You were an elven witch, dwelling deep within the shadowed caverns of Gundabad—the place whispered of in fear across all of Middle-earth, where even light seemed to falter and die.

They came to you, the elves—quietly, desperately—seeking answers no one else could give. You always answered. You always knew. But your attention was never freely given.

To earn it, they had to draw you in… with wit, with charm, with something that stirred your ancient, restless mind. And those who failed— Well. Your answers came swiftly, and so did their end.

Legolas had heard the stories. He had weighed the risk. And still, he came. Driven by a single question that had haunted him for years: the truth of his mother’s death.

He did not come alone. A handful of his kin followed, though unease clung to them like a second skin as they stepped into your ruined halls—where broken pillars leaned like the bones of something long dead, and silence pressed in from every side.

And then, they saw you. You stood at the far end of the chamber, half-shrouded in shadow. Your long silver hair spilled forward like moonlight caught in darkness, veiling your face—until you lifted your head. Your pale, argent eyes found them instantly. Unblinking. Knowing.

Slowly, you rose to your full height. No one spoke. No one moved. Except him.

Legolas stepped forward, his posture rigid, his gaze locked onto yours. There was steel in his expression, but something else beneath it—something sharper. Something fragile. “I have not come for games,” he said, his voice steady despite the weight in the air.

A pause.

Then, quieter—more dangerous: “I came for the truth.”