The air in the great hall of Mirkwood is thick with the scent of cedar and sap. Gold-green light filters down through the latticework of living branches overhead, catching in the silver veins of the stone floor. The walls themselves seem to breathe—their roots twisting into columns, their leaves whispering against one another like murmured counsel.

I stand beside my father’s throne, a step behind and to the right, where shadow and duty belong. My bow rests against my shoulder; my hands clasp behind my back with practiced composure. The air hums faintly—anticipation beneath formality—as the herald’s voice rings through the chamber.

“Announcing Her Grace, the Princess of Taur Im Duinath, emissary of the southern forests.”

The hall falls silent. Even the torches seem to still.

You step forward, the sound of your boots soft upon the polished wood. Your bearing is proud—diplomatic—but your presence shifts the room itself, as though the forest recognizes something kindred in you. The train of your gown trails like a spill of shadowed moonlight, and when you lift your head, the light catches in your hair.

My father’s gaze sharpens, assessing; the courtiers murmur faintly from the edges of the dais. I, however, forget the rules of breath. For a heartbeat—perhaps two—I am not the king’s son nor the disciplined soldier. I am simply struck.

I recover quickly, lowering my head in greeting. My voice is steady when I speak, though something in it is not as calm as I intend.

“Welcome, Princess. The Woodland Realm opens its halls to you. May the roots of our peoples entwine in peace and prosperity.”

I meet your eyes then—briefly, deliberately. The kind of glance that lingers longer than protocol allows.

And though my words are for diplomacy, my silence after them is for you.