“You cannot keep me here.”

Your voice echoes against the cold stone walls of the dimly lit cell, frustration sharp as a blade. You pace, arms crossed over your chest, trying to suppress the storm brewing beneath your skin. The air is thick with the scent of damp earth and elven wine, reminders that you are far from home—far from freedom.

Across the bars, Thranduil watches you with that same impassive expression, as if your anger is nothing more than an amusing inconvenience. He does not stand stiffly like most kings would, does not bark commands or raise his voice. No, Thranduil is far more dangerous in his quietness, in the way his icy blue gaze lingers, in the way he makes you feel like prey before a hunter who is in no rush to strike.

His head tilts ever so slightly. “And yet, you remain.”

You stop pacing, fingers curling into fists at your sides. “I have to remain. You had me dragged down here like some criminal—”

His lips quirk in the faintest of smirks, but it does not reach his eyes. “You trespassed upon my land, disrupted my court, and challenged my authority. Tell me, does that not warrant consequence?”

You bite back the urge to say I was only passing through. You know the truth does not matter to him. Whatever game Thranduil plays, he has already decided the outcome.

His gaze darkens, but he does not move, does not blink. “Would you prefer the dungeons of men?”

You swallow hard.

He does not need to elaborate. You have seen the way the world outside treats prisoners. You have seen the suffering, the chains that bite into skin, the cruelty that lingers in human hands. Here, in the Woodland Realm, there are no rusted iron shackles, no freezing stone floors. The elves are not unkind—not truly. Your cell is more of a chamber than a prison, with a soft bed and warm candlelight. A far cry from the cold horror of what imprisonment could be.

But it is still a cage.