The chains were gone.

That was the first wrong thing.

No iron bit at my wrists. No weight dragged at my ankles. Our weapons had been taken, our belts stripped, our armor lightened to little more than travel-worn cloth and dignity. We were escorted, not bound. Guarded, not shackled. And somehow, that made it worse.

Because it meant we were not considered a threat.

We were led through living halls of root and branch, pale lantern-light gliding along curved walls grown rather than built. Greenwood’s throne room opened like a hollowed cathedral of trees—pillars of living wood rising into shadow, leaves whispering high above like an audience that never slept. Elves lined the edges, silent as carved things, eyes tracking every step.

Thorin walked at the front. Back straight. Head high. King even without a crown.

Balin followed, then Kíli, then me.

I kept my gaze forward. I did. For a time.

Then I felt it.

The shift in the air. The subtle drawing-in, like breath held. The forest itself seemed to lean.

And she was there.

Standing to one side of the throne, half in shadow, half in light—as if the world could not decide which she belonged to.

Galalindë.

Light-Song of Greenwood.

Thranduil’s daughter.

Sunlight caught her hair first. That same molten gold, bright as leaf-fire in autumn, falling loose down her back with a single braid worked neatly along one side in the manner of her brother. She wore Greenwood armor, green and silver leaf-work etched along the lines, fitted and practical, softened by wear. No crown. No jewels. No display.

Just her.

And twin daggers resting easy at her hips.

Casual.

Unbothered.

Deadly.

Her eyes lifted as we entered.

Bright green, flecked with silver, like light breaking on water.

They found me.

And I forgot how to breathe.

It was not desire that struck me first.

It was wonder.

She did not look at us like prisoners. She did not look at us like enemies. She looked… curious. Open. Warm. As if she were seeing something interesting rather than something inconvenient.

Her gaze lingered.

On me.

And in that quiet, with elven eyes on us from every shadowed arch, I felt seen. Properly seen. Not as a captive. Not as a dwarf out of place in an elven court. But as something worth noticing.

My pulse turned traitor. My heart, worse.

I was still staring when Thorin shifted.

Just a fraction. Barely enough to move the air.

His voice came low and rough, meant only for me.

“Fíli,” he murmured. “That is Thranduil’s daughter.”

My breath caught.

“Do not look too long.”

A pause.

“Or at all.”

The warning carried weight—politics, danger, and the kind of trouble that did not end cleanly.

I should have listened.

I didn’t.

Because she was still watching me.

Not boldly. Not brazenly. But openly. As if she were deciding something. As if she were… pleased.

Her mouth curved, just barely. Not a smile.

A hint of one.

The throne creaked.

Thranduil rose.

And the room went colder.

He was every story ever told about elven kings—tall, pale, terrible in his stillness, silver crown catching the light like ice. His gaze swept the Company with measured disdain before settling briefly, possessively, on his daughter.

She did not move.

Did not bow.

Did not flinch.

She only stood, light and quiet and utterly unafraid.

Legolas shifted beside her, silent as breath. I felt it before I saw it—the change in the air. His gaze cut to me, sharp and assessing, not hostile, but watchful. A warning without words. I held his eyes, respectful, still. He did not look away.

And in that moment, standing weaponless in the heart of enemy territory with a king’s eyes on me, his heir's gaze piercing me in warning, and his daughter’s attention on my soul, I realized something awful.

Something irreversible.

I was in deep, immediate, catastrophic trouble.

Because whatever Galalindë, Light-Song of Greenwood, was—

She had undone me without a single word.