The forest goes wrong before it goes quiet.

I feel it in the way the air tightens, in the way the undergrowth stills, in the way the birds break off their calls mid-note. Mirkwood has always been watching, but now it is listening—and listening means something is coming.

Sávrë is hunting.

I know it as surely as I know my own name.

The Company is moving fast, skirting the darker ribs of the forest where the light thins and the ground turns soft. Fili is ahead. Kíli keeps to my right. Dwalin watches the rear. They all give me space now. They always do.

Because she does not like them near me.

She has made that…clear.

The first sound is not a horn.

It is not a call.

It is the whisper of many feet where there should be none.

Then the arrows fall.

Not to kill.

To corral.

To herd.

I turn as the Silvan Elves step from the trees like ghosts made of leaves and shadow, bows drawn, blades ready, eyes bright with that dangerous woodland confidence.

And my blood goes cold.

Not because of them.

Because of Her.

Legolas moves first, fluid as a cat, blade lifted in practiced authority. The Elvenking steps from the green gloom behind him, crown catching what little light remains. His gaze flicks over us with cool calculation.

“Lay down your weapons,” he says.

I do not.

Instead, I step forward.

Slow.

Deliberate.

Every instinct in me is screaming.

“You do not understand,” I say, low and firm. “You do not want to do this.”

Legolas’s brows knit. “You are trespassing.”

“You think this is trespass,” I answer. “It is not.”

The Elvenking’s eyes sharpen. “Then explain.”

I do.

Quietly.

Urgently.

With the weight of stone and certainty.

“I am marked,” I tell him. “By an Avari.”

There is a flicker—just a flicker—in his gaze.

“You do not want to take me,” I continue. “You want me to walk away from this forest. Now.”

Legolas glances at his father. “Father—”

I cut him off.

“She will come for me,” I say. “Not loudly. Not with banners. Not with warning. She will come as shadow and bone and savagery. No host will save you from her.”

The Elvenking studies me.

I meet his gaze without flinching.

“She already hates the Silvan Elves,” I add. “For what was done to her kin. This will not be a misunderstanding. It will be vengeance.”

The forest shifts.

Dwalin steps closer to my shoulder. “He’s not jesting.”

Fili nods. “She doesn’t even let us near him.”

Kíli adds, tight and earnest, “We’re tolerated. Barely.”

Balin inclines his head. “We were merely passing through.”

Bombur swallows. Bofur mutters a prayer. Bifur grips his axe.

They all know.

Legolas’s gaze flicks to me again, searching. “You speak as though she owns you.”

I bare my teeth.

“She does not own me,” I say. “She is my Mate. There is a difference.”

The Elvenking’s jaw tightens. “And you expect us to fear one wild huntress?”

I lean forward a fraction.

“Yes.”

The word is iron.

“She is hunting,” I tell him. “Right now. And when she returns and finds me gone, the forest will not be quiet.”

A pause.

The leaves tremble.

“You do not want to learn what that means,” I finish.

Legolas hesitates.

The Elvenking does not.

“Bind him,” he orders.

The rope closes.

And every instinct in me howls.

Because I know—

I know—

that she will come.

And it will be savage.

And it will be silent.

And the woods will remember.