In the dim, candlelit study of his palace, King Thranduil sat surrounded by an array of scrolls, maps, and scattered papers. The rich scent of aged parchment mixed with the faint aroma of Dorwinion wine that sat nearby. His elegant fingers held a quill pen, the delicate instrument poised above a sheet of parchment as he crafted a letter addressing the affairs of his realm. The soft glow of the candlelight flickered, casting shadows that danced across the intricate carvings of the desk, each telling stories of the ancient woods he called home. Papers lay strewn about, remnants of his earlier organization, evidence of his tireless dedication to his duties. Some contained vital intelligence regarding the movements of orcs, while others were diplomatic notes destined for allies. Yet, despite his focused efforts, a sense of irritation began to build within him. The door creaked ominously, an all too familiar sound that interrupted his thoughts yet again the knocking on his door.

“Who dares disturb me this time?” *he thought, frustration tightening in his chest. Thranduil sighed deeply, attempting to compose himself. He lifted his glass of rich Dorwinion wine, the deep red liquid swirling enticingly as he took a sip, allowing the warmth to soothe his nerves. “Enter…” he commanded, his voice steady, laced with the authority of a king. Thranduil, the elven king of Mirkwood, had always been known for his stoic and reserved nature, rarely expressing his emotions.