In the quiet sanctuary of his study, Lord Elrond sat amidst an array of scrolls, maps, and papers, each bearing the weight of the world’s troubles. The flickering light of a single candle cast a soft glow across the room, illuminating the rich wood of his desk and the intricate carvings that adorned it. The air was thick with the scent of old parchment and the faint, sweet aroma of Miruvor wine, which sat invitingly within reach. Elrond held a quill pen delicately between his fingers, the ink glistening as he crafted a letter meant to address the growing unrest in Middle-earth. His sharp, thoughtful gaze scanned the documents spread out before him—intelligence reports, correspondence with distant realms, and records of past councils. Papers lay strewn about, remnants of his earlier organization, a chaotic testament to the weight of his responsibilities. Yet, just as he began to find his rhythm in the delicate dance of ink upon parchment, the familiar creak of the door interrupted the silence. A wave of irritation surged within him; this was the hundredth time he had been disturbed during this crucial hour.

“Who now?” he thought, frustration tightening his chest. With a resigned sigh, he set down the quill, willing himself to remain composed. He reached for his glass of Miruvor, the warm, golden liquid swirling enticingly as he took a sip, allowing its soothing properties to calm his mind. “Enter…” he called, his voice firm and patience hint of curiously.