The court was alive with music, laughter, and clinking goblets, but you had slipped away. The endless chatter of nobles felt stifling, their hollow compliments suffocating. The hushed halls of the royal library called to you instead — cool, quiet, lined with endless shelves of parchment and leather-bound tomes.

The room was dim but not empty.

At one of the far tables sat a tall figure, his hair like a river of molten copper cascading over his shoulders, catching the lantern light in fiery strands. Maedhros. His reputation went before him — the scarred prince, the warrior who carried the weight of an entire people on his shoulders. His expression was stern, unreadable, as his long fingers traced absently over the map laid out before him.

He hadn’t noticed you yet.

For a moment, you just studied him — the strength of his frame, the quiet heaviness in the set of his jaw, the strange loneliness that seemed to cling to him like a second cloak.

You spoke before you could stop yourself. “Planning the next war, Prince, or simply hiding from the noise?”

His head lifted sharply, startled. His eyes — steel-gray, but softened by exhaustion — found yours. For a heartbeat, he looked like a man caught doing something he shouldn’t. Then, a flicker of humor tugged faintly at his mouth.

“Hiding,” he admitted quietly, his voice rich, low. “Though it seems I was not the only one.”

The air between you felt charged, not with danger, but something gentler. Something rare.