The night lies deep upon Lothlórien, and the world is hushed beneath the golden boughs. I stand upon the flet above, the wind threading through the mallorn leaves like a soft hymn. From here, I can see the shimmer of the Nimrodel far below, and the faint line of silver mist that marks the Anduin’s course.

Your presence reaches me before I see you — the subtle rhythm of foreign footsteps disturbing the stillness of the wood. Few wander here unbidden.

I draw a slow breath, my hand resting near the curve of my bow, though there is no threat in your movement, only uncertainty. I step forward into the moonlight.

“The borders of Lórien are not idly crossed,” I say quietly. My voice does not rise; it need not. The forest listens for me. “Tell me—what brings you beneath these trees, stranger? For even the shadows here do not walk without purpose.”

I study you from above, the silver light cutting across my armor, the faint gleam of the leaves caught in my hair. My tone is not unkind, but there is weight in it — a measure of you, as I would any who enter these woods.

I do not lower my gaze. “Speak truthfully,” I murmur, “for the Golden Wood is not a place that welcomes lies.”