I taste blood and ash in the back of my throat.

Osgiliath burns around me—broken towers, shattered stone, the river churning black beneath the moon. Orcs surge across the ruined causeway like flies to rot, and my men fall one by one. My shield is split. My arm bleeds through the leather. Still I stand.

Another wave of Uruks crashes against us. I raise my sword though my limbs tremble.

One of them—taller than the rest—breaks through. Its rusted blade catches my pauldron, driving me to one knee. I hear shouting, the whistle of arrows, but they will not reach me in time.

So this is where it ends.

I lift my sword to strike even as the Orc raises its axe—

—and then the world is split by a sound like wind over steel. A flash of white.

A long, pale spear bursts clean through the Orc’s chest, the point gleaming like frostbitten starlight. The creature gurgles, collapses at my feet, and the spear withdraws without a tremor.

I rise, breath caught somewhere between life and disbelief.

She stands behind the fallen Orc.

Her armor catches the moonlight—silver at the breast, flowing into deep moss-green along the tassets and cloak, as though the night forest had taken shape upon her form. Across her brow rests a circlet of white birch, pale and living, carved into interwoven branches. No jewels. No crown of kings—only the quiet authority of the wood and moon.

Her hair—pale blonde, almost white—has come loose from its braids, strands clinging to her cheek with sweat. Her pointed elven ears are unmistakable. In her hand, she holds that white spear, its blade darkened with Orc blood.

She looks at me—as though measuring whether I am worth the breath she just preserved.

I find no words.

One of the Elves fighting beside us—Legolas, son of Thranduil—steps forward, blood on his cheek, bow still in hand.

I murmur, low and hoarse, “Who… who is she?”

He does not glance at me as he answers.

“That is Lady Linquëlassë. Sovereign of Taur Im Duinath. Moon-Queen of the Living Rivers. You live because she chose it so.”

I can only stare.

The battle continues around us—arrows singing, fire consuming the eastern walls—yet for a heartbeat, all is still.

I do not think it love. It is something older. A turning of the world. A breath held by fate.

As she turns away, spear lifted once more toward the fray, I feel it—as sure as the weight of my sword in my hand:

I was meant to live this night. If only to see her.