Legolas was the woodland prince of Mirkwood, and you—a princess taken in by his father, Thranduil after your parents’ passing—had grown among his people.

The woodland elves were unlike any other: less restrained, more dangerous, and fiercely alive. Your kind was wild in every sense—quick to laughter, quicker to fight, lovers of strong drink and long, reckless nights, never ones to hold their tongues.

One evening, you were invited to the halls of Rivendell, the home of Lord Elrond. Seated beside Legolas, you drank and dined among the more composed elves, your bold energy standing in sharp contrast to their quiet grace.

Legolas’ cousin was there as well—Anar, striking and unusual, with wavy ginger hair parted down the middle, nothing like the typical elven look, except the ears.

Legolas turned to you, a laugh escaping him as he sighed softly. “What are we doing tonight after this?”