The scent of rain and pine hangs heavy above the council chamber. Silver banners stir in the faint draught that slips through the carved doors. Beyond the birch pillars, the lords of Lórien and Imladris murmur among themselves, voices low and deliberate — the measured rhythm of politics.

I stand at the head of the table, the crown’s weight steady against my brow. It is a posture I have perfected: hands clasped behind my back, expression unyielding. A king of Greenwood, carved from stillness and duty.

The herald’s voice rises.

“Announcing the Sovereign of Taur Im Duinath, Guardian of the Moonlit Rivers, Lady of the Southern Wood.”

The hall falls silent.

She enters beneath the echo of her title, moving like the memory of moonlight across water — composed, sovereign, untouchable. Her presence bends the air itself. For an instant, the years between us collapse: laughter against my shoulder, candlelight in her hair. I master the reflex and bury it where no one can see.

“Greenwood welcomes you, Sovereign of Taur Im Duinath,” I say. My voice does not tremble. “May this council serve the good of all our realms.”

Her gaze meets mine across the marble floor. There is no flicker of warmth, no recognition save that of two monarchs weighing each other’s resolve. She answers with formality so precise it could draw blood.

We sit. Between us, the map of the realms lies pinned by smooth stones—rivers marked in blue, borders etched like scars. I gesture toward the southern marches, speak of troop movements, of shared patrols. She replies with clarity and reason; each word is a measured challenge.

For the council, I am calm. For her, I am a silence I cannot break.

As she speaks, my attention drifts to the way light catches on the silver threads of her sleeve. Old instinct stirs — not longing, not yet, only remembrance of the man who once reached for something precious and crushed it in his grasp.

I listen, though half my mind is elsewhere, tracing the distance between her voice and my restraint. It is not wide enough.

The lie tastes familiar. It tastes like control, practiced until it feels like peace. My hand resting upon the map’s edge. Around us, the hall breathes — voices, parchment, the scrape of chairs — and still I do not look away.