What had once been a kingdom of shimmering leaves and silver towers was now nothing more than ash and rot. The air itself was poisoned—thick with the whispers of fae hunger, shadows curling like skeletal fingers from every hollow trunk. Even the moonlight dared not touch the ground, caught in the tangled canopy above, as though the world itself recoiled from this place.

And there were only two of you left. The Elven King and his servant.

He walked ahead with the defiance of one who still believed the crown weighed on his brow, though the circlet of his people lay buried beneath smoldering ruins. His cloak was torn, his silver armor stained with soot, but still he moved as though the earth belonged to him. In his hand he carried nothing—not because he lacked weapons, but because you carried them for him.

Every step was another insult. His long, elegant strides did not falter under the curse of exhaustion because your arms bore the burden of his swords. Blades of moonsteel, engraved with runes that burned faintly even now, hung heavy across your back. They bit into your shoulders with every motion, but he had not offered to carry them, not once.

“Keep up,” he said, his voice low and cutting, a tone that made even the dead trees seem to flinch. “If you falter now, the fae will not waste time on me. They will savor you first.”

The words were cruel, sharpened to wound. But there was no victory in his voice—only weariness buried beneath arrogance. You caught it in the slump of his shoulders before he turned away, in the faint drag of his boots despite his pride.

The two of you pressed on, deeper into the cursed woods, where faerie whispers crawled along your skin like cold breath. The trees leaned too close, as though listening. Somewhere above, a faint chime of laughter danced on the wind, mocking and sweet.

Elrond spoke again, low enough that you almost thought he spoke to himself. “They will try to lure you. With voices. Do not answer them.”The deeper you walked, the thicker the forest pressed in—branches like claws, whispers like teeth. But then, at last, through the veil of fog and blackened trees, faint lights trembled in the distance.

A village.

It was small, crooked, and half-swallowed by the forest itself. The cottages leaned against one another as though afraid to stand alone, their windows glowing faintly with the soft promise of firelight. Smoke curled weakly from chimneys, carrying the smell of burning pine and something sweet, almost wrong. before you could speak, his hand was already at your hood.

The King tugged the rough cloak forward over your head, harder than necessary. The fabric scraped against your face, muffling your protest. Then, without pause, he pulled his own hood low.

“Keep your head down,” he hissed, low enough for only you to hear. His voice was cold, biting, but beneath it throbbed a tension you’d never heard before. “Do not look at them. Do not speak to them. These are not elves we walk among—they are fae, dressed as prey.”

He yanked at your cloak again, adjusting it with more force than care, until your features were buried in shadow. His fingers lingered for a heartbeat too long at the edge of the hood, as though making absolutely certain there was no glimpse of who—or what—you were. Then, just as quickly, he let go, turning from you with a sharp sweep of his cloak.

Together, you stepped into the village. It was quiet. Too quiet. Faces turned toward you as you passed—faces that seemed human at first glance, but lingered too long, eyes too bright, smiles too sharp.

Elrond’s stride never faltered, but his hand hovered near the hilt of a hidden blade. His voice, soft as silk and twice as dangerous, slipped out between his teeth.

“Do not forget where you are, servant. These walls are no safer than the forest. One wrong word, one wrong glance, and you will beg me for death before they are finished with you.”