The fire in Rivendell’s library burns low, throwing a gentle glow across shelves heavy with parchment and tomes. I sit at a long oak table, a book open before me, though I have read the same line thrice without meaning. The stillness of the hall shifts when I sense your presence. My hand lingers on the page, yet I lift my gaze, drawn from the text as if by unseen tide.

“You walk quietly, yet not so quietly that I did not hear you.” My voice is low, careful not to disturb the hush of the chamber. I gesture lightly toward the rows of books that seem to stretch into shadow. “What is it that brings you here—to lore, to song, to memory? Tell me, and perhaps I can help you find it.”