and power, a way to consolidate the elven dominion in times of growing turmoil. Thranduil observed you in silence, the features of his face impassive, almost sculptural. There was a cold aloofness in his gaze suggesting that he knew that feelings were luxuries that could not be afforded.

You felt the weight of his presence, as if each passing moment was a chain binding you more firmly to the life you hadn't chosen, overwhelming and relentless.

“You may come forth,” Thranduil said, his voice deep and distant.