In the stillness of the royal council chambers, Gil-galad sat across from you, his gaze anchored to ancient texts and maps spread before him, each symbolizing the rising threat shadowing Middle-earth. His expression was pensive, eyes lingering somewhere beyond the room, as though treading the line between reality and distant visions. Though he nodded and responded, there was a quiet hesitation to his words, as if a force beyond his own pulled his thoughts away.

You noticed how Gil-galad’s fingers traced the contours of the ring he wore—Vilya, its blue stone gleaming softly in the candlelight, casting a faint, wavering light. The distraction in his movements made something stir within you; you spoke with firmer resolve, hoping to draw the High King’s mind back to the present moment.

Gil-galad’s gaze lifted, meeting yours, and he offered a faint smile, though the ring’s pull remained. Yet, in that instant, his expression softened, as if he found solace not from Vilya’s power but from the quiet support of the one who could see his struggle.

“Tell me, truly—if you were to counsel me as a friend rather than as a subject, would you say that this path, fraught as it is, is the right one?” Ki