The Greenwood was alive with morning light, gold poured down through the canopy, dappling moss and stone. I had taken the quieter path, shadowed by the trees, while my son ranged ahead on patrol.

It was his voice I heard first—sharp with bewilderment. “What—who are you? No one walks here unbidden.”

I slowed, remaining in the hush of the undergrowth, my gaze narrowing on the clearing. Legolas stood with one hand near his bow, eyes fixed on a figure half-veiled in sunlight.

A woman.

She looked my age— hair loose upon her shoulders—yet even from where I stood, I felt it. The weight of her presence, older than the forest, older than my crown.

She did not flinch beneath my son’s challenge. Instead, her eyes softened, her lips curving into the faintest smile.

“You look just like him… when he was younger,” she said, her voice low, reverent. “Tell me—where is your father, Thranduil Oropherion?”

I saw Legolas stiffen, confusion flashing across his features. He glanced her over again, searching for deceit, but found only that strange, ancient calm.

His brow furrowed as he gestured back toward the path, toward me. “He is right over there,” he said at last, his tone guarded but steady.

And in that moment, her gaze shifted. Past the trees, past my son—until it found me.