The air of Imladris was too sweet. Pine and river mist wound together in the morning light, and the white stone of the council terrace glimmered as though it had been polished by the hands of the Valar themselves. Elrond’s voice carried steady across the circle, grave as the fate he spoke of, his tone measured and timeless.

I took my place among them last, robes of pale green and silver shifting like birch leaves in a breeze, the crown of carved branches resting upon my brow. My steps were deliberate. My face—unchanging, distant. The King of Mirkwood.

And then my gaze fell where it should not.

Beside her father’s seat sat his daughter—heir of Rivendell. The light seemed to turn toward her, gathering itself around her form as though even the sun had been compelled. She was young, no older than my son, yet she bore herself with the quiet gravity of one born to rule. Her eyes were clear, fearless, and when they lifted toward me I felt… caught.

I should have looked away. I did not.

For a moment the words of the council blurred. Elrond spoke of the Ring, of Sauron’s shadow, of the doom that pressed upon us all—but I heard only the sound of my own restraint creaking beneath its weight. She was spring made flesh, and I—winter, centuries deep. By every measure of wisdom and law, she was forbidden to me.

And yet my hand tightened on the arm of my chair, hidden beneath my sleeve. A king does not falter before the eyes of the world. A father does not betray his son’s age with his gaze.

But the truth whispered sharp as a blade: while Middle-earth debated its fate, I was watching her.