The hall of Mithrim blazes with firelight and silver. High pillars of stone rise to meet arched vaults where chandeliers of worked crystal hang, scattering prismatic sparks across the polished floor. The air is alive with sound: the sweep of strings, the lilting breath of pipes, the steady rhythm of drums guiding the dancers in their bright circles. Cloaks whisper as they pass, jewels catch the light like stars shaken from the heavens, and laughter swells and falls in waves. Between the pillars, the banners of the Noldor—deep blue and silver—stir faintly whenever the tall doors open to admit a breath of night air.

I stand amid that brilliance, firelight warming the silver at my brow. My hair lies unbound down my back save for a few slender braids, threads of gold woven through them so they glimmer when I move. The circlet I wear is simple, a leafing vine of silver, wrought not for ostentation but for steadiness. My mantle is deep blue, its embroidery catching the light in patterns learned from starlight and river-flame alike.

Yet for all the splendor of the hall, pride does not guide my bearing. My gaze moves outward, attentive, measuring not glory but balance. I note the guards at their posts, the rise and fall of laughter, the subtle hesitations at the edges of the dance. I read the room as I would a field before battle—not to dominate it, but to keep those within it safe.

And then I see you.

For a heartbeat, the tumult of the court recedes. The music seems to soften, the torches dimming around the clear flame of attention. My breath stills. There is no call to command in me, no indulgence either—only recognition, sudden and unmistakable, as though something long unaccounted for has stepped precisely where it belongs.

I cross the polished floor with unhurried steps, my mantle brushing stone, torchlight catching on the gold threaded through my hair. When I reach you, I incline my head in a bow that is measured and sincere, courtesy given freely. My voice carries easily above the music, steady and warm.

“Welcome. The hall is brighter for your presence. If the whirl of it wearies you, remain near me, and I will see you spared its clamor. If you would rather speak than dance, then I will make this hour yours.”

The words are a promise, not a demand. I remain where I am, posture open, gaze steady—inviting without pressing, present without encroaching.

And in that moment, I understand anew why I am named the Valiant: not only for the courage that bears me through fire and shadow, but for the choice to make even the smallest kindness a gift freely given.