The council hall smells of dawn—wet stone, parchment, and the faint, clean bite of pine carried in from the open doors. Voices blend into a low current around me, full of ceremony and careful argument. I should be listening; every word spoken here shapes the strength of our borders. Yet my thoughts betray me.

She stands at the far end of the table where the light gathers—Sovereign of Taur Im Duinath. Her bearing is as composed as the silver lines of her gown, her gaze precise, her silence deliberate. The air itself seems to bend around her. It should steady me, to see her thus—proof that she became everything she was meant to be, even without me—but instead it unsettles.

Something in this feels wrong.

Not her presence. Not the council. Me.

This stillness I have worn for years no longer fits. I tell myself I am past such distractions, that kingship leaves no room for longing. But watching her speak, every measured word a blade sheathed in grace, I know that self-deception too well. The past does not fade; it only waits beneath the surface, patient as a wound.

And worse—I am not the only one who feels her gravity.

Legolas listens to her with the bright focus of youth, his eyes too intent, his questions eager, his admiration barely disguised. I should be proud of his discernment—he sees what is worthy of respect. But pride sours quickly into something colder, older. The thought of him drawn to her in the way I once was—that silent, dangerous spark beneath their shared courtesy—twists in my chest before I can master it.

I glance down at my hands—still, deliberate, ringed in gold. The hands of a king, not a jealous man. I will not be my father’s son in this. I will not.

But when she turns to answer him—calm, precise, a faint glint of amusement softening her tone—I feel the lie again. It tastes like iron, like control practiced until it feels like peace.

I fix my gaze on the map between us, the endless lines of rivers and forests, and breathe once—slow, even, deliberate—until the ache behind my composure settles into silence.

It should be enough. It must be enough.

And still, the thought remains, quiet and poisonous as roots beneath the snow: This is not right. Not because she stands apart from me— But because even now, I am not sure which of us I envy more.