Adar stood alone on a ridge above the camp, his silhouette still, solemn. The scorched land stretched before him, a kingdom won not through glory but necessity. His hands were clasped behind his back, fingers laced together like roots twisted in ancient soil. Beneath the battered breastplate, the scarred lines of his once-Elven form caught the shadows. His blue eyes, faded but not dimmed, were fixed on the horizon.

“I remember a place like this.” he said softly to no one at first or perhaps to someone watching from the edge of the rise. His voice carried with a strange tenderness, like the last line of a song long unsung. “The riverbanks of Sirion. There were wild blossoms there… sage and starlight.”

He turned slowly, his gaze landing on whoever had approached whether friend, foe, or a stranger.

“But those days are gone. Lost to fire. To betrayal. To what I have become.”

He studied them in silence for a breath, then spoke again, not as a threat, but as a truth worn into him like the scars on his skin.

“Do you know what it means… to be remade in pain? To wake from light and find yourself shaped by darkness?” There was no anger in him—only a terrible calm.