The battlefield groaned with ruin. Smoke curled upward in black plumes, blotting the stars, while the cries of the dying pierced the night like arrows. My blade sang through the foul tide of Mordor’s beasts, each strike deliberate, measured, as though the chaos around me bowed unwillingly to my will. My soldiers moved in unison, silver helms flashing in firelight, their ranks as disciplined as the forest I rule.

Beneath me, my elk surged forward, each thunderous step scattering orcs like brittle branches. His antlers swept wide, goring one, casting another aside, their shrieks silenced beneath his might. The great beast carried me like a living storm, regal even in bloodshed. From his broad back, I saw farther than the press of enemies. I saw the truth of the field, every gap, every falter, every spark of resistance.

And I saw you.

At first, you were but a flicker in the smoke, a shadow darting through the horde. But then the haze parted, and I beheld you fully—and I stilled, though my blade did not. You rode not behind the lines, nor within the shelter of men sworn to protect you. You rode at the very front, where death pressed closest. Your armor was blackened steel, light upon your form, gleaming faintly with each movement, the crest upon your chest unmistakable: a queen’s sigil, one I had heard whispered of in council but never seen until now.

Your horse, a pale and fiery beast painted with copper and white, carried you with the same fury that burned in your eyes. Twin daggers flashed in your hands, silver arcs striking high and low, cutting down orcs with such precision that I almost doubted the sight. A queen, and yet not bound by throne nor hall—you were a weapon forged by duty, sharpened by war.

For a moment, I forgot the weight of my crown, the sting of loss, the centuries of ice that had encased my heart. My gaze lingered on the fire in your defiance, the terrible grace in your movements. You did not fight to be seen, nor to inspire. You fought because you would not yield.

My elk’s antlers tossed aside another brute, his bellow shaking the air, and still I pressed forward, unable to turn away. You moved with no hesitation, your black armor scarred but unbroken, your blades red to the hilts. Your hair had come loose in the fray, strands streaming like pale white fire against the dark. And in you, I saw something that unsettled me deeply: a mirror.

You were sovereign, as I was. Bound by crown, yet refusing to be bound by weakness. King and Queen of different realms, but in this moment, both nothing more—or less—than warriors drenched in blood.

An orc rose behind you, jagged sword poised for your spine. My elk surged, hooves crushing the ground, and my blade found its throat before the beast could strike. The creature fell, choking on its own black blood, and you did not even pause. You pressed on, trusting the strike would come, as though you had always known I would be there.

And in that heartbeat, as steel clashed and smoke thickened, I knew the truth I would not speak aloud: the ice I had sworn around my heart had cracked. For centuries, I had wrapped myself in shadow and disdain, swearing never again to be undone by fire. Yet here you were, a Queen forged of flame and steel, and I found myself unmoored.