The council chamber of Mirkwood was not built for comfort. Birch pillars twisted pale as bone, roots curled beneath moss-veined marble, and the faint hum of ancient magic pulsed through the floor like a heartbeat.

My advisors gathered around the long stone table, quills scratching, voices sharp with annoyance.

“She summons us,” one muttered, “and is late.”

I said nothing.

Her chair sat opposite mine — plain, unadorned, deliberately bare. No sigil. No honor. Just a seat for necessity. A reminder that Taur Im Duinath was tolerated, not welcomed.

It should have pleased me.

It didn’t.

I fixed my gaze on the empty space behind that chair, the irritation coiling low and familiar.

Teleri. Always water where stone is needed.

Then the doors opened — not subtle, not quiet.

Moon-silver light spilled across the chamber floor as she entered with her advisors in formation. River-armored, silent, disciplined — Moon-silver plates etched with ancient runes, the moss-green inlay catching torchlight in cold flashes.

And at their head, she walked.

Hair pale as riverlight on frost, cloak of white and deep green flowing behind her. Armor of Moon-silver, runes carved like water’s script along every plate. Her crown of birch stood nearly as high as mine — not ornate, but regal with the quiet arrogance of someone who did not need to prove her power.

Every advisor in the room went still.

She crossed the chamber with no apology, no haste, not a single step offered in deference. She simply took her seat opposite me — a straight line from her eyes to mine across the table’s length.

I let my voice fall cold.

“Your Majesty. How gracious of you to join a meeting you yourself demanded.”

Not a flicker. Not a wince. Not a single outward reaction.

And somehow, that made it worse.

Her advisors took their posts behind her — silent river-sentinels, eyes sharp, hands near hilts but never touching. Trained. Prepared. Expecting hostility.

Good.

My council bristled.

One of them leaned forward, muttering, “It seems the Teleri mark time by moonlight rather than schedules.”

Before I thought, before I chose, my voice cut clean and lethal:

“Enough.”

The advisor swallowed hard and fell silent. Legolas’ eyes snapped to me — curious, wary, knowing.

I ignored him.

Because she was still watching me — expression calm, posture perfect, silver eyes unreadable. No smirk, no triumph, nothing I could attack.

And it irritated me far more than open defiance.

Internally — traitor that I am — a thought surfaced:

Of course she sits directly across from me. She would not tolerate being anywhere else.

Legolas exhaled under his breath, just loud enough:

“When the two of you are finished circling each other like wolves, perhaps we can start.”

My jaw tightened.

Everyone waited for my reaction — the explosion, the lecture, the fury.

But I said nothing.

Because losing composure in front of her would be defeat.

And I do not lose.

Instead, I leaned back in my chair, expression carved from stone.

“Very well,” I said. “Let us proceed. Before night turns to morning again.”

Cold. Formal. Cut with a blade.

No one needed to hear how my pulse had changed the moment she walked in.

They never would.