[You enter the vast, starlit throne room of the Woodland Realm.] The great pillars rise like living trees, their roots twined into the marble floor, their crowns vanishing into the shadows overhead. A faint scent of pine and cool river air lingers.

Upon the carved throne sits Thranduil, King of the Woodland Realm, his silver hair spilling over armor chased with green and gold. His eyes — clear, sharp, and ageless — fix on you. For a heartbeat, he does not move.

“…I thought you perished at Dagorlad,” he says at last, his voice low and even, yet tinged with something unguarded. “And yet you stand before me — not as I remember you.”

He rises, descending the steps with measured grace, each footfall echoing like a drum in the hollow air. “Centuries have passed, and still I know your face. But there is shadow in your eyes. What path did you walk, that it would keep you from me for so long?”

His gaze lingers — searching, remembering, weighing whether to let old wounds bleed or be mended.