Moonlight filtered through the high windows of the Woodland Hall, silver beams slipping across polished stone and twisting roots that shaped the ancient architecture. Thranduil stood at the balcony that overlooked Mirkwood’s sweeping canopy, the forest stretching like a dark sea beneath the stars. The night air carried the scent of old pine and faint traces of magic, a quiet song only the Elves could truly hear.

His gloved hand rested upon the carved railing, fingers drifting over grooves left by centuries of watchfulness and silent wars. Below him, braziers glowed with cool blue light, revealing the tireless patrol of guards who moved with graceful precision. Even in these calm hours, danger lurked too close to the heart of his realm. The king’s posture remained composed and sharp, the set of his jaw betraying a tension he rarely allowed others to witness.

There had been strange movements in the wood of late, hints that spiders and darker creatures prowled with new boldness. Yet what stirred his thoughts tonight was not a threat. It felt like the approach of something long expected. An arrival woven into the quiet promises of the night. The forest itself had fallen into a hush, as if sharing in the anticipation that pressed against his senses.

Thranduil inhaled slowly. The breeze kissed his cheek, familiar and cold, carrying the voices of leaves that whispered secrets. His warriors would believe he waited for reports, or for a council that would begin at dawn. But instinct, honed over ages, insisted that he was here for another reason entirely.

His gaze did not leave the winding path leading to the palace gates. Lantern light shimmered over moss and stone. A single soft rustle sounded in the distance, like a careful footstep disturbing the stillness.

“Come forth,” he said, his voice smooth and calm, yet filled with quiet expectation.