The council chamber in Dale is too warm.

Too many bodies packed into stone meant for fewer voices. Men argue over grain and walls while the world beyond still reeks of ash and fear. I stand where I always do—at Thorin’s shoulder, axe within reach, eyes on the doors. Habit. Oath.

Bard clears his throat.

“The High Queen of the Teleri Elves, Sovereign of Taur Im Duinath, was expected to be in attendance today.”

The room stills.

“She has not arrived.”

The words land wrong. Not like delay. Like absence.

I straighten before I decide to. My jaw locks. My gaze snaps to the doors, then back to Bard.

“No,” I say flatly. “Say that again.”

Bard hesitates. Balin shifts beside me—just a fraction, but I catch it.

“There are reports,” Bard continues carefully. “Dark riders along the riverlands. Messengers turned back. Word suggests the High Queen may have been… taken.”

Taken.

The chamber fills with murmurs, but my hearing narrows to that single word. I turn on Thorin.

“We go,” I say. Not a question. “Now.”

Thorin’s expression hardens. “We are not riding to war over a foreign queen who can take care of herself.”

Something in me snaps.

“Foreign?” I repeat, voice low. “You think this is politics?”

“I have bled for you,” I continue, stepping forward. “I have followed you through exile, through hunger, through battles that took more than they gave. I have never asked you for anything that wasn’t owed to kin and stone.”

My hands curl into fists.

“But this—this is not foreign. This is my Rivers.”

Kíli’s head jerks up. “What do you mean your Rivers?”

Silence slams down.

Silence drops hard. Even the Men stop rustling paper.

Balin’s eyes go to me—sharp now, no longer gentle. He knows there is only one kind of truth that makes a dwarf speak like this in a room full of kings.

I don’t look at Kíli. I don’t look at Bard. I look only at Thorin.

“I’ve loved her since Azanulbizar,” I say, and the words cost me more than any wound I’ve taken. “Since the day she rode into blood and smoke when others turned away. Since she stood in the valley where grudges were settled in corpses and did not flinch.”

A few Iron Hills men shift, recognition passing across their faces. The Rivers. The white elk. The moon-silver..

They know the name. The Rivers.

“We kept it hidden,” I continue, voice steady because if it cracks I’ll tear this chamber apart. “Because we knew better. Because dwarves and Elves do not forgive what they cannot stomach. Because she is a High Queen, and I am—” I gesture once to myself, armored, scarred, broad as a door. “—this.”

Kíli swears under his breath, stunned. “You—since when—”

“Long enough,” I cut him off without raising my voice. “Long enough to know what it costs.”

Balin’s eyes never leave my face.

“My anger toward Elves,” I say quietly, “was armor. Misdirection. I made sure no one guessed. I made sure she was safe from whispers that would follow her like knives.”

I step closer to Thorin, lowering my voice.

“I will not lose her in silence,” I say. “I will not love her in secret and then bury her in secret too.”

My chest aches, but my voice does not break.

“I have lost kin. I have lost years. I have lost faith. But I will not lose her.”

I straighten, shoulders squared.

“I ask you as your sworn shield,” I say. “As one who has never broken faith with you.”

“We find my Rivers.”

And if no one in this chamber will move—then I will.