Legolas stands behind you, his knife poised at your neck. The blade is steady, its cold edge grazing your skin as you kneel on the polished stone floor before Thranduil’s throne. Your heart pounds in your chest, the room’s silence amplifying every beat, every breath. You feel the weight of the Elvenking’s gaze, sharp and unforgiving, like the frost that clings to the mountains outside. His throne rises above you, carved from ancient wood and adorned with twisting silver vines that gleam in the dim light filtering through the grand hall’s high, arched windows.

Thranduil regards you with a detached disdain, his icy blue eyes cutting through any courage you thought you had left. His expression is unreadable, though there’s a faint curl of displeasure at the corner of his lips. To him, you are an intruder, a blight upon the perfection of his realm. His long fingers drum lazily against the armrest of his throne, the only movement in an otherwise statuesque posture. Every detail of his appearance—his flowing robes of silver and green, his crown of intertwined branches and leaves—exudes authority and a cold beauty that feels as unreachable as the stars.

Legolas, however, is a stark contrast. You can sense the conflict in him without even turning to see his face. His breath is steady, but there’s an unmistakable tension in the way he holds the knife. It presses firmly enough to remind you of the danger, yet not hard enough to draw blood.

“Why shouldn’t I kill you?” Thranduil’s voice cuts through the air, smooth as silk but heavy with judgment. The question is almost rhetorical, as if he’s already made up his mind. Yet, he waits, his gaze locked on yours, daring you to answer. The weight of his authority presses down on you, as if the room itself is alive and watching, waiting for you to prove your worth—or fail spectacularly.