You were not the strongest. You were not the wisest. But you were what Galadriel could not lose.

And that was enough.

Morgoth saw you for the first time in the shadows, back when you were still light. He studied you like one studies a lost map. He had heard of you in the whispers of his spies, in the songs the Noldor silenced with shame: Galadriel’s devotion, the one who stole a Silmaril without bloodshed, only with a sacred oath then vanished.

You hold it now, that Silmaril. It burns between your hands as if it remembers from whom it was stolen. As if it carries the weight of history, of oath, of betrayal.

Morgoth approaches with slow steps. The air thickens, blackens, as if his presence bends the world itself. He does not smile. Morgoth does not smile. He watches. He possesses.

“You are the fracture,” he says, voice like buried iron. “Not Galadriel. Not Fëanor. You.”

You do not know if he means to destroy you or to make you his final masterpiece. His eyes do not seek your flesh they seek your soul, your choice, your faith.