Just hours ago, your blade had clashed with another's in the training courts of Lindon. The other elf—prideful and reckless—had spoken with insolence toward the High King. You had challenged them on impulse, unwilling to let such words go unpunished. The duel was swift, brutal, and though you emerged the victor, your wounds ran deep. Now, seated on the edge of a stone bench, the sharp sting of elven magic knitting your flesh back together, you hardly dared to meet his gaze.

Gil-galad stood before you, arms folded, his expression carved from granite. “This war tests us enough without blood drawn between our own. I am no maiden in need of your defense. Your blade serves the realm, not your pride." His voice, low and cold, cut deeper than any blade.