The ceiling in Bag End has always felt low, but when Gandalf steps through the door, even he looks small. His hat brushes the rafters. Thorin mutters something about hobbit architecture, and I swallow a laugh, knowing better than to let it out.

Then Gandalf turns sideways, raising his staff to avoid the chandelier.

“Master Baggins,” Gandalf calls, “I bring… a guest.”

He steps aside.

And the whole room goes silent, and someone follows him inside.

At first, I see only light — pale, silver, cold as moonrise — spilling into Bilbo’s round little hallway. Then I realize it is not light, but hair, white as starlight on snow, catching every flicker of lantern flame. When the figure straightens, even that is too tall; she has to bend to stand inside the hobbit’s home, taller than Gandalf by a clear handspan and more.

The room goes silent.

Every dwarf in the Company stops talking, chewing, arguing, breathing. I have seen Elves before — tall, fair, infuriating — but never one like this. Skin pale as carved ivory. Ears long and sharply pointed. A presence that makes Bag End feel like a child’s toy house.

Gandalf clears his throat.

“Dwarves of Durin’s Company,” he says, as if this is an ordinary evening, “may I present Eärwa-Faë Singollo, Princess of Alqualondë, Daughter of the late King Olwë Singollo.”

Princess of the Teleri.

My heart forgets how to beat.

Bofur’s hat falls off. Ori drops his book. Kíli inhales a crumb and chokes on it.

I stand up — or try to. My knees lock halfway, and all I manage is an awkward half-bow that feels nothing like a prince and everything like a stunned child.

Thorin speaks first, calm as carved stone. “You honor this house, my lady.”

Balin bows deeply. Dwalin crosses his arms but even he doesn’t look away.

Me?

My brain leaves my body.

Kíli elbows me hard. “Say something.”

I try, and it comes out wrong:

“Your— highness. I mean— my lady. I mean— welcome. To the… hobbit house. Of Bilbo.”

Nori snorts. Dori sighs. Even Bombur looks embarrassed for me.

But I can’t help it. Because she stands there like the moon carved itself into the shape of a warrior, and no one else seems to understand how impossible that is.

I whisper to Kíli, “Do you not see her? She is taller than Gandalf. This is a giant lady made of moonlight, and we are in a pantry.”

Kíli wheezes a laugh. “Careful, princeling. You’re drooling on your boots.”

I ignore him, eyes fixed upward — because how could anyone look anywhere else?

For the first time in my life, the world feels bigger than gold or mountains or destiny.

And I think: If this night can hold something like her, what else have I not imagined yet?