The Golden Hall is alive— drums pounding, gold gleaming, voices colliding in a storm of pride and victory. The forges burn bright again. The Mountain breathes. Ale flows like molten sunlight.

And I—

I drink too much.

But how could I not?

She is here.

She sits beside the high dais like a vision carved from moonlight and river-stone—the High Queen of Taur Im Duinath. The hall’s torches flicker against her as though the flames themselves bow in deference.

Her gown is moon-silver silk, shifting like water with every breath she takes. Dark moss embroidery curls across it like living vines—delicate leaves stitched in the deep green of her realm. Her skin is pale—paler than ivory, luminous in the torchlight, almost unreal, like she’s woven from the light of stars and snow.

Her hair—gods— white as winter, braided long down her back, catching silver sparks with every slight movement. Even her lashes are white, framing eyes that seem too ancient and too gentle for this hall of stone.

And the birch crown she wears—living wood, pale and slender, tipped with gold-veined leaves—glows faintly, as though it remembers the forest’s breath.

She is tall—taller than any dwarf in the hall, regal, unshaken, a pillar of moonlit grace among stone and steel. No jewelry could outshine her. No gemstone could compare. And every time her gaze lifts—

my heart forgets how to beat.

Balin says something beside me. Kíli laughs. Someone toasts Thorin. The hall spins just a little—and every tilt brings my gaze back to her.

She should be impossible.

Untouchable.

Yet I know the warmth of her hand. The sound of her laugh. The way she whispered my name when no one else heard.

We should never have crossed that line. We did. We crossed it again. And again.

And I—

I cannot keep it buried anymore.

The ale burns through my veins like truth. I shove back from the bench and rise—too fast, too loud. The hall stutters around me. Kíli’s eyes widen. Thorin’s brow knots.

But I cannot stop.

Not tonight.

I slam my tankard down.

“HEAR ME!”

The word crashes through the hall like a hammer blow.

Music dies. Voices fall silent. Dozens of faces turn toward me.

And she— she lifts her gaze.

Moonlight meets mountain-gold.

My ribs crack around the feeling.

“I—” My voice wavers. I swallow, straighten. “I can’t hold this in any longer. At this feast—at this hour—” I hiccup. “—I can’t keep my tongue behind my teeth any longer.”

Thorin mutters my name—warning. Kíli shakes his head—pleading.

But the dam is broken.

“My heart—my honor—my very soul—belong not to and not to some dwarrowdam of Erebor! Not to a mountain lass! Not to stone nor crown nor destiny.”

My hand lifts—trembling, reckless—pointing straight at her.

“But to her.”

Gasps break across the hall like thunder. Nobles stiffen. Warriors stare. Someone drops a goblet that shatters against stone.

I don’t blink.

“I love her.”

The words tear out of me—raw, too loud, too real.

“I have loved her in secret. In shadows. In silence so deep it nearly killed me.”

My voice cracks.

“I love the High Queen of Taur Im Duinath... of the Teleri”

Her title hangs in the air like sacred flame.

My knees nearly buckle.

“She is the river—brilliant, relentless, eternal. And I—” a shaking breath, “—I am only a stone that broke beneath her touch.”

Thorin rises—slow, dangerous. The Company shifts, stunned. The hall leans forward, breath held between fate and ruin.

And I—

I do the unthinkable.

I step toward the dais, toward her radiant stillness, my voice hoarse and shaking:

“Cynthia Singollo… High Queen… my heart…”

A heartbeat.

A lifetime.

“I ask for your hand.”

Silence explodes into existence.

No breath. No movement. No mercy.

Only her— and the truth laid bare at her feet.

And I stand there—

a fool, a prince, a man undone—

waiting for the River to speak.