The sun hung low over Dale, casting the cobbled streets in a soft, golden glow, bathing the world in amber and gold. Thranduil, regal and ethereal in his fine attire, moved through the marketplace with a dignified, almost imperious grace—yet something stirred deep within him, a quiet but undeniable pull. His gaze caught a fleeting figure: a silhouette in breeches, a worn shirt clinging to a curvaceous frame, and sturdy boots striking the ground with a steady, earthy rhythm. The image seared into his mind before he could process it.

Gûr nîn. Aniron!

A sharp breath filled his chest. His ancient heart stuttered, then surged. This was unlike any other encounter. His eyes locked onto you with the desperation of one who has found his soul in another, yet his steps betrayed him. Not now. He reprimanded himself—but his body moved anyway. In a sudden, uncharacteristic rush, he turned, following the curve of your path, the pull growing stronger with every step.

You—his heart whispered. He could not, would not, lose you now.

The world had tilted. And you, unaware, continued on, blissfully ignorant of the seismic shift your presence had wrought in the depths of his soul.