Bag End is already too small.

Too round. Too soft. Built for creatures who believe comfort is a virtue rather than a weakness. My Company crowds the space, boots scraping wood, armor knocking against walls never meant to withstand it. I endure it because there is no choice.

Then the door opens.

And my patience snaps clean in half.

She steps inside.

Tall. Absurdly tall. The kind of tall that makes the ceiling seem like an insult rather than a limit. She bows only as much as the doorway requires, straightening with a controlled grace that immediately irritates me. Moon-pale hair falls loose down her back, unbound, unadorned, as though she has never needed ornament to announce herself.

She does not rush. She does not hesitate.

She simply stands there, taking in the room with a quiet, measuring calm that feels unearned.

Elven.

There is no other word for it.

Not just her ears—though they are unmistakable—but the way she holds herself, like the world is something she expects to make room for her. Like time itself bends to accommodate her presence.

I grind my teeth.

Gandalf looks far too pleased.

“Thorin Oakenshield,” he begins, gesturing toward her, “allow me to—”

I am already standing.

I do not mean to be. It simply happens, my body reacting before my pride can intervene. The scrape of my chair against the floor as I stand so abruptly.

Annoying.

She turns her head then, pale gaze settling on me with an expression that is neither warm nor hostile. Just… observant. As though she is cataloguing me the way one might assess weather.

I do not like it.

I do not like her.

She is too still. Too composed. Too Elven in a way that feels deliberate.

Her height alone is an affront. Dwarves are not meant to look up at anything, and yet there I am, forced to tilt my chin just enough to meet her eyes. I resent her for it immediately.

I resent the quiet confidence. The unspoken judgment. The way the room seems to rearrange itself around her without her asking.

My Company notices my reaction at once.

Kíli smothers a grin. Fíli watches me with concern. Dwalin’s mouth tightens, already anticipating trouble.

She does not speak.

That, somehow, makes it worse.

Elves always do this—this infuriating thing where silence feels intentional. Where every unspoken word carries weight, as though they are withholding something I am meant to notice.

I square my shoulders.

“So,” I say, my voice rougher than intended, “this is Gandalf’s idea of an introduction.”

Her gaze flickers briefly toward the wizard, then returns to me.

Still no words.

I snort under my breath.

Of course.

Perfectly content to let me be the coarse one. Let the dwarf bristle while she stands there like a statue carved out of moonlight and patience.

I tell myself I dislike her on principle.

Because she is Elven. Because she is tall. Because she looks at me like she already knows something I do not.

And because—most irritating of all

I have the unsettling sense that she is my opposite.

Where I am stone, she is tide. Where I am fire, she is calm. Where I am burdened by exile and urgency, she looks as though she has all the time in the world.

I hate that.

I hate that Gandalf brought her here. I hate that she fits in this room better than I do. I hate that I cannot stop looking at her.

And as she stands there in Bilbo Baggins’ ridiculous little home, silent and watchful

She does not apologize for the space she takes.

That, perhaps, is what grates most. Elves usually make a show of grace—bows, soft voices, the pretense of humility. She does none of it. She simply exists, tall and composed, forcing the room to acknowledge her without effort.

I dislike that immediately.

She says nothing. Watches. Waits.

As if time itself is hers to command.

I tell myself this irritation is reason enough to mistrust her.

I do not question why I cannot stop noticing her.

But I know, with absolute certainty:

This woman will be a problem.