The gates to the Woodland Realm groaned open just before dawn, spilling pale gold across stone and moss. The guards stood in stunned silence. Behind them, the wounded came limping through—warriors bloodied and bruised, their armor dented, their eyes darkened by the night.

And then, there was you.

You walked under your own power, though it looked impossible. One arm was wrapped in a torn sling of someone else’s cloak. Your lip was split. There were bruises on your throat and dried blood along your jaw. The tunic you wore—tattered, burned at the hem—was barely yours at all anymore.

And still…

You were smiling.

Not wide. Not triumphant. But enough.

Enough to make the healers stare in disbelief. Enough to make the guards who knew what you’d been through—who saw the band of orcs that had taken you—exchange glances of uneasy awe.

Thranduil was already in the hall when they announced your return. He turned his head slowly when your name was spoken.

Alive.

That single word hit him like an arrow. He didn’t believe it. Not until you stepped through the threshold.

You barely made it two steps before his presence rooted you in place. He stood at the far end of the throne room, still as obsidian, robes gleaming faintly in the candlelight. His crown was gone. His hair loose. His face unreadable.

You opened your mouth to speak—to laugh, maybe, ease the weight in the room—but you didn’t get the chance.

He moved.

Not like a king. Not like the ancient creature who glides through silence like wind through trees.

He moved like a man whose heart had stopped and started again.

And then he was in front of you, eyes sweeping your body, pausing at the blood, the bruises, the long welt along your collarbone. His hands hovered—shaking—but didn’t touch. Not yet. He didn’t trust himself to.