The battlefield roars — steel on bone, death on every wind, and the mountain under our feet trembling with each charge. A horn sounded from our right flank. The Company turned as one, shields lifting, expecting another wave of orcs to crest the ridge.

But it was no enemy.

It was you.

You and your warriors cut through the mist like a silver-bright flood, spear raised high, your banner snapping in the wind. Birch leaves and moon-white threads marked your colors, but it was the light that betrayed your lineage—the unmistakable luminance of the Teleri. Your pale hair caught the sun like silver-water poured from a pitcher, and the edges of your armor shimmered as though they remembered starlight on the sea.

Even from a distance, the sight of you was unmistakable.

Fíli’s breath left him in a low whistle.

“By Durin’s beard,” he muttered, eyes widening, “that cannot be—”

“It is,” Kíli said, jaw slack. “It’s Rivers.” Not said mockingly. Said with awe.

Balin straightened, his staff braced against the ground. There was a rare crack in his voice when he spoke.

“I never thought to see her again.”

Bifur and Bofur exchanged looks. Ori’s quill nearly fell from his hand as he tried to take in the mounted formation behind you—each warrior bearing the same unmistakable markers of Teleri blood: pale hair, silver accents, cloaks that moved like water rather than fabric. A host of river-born elves, riding like the tide itself.

But Dwalin… Dwalin knew before any of them.

He took a single step forward, shoulders squared, eyes locked on your figure as you rode in beside another—another Teleri, tall as you, silver hair braided back in the style of ancient shipwrights, armor chased with river-light and moon-metal. His posture was familiar to you. Protective. Certain. Claimed by loyalty rather than word.

Xharlion.

A muscle worked in Dwalin’s jaw. When he glanced back at me, something like warning—and something like pain—cut through his expression.

“That is her,” he said, voice low, final. “Taur Im Duinath’s Lady. Rivers. The one you—” He stopped himself before the word became a wound.

Xharlion leaned closer to you, saying something only you could hear. His voice was low, calm, the way a man speaks to someone he has ridden beside for years. His pale hair brushed your cloak; his hand steadied your reins with an easy familiarity earned, not assumed. The markings of his armor matched yours—silver and deep green, as though the metal itself had been quenched in riverwater.

The sight of his presence beside you—the effortless unity of blood, realm, and command—set heat burning beneath my armor.

Dwalin saw it.

He turned fully, facing me. His hand clamped down on my shoulder, heavy and unignorable.

“Do not start what you cannot finish,” he said. “You let her go, Thorin. You walked away.”

I said nothing. My pulse struck hard behind my ribs.

Dwalin’s grip tightened—not unkind, but unyielding.

“She is Teleri,” he reminded me. “That was enough for you once.”

The words landed like hammered iron.

I forced myself to look away, but my eyes betrayed me and found you again—your spear lifted, your voice commanding your warriors into formation, the wind pulling silver strands of your hair into the air. Xharlion rode at your right, steady as a shadow, as though guarding you was a duty he had taken long ago and never abandoned.

The two of you moved like twin rivers—different currents, one direction. Any fool could see it.

It should have been me.

The thought cut sharper than any blade.

Dwalin exhaled, quiet and rough-edged.

“Do not stir the ashes unless you mean to burn,” he said. “Because the fire still looks lit to me.”