He tried not to look toward the hill.

He tried.

But every time he parried, every time he drew his blade across the arc of the sun and heard the clash of steel meet his own, his eyes flicked back to where she sat—legs tucked beneath her, hands resting on her lap, face tilted in open, radiant attention.

Watching him.

Him. Not the captain. Not the senior warriors with their shining helms and flawless form. Not the golden-haired sons of noble houses. She watched him, Meludir—son of no one of consequence, with a quiet voice and a father who shouted more than he spoke.

And that made the others notice.

He could feel them smirking between strikes.

“Your mortal admirer returns,” one of them murmured beneath his breath, loud enough to sting. Another chuckled. “Careful, Meludir—she may carry your favor into song before you’ve even blooded your blade.”

He bit his tongue. Focused. Block. Turn. Step back.

But they were right, in a way.

Elven maidens didn’t come to the training grounds. Not unless it was festival season and songs were to be sung afterward. And they certainly didn’t linger to watch younger warriors—ones still finding their rhythm, still making mistakes, still blushing when they met her gaze.

But she was not one of them.

She was not of their world, and somehow that made it worse—and better.

She didn’t know the hierarchy, didn’t know who was worth her time and who was merely tolerated. She didn’t see the polished armor or the practiced arrogance that oiled the social wheels of Thranduil’s court. She simply came, often without announcement, and sat on the grassy slope as if it were a throne. And she watched him as if he were a hero already.

He hadn’t asked her to come. He never would have dared. But she kept doing it. And every time she did, something within him stood a little taller.

Even now, while the others exchanged grins and threw glances her way, Meludir stayed silent. He blocked another strike. Missed a beat. Recovered. His cheeks were red with exertion and something else.

He was trying so hard not to smile.

Later, when they broke for water and cloth to wipe sweat from their brows, he took the longer path around the edge of the glade, feigning the need for stillness. He told himself he would not look.

But when he passed beneath the shadow of the tree where she sat, he slowed.

She was there—looking up at him like the sun had bent just to follow him across the clearing.

He could feel the other warriors watching. Their jealousy like a low hum in the leaves.

Let them.

Let them whisper. Let them laugh. She had not come for them.

He gave her the smallest bow—awkward, half-sincere, the kind of thing he’d once practiced in a mirror as a child.

“Thank you for coming,” he said quietly, eyes lowering out of instinct. “Even if I am not... impressive yet.”