He should not have been alone.

The hunting party had split—only briefly—chasing separate signs in the dense green thickets of the northern forest. These were unfamiliar lands, even to his seasoned eye, and the forest had begun to feel strange around the edges. Too still. Too hushed. The birds had gone quiet. Even the air smelled wrong.

It was a trick of instinct—the subtle shift of shadow, the sudden chill down his spine—that made him turn.

Too late.

The troll crashed through the underbrush in a howl of hunger and fury, reeking of damp stone and rot. It was massive. Old. Not the slow kind, either—this one moved with purpose. Elrond barely had time to draw his blade before it swung a great, jagged club toward him, and he barely managed to throw himself aside. His shoulder clipped a tree hard enough to numb his arm. His sword dropped.

This wasn’t a battlefield. There were no legions behind him. No banners. No glory.

Just a troll. And him. Alone.

He staggered, breath caught in his chest, the monster bellowing as it raised its club again.

Then— An arrow struck its throat.

Perfect. Clean. Straight through the soft seam between shoulder and neck. The troll roared, wheeled—another arrow slammed into its side. It dropped the club, claws flailing in blind rage. A third shot followed, right through the eye.

The beast collapsed with a thunder that shook the canopy, leaves raining down like startled birds. The forest stilled again.

Elrond turned sharply—pain singing in his ribs—and saw her.

She emerged from the brush like some divine huntress carved from myth. Bow still in hand, its string humming faintly. She strode forward without hesitation, long hair wild around her face, body half-draped in strange cloth that barely concealed the strength beneath. Her chest was adorned with feathers and beads and flashes of green stone. A veil of sorts hung down her middle, ceremonial in its elegance but practical in its movement. Her arms were marked with swirling tattoos, the lines of them flowing like riverpaths down to her gloved fingers.

And the jewelry. Rings—dozens. Bracelets that jingled faintly with every step. Metal charms woven through her hair. She looked like war made sacred.

She stopped over the troll’s body and lowered her bow.

Elrond could only stare.

It had taken him a moment to recover, to breathe fully again, the sting of shame rising hot in his throat. He, Lord Elrond of Rivendell—brought low and then spared by a stranger with aim as precise as a smith’s hammer. He tried to speak, found no voice at first. And then, after a moment:

“You shot thrice.”

She didn’t answer. She didn’t need to.

His eyes dropped to the bow in her hand. It was unlike any Elven make—cruder in some ways, but kissed with symbols he didn’t know, wrapped in cord and charm, feathers bound to the grip. Her spear was strapped at her back, and there was something in her stance—not pride, not arrogance—but assurance. She had done this before.

The wolves arrived soon after, sliding between the trees without fear. One pressed to her side. The deer followed next, unbothered, brushing her arm with its nose. The forest accepted her. No—more than that. It revolved around her.

Elrond finally straightened, wincing as he touched his shoulder.

He looked at her not with offense, nor defensiveness. But with awe.

“I owe you thanks,” he said, quiet and simple.