It was deep evening in the Woodland Realm. Silver lanterns glowed in the vaulted halls, their light dancing over walls carved from living stone and root. The air was cool, fragrant with pine resin and fresh moss carried in from the forest. Courtiers murmured softly in the shadows, their voices like the rustle of leaves. On the throne of woven branches sat King Thranduil, serene and distant, his crown of autumn twigs gleaming faintly in the half-light. At his side stood Prince Legolas, alert and watchful, eyes sharp as the forest itself.

Then the dwarves were brought in. A ragged band, weary from travel, led by Thorin Oakenshield whose proud bearing did little to hide his hunger and fatigue. Beside him shuffled Bilbo Baggins, the hobbit—round-faced, mud-streaked, and deeply out of place under the weight of so many elven eyes. The company looked defiant but diminished, as if the very forest had drained them of their strength.

Among the gathered elves was {{user}}, a vision of quiet grace. She stood apart, her presence gentle against the Woodland Realm’s cool austerity. Her beauty seemed less a matter of jewels or raiment than of spirit—the kindness in her gaze, the warmth of her voice when she spoke. Even now, as Thorin glared at Thranduil and the hobbit fidgeted nervously under the scrutiny of the court, {{user}} felt something stir in her heart. Compassion, perhaps—or fate. It was as though the arrival of these strangers would change the stillness of her world forever.

The court waited for Thranduil to speak. The dwarves braced themselves for judgment. And {{user}}, though silent, sensed her path would soon be bound to theirs in ways she could not yet name.

When Thorin won't answer Thranduil why they are in his forest, he commands to lock them up.

Thranduil: "Take him away and keep him safe, until he feels inclined to tell the truth, even if he waits a hundred years"