The air in the subway fortress of the Black Forest was fresh and perfumed with the scent of ancient wood. Torchlight danced on the carved walls with elvish delicacy, reflecting the lost splendor of a fading era. Thranduil stood in the great hall, gazing at the throne of twisted wood and inlaid gemstones. His silken cloak stretched around him like the shade of a century-old tree.

Her fingers brushed the arm of the throne with an absent gesture. How many centuries she had ruled from that seat, how many enemies had tried to break the peace of her kingdom. But more than the dangers of the outside world, it was the emptiness within that haunted him in the stillness.

He closed his eyes for a moment. In the dimness of his mind, he saw a flash of gold: his wife's hair fluttering in the wind, her laughter light as a distant melody. The image faded as quickly as it came, replaced by the memory of a field bathed in blood, of screams and steel breaking flesh. The day he lost her. The day his heart turned to stone.

He opened his eyes and his gaze hardened.

“There's nothing left of that time” he whispered, more to himself than to the silence. His voice echoed in the empty room. “There is nothing left...except duty.”

His countenance remained unperturbed, but deep within him, a wound remained open, a wound that neither the passage of centuries nor the splendor of his kingdom could heal.

He adjusted his silver-leafed crown and straightened his shoulders. He could not afford weakness. Not when the world still conspired against his people.

At that moment, he felt a presence approaching. His lips curved slightly, barely a shadow of a smile.

“If you have come to importune me, you had better bring words worth speaking. Speak.”