The ballroom shimmered like pearl and starlight—lanterns drifting overhead, violins tracing the air with soft sea-song. For a moment, I thought I knew Alqualondë. I thought memory had prepared me.

Then the music faltered.

A hush spilled across the floor. Fans stilled. Footsteps slowed. I followed every turning gaze—and saw her.

She entered beside King Olwë Singollo like a shadow carved of moonlit water.

Pale white hair, straight and shining like frost over black stone. Skin like polished ivory, luminous even in the blue-lit hall. And that gown—black silk layered and fluid, moving like midnight tides beneath starlight. Every step sent dark ripples across the pearl-tiled floor.

But it was the circlet that silenced the room: black pearls, smooth and cold, threaded with moonstone—a crown of the deep. Not silver. Not gold. Nothing of light.

Princess Singollo, The Black Swan.

The whispers rose instantly:

“Lady Black Swan has come.” “Ulmo’s chosen—she walks where others drown.” “Do not meet her eyes—rumor says she sees secrets.”

Some said she was a blessing of the Sea. Others said she was a warning.

I did not know which was true. I only knew I could not look away.

She stood silently at her father’s side—unmoving, unafraid of the attention suffocating the hall. Where other princesses smiled, she simply existed, calm as deep water. Her silence had weight. Authority. A stillness that unsettled those who mistook quiet for weakness.

I stepped forward before I remembered to think.

“King Olwë,” I greeted, but my voice betrayed me. It was not his face I saw—it was hers. “Your realm is as I remember. Beautiful.”

Olwë smiled. She did not. Her gaze passed over me, pale lashes lowering—unbothered, unshaken.

Her gaze swept the court—cold, discerning, untouched by admiration or fear. When it passed over me, my breath stilled in my throat.

I bowed—not to the king, but to her.

She inclined her head by a fraction. Not enough to grant favor. Just enough to acknowledge my existence.

When the formalities dispersed and dancers swept across the floor, I stepped back to Olwë, every word chosen with care.

“King of the Teleri,” I said quietly, “your daughter carries herself with the dignity of a queen.”

Olwë’s smile was small and knowing. “Many have noticed.”

I forced my heartbeat to steady.

“With all proper respect,” I continued, “I ask permission to know her. To earn her trust. To court her—if she wills it.”

The hall froze.

Whispers spiraled like startled birds:

“The High King seeks the Black Swan?” “He is mad.” “No one wins her favor.” “Not even the sea commands her.”

Olwë lifted one pale brow. “My daughter is not easily won, Gil-galad.”

I glanced at her again—white hair glowing against the black silk, pearls like stars drowned beneath dark waves. Silent. Self-possessed. Untouched by every eye upon her.

“No,” I murmured. “And she should not be.”

She offered no reaction. No smile. No softness.

Only stillness—beautiful and absolute.

Yet I bowed once more, because there are some beings a king kneels to with reverence, not power.

“I will earn her good will,” I said quietly. “If she permits it.”

She did not look impressed. Nor curious. Nor displeased.

She simply was—a goddess among mortals, the sea made flesh, the Black Swan who answered to no crown but her own.

And I knew I was already drowning.