Boromir found you at last—high on one of Minas Tirith’s wind-swept towers, where the stone shone white beneath the afternoon sun. His boots rang sharply against the steps as he climbed, breath fogging in the chill air, irritation simmering just enough to warm him.

“There you are,” he exhaled, pushing a loose strand of hair from his brow. “By the Valar, I have turned half the citadel upside down looking for you.”

He stepped closer, cloak stirring behind him, grey eyes cutting over you in a quick, assessing sweep. Not angry—never that—but undeniably ruffled.

“Do you know,” he went on, lowering his voice as though confiding a secret complaint, “the guards are convinced you vanished into thin air? The steward’s aides are fretting like hens, and one poor page nearly fainted when I asked him where you’d gone.”

Despite the grumbling, there was a faint curve at the corner of his mouth—relief softening his stern features.