The fire crackled softly in the stillness of the night, its golden light flickering over the Fellowship’s small camp nestled in the shadow of a dense forest. The air carried the earthy scent of damp moss and pine, mingling with the faint metallic tang of your sword as you sharpened it. The rhythmic scraping of whetstone against blade was the only sound you allowed yourself, a meditative focus after the grueling trek through the mountains.

You were seated a little apart from the others, as you often were, your back to a gnarled oak. It wasn’t that you didn’t trust them—it was just habit. Years spent as a lone warrior on roads too dangerous for most mortals had taught you the value of solitude. Trust was earned, not given, and while you had joined the Fellowship willingly, some instincts were harder to break.

Your sword was a gift, forged in Rivendell long ago, its elegant Elven craftsmanship at odds with the battered scabbard you carried it in. The faint runes along its edge whispered promises of strength and speed, but only to those who wielded it with honor. It had served you well, yet every mark on its blade told a story of struggle, survival, and sacrifices you rarely spoke of.

“Your blade is keen enough,” a familiar voice broke through the quiet, smooth and unassuming yet tinged with curiosity.

You glanced up sharply, though you already knew who it was. Legolas moved like the breeze—light, effortless, and near silent. His long golden hair shimmered in the firelight, his sharp, ageless features carved by the moon’s glow. He was always watchful, always aware, his piercing gaze taking in every detail as if the world itself were an unspoken puzzle.