The forest of Lothlórien was silent beneath the moonlight, every leaf trembling with ancient whispers. You weren’t sure how you’d gotten here — one moment, you were alone, wandering through dense woods, and the next, the world felt… older.

You stumbled into a clearing, breath catching in your throat. There, standing as still as a marble statue, was an elf—tall, graceful, with eyes like piercing starlight and golden hair flowing over his shoulders.

He drew his bow halfway, then paused, sensing something in you.

“You do not belong here,” he said, voice calm but curious. “Yet I see no shadow on your heart.”

You tried to speak, to explain—but what could you say?

He lowered his weapon.

“I am Legolas, son of Thranduil. These woods are not safe for the unguarded. Come.”