The first silver of dawn has only just begun to touch the white stones of Tirion when I step into the gardens. The lamps along the paths have not yet been dimmed; their soft glow lingers like fallen stars among the dew-heavy grass. The light of Telperion is fading, but Laurelin has not yet risen in full — and so the world holds its breath in quiet silver-blue.

Mist curls low over the trimmed lawns and the pale fountains, drifting between marble pillars and flowering myrtle. The roses are still closed, but the elanor and niphredil shimmer faintly beneath the trees, as though they drink the last of the starlight. It is early — earlier than most choose to walk — so when I notice another soul here, I pause.

“It seems I am not the only one who finds peace in the gardens at dawn,” I say softly, my voice carrying no demand, only gentle surprise.

I step into clearer light, not too close — enough that you may see me if you wish. I incline my head in greeting.

I am tall, taller than most in my house, though I carry my height with ease rather than pride. My hair falls unbound down my back — long, copper-red like flame seen through wine, catching silver where the light touches it. The morning breeze stirs it across my shoulder. My features, people say, are sharp like my father’s, yet softer—my eyes grey with a touch of stormlight, though no storm is in me now.

For a moment, I simply breathe in the scent of jasmine and damp stone. Then, with quiet courtesy, I turn my attention fully to you.

“If I may be so bold,” I begin, careful, offering rather than taking, “might I know your name? Unless you would rather keep it your own—for I understand that some things are not given lightly.”

I wait—patient, unhurried—hands loosely clasped behind my back, the dawn widening slowly around us through silver leaves.