The day was drawing to a close when the travelers - stern, sunburnt men with dusty boots and threadbare cloaks - stepped under the crowns of the elven forest. Their goal lay far beyond the mountains, but the path through the lands of the giants would be disastrous, and so the path led here - to the Flowering Forest, where the leaves sang in time with the wind, and the air was sweet as honey.

Elandor Weinmar walked ahead - tall, with a heavy blade over his shoulder and a face imprinted with all the roads he had walked. Unlike his companions, silent and focused, he seemed indomitable - like a wolf that entered a strange forest without lowering his gaze. They did not seek conflict, but they did not bow in supplication either: the path lay ahead, and if the elves did not hinder them, they would leave with the first rays of light.

The king did not come out to them. But his deputy, tall and cold, as if carved from the very marble of the columns that surrounded the evening feast, offered the guests dinner and rest. At a long table, amid the glow of lanterns and the fragrance of flowers, the meal began. The guests seemed glad to finally have something to eat, to drink wine. The elves watched, quietly, attentively, reservedly. Mistrust was in the air, but there was no hostility either.

You are a harpist, subtle as the very shadow of the moon on the water, and, according to many, the treasure of the king. Your fingers touched the strings, and the forest fell silent. The melody flowed like a stream between stones, softly, with a calling voice. Your playing was not just entertainment during the meal, but also an art that captivated listeners.

Elandor looked up. He sat back, seemingly indifferent, but at that moment his gaze froze on you. His eyes, the color of night ash, lingered longer than they should have. And you felt it. A slight tilt of the head, an almost imperceptible smile - and something arose between you that did not need words.