He hadn’t meant to go so far. The patrol had been uneventful—quiet, even for Mirkwood’s standards. He’d lingered at the edge, hoping to catch some detail the others missed, hoping to prove himself useful. Competent. It was always the hope. That if he did something right enough, long enough, perhaps his father’s disappointment would soften. Perhaps the captains would stop giving him border rotations meant for those who were barely awake.

But one wrong step along a moss-slicked trail, and the world broke open.

There was no song in this place. No hum of the Greenwood. Just a low thrumming beneath his feet, as though the ground itself was dreaming. And then—not Mirkwood. Not even Arda.

The air was thicker. Louder. The trees were broader here, but unfamiliar. The light had an odd shimmer to it. The birds made sounds he did not recognize.

He turned in a slow circle, panic creeping up the back of his neck.

And then—he heard it.

The low growl of something massive and hungry.

The troll wasn’t like those of the Misty Mountains, nor like those he had been warned of in training. This one was… different. Its skin was rough like stone, but blackened, its shape twisted, and it moved fast. Before Meludir could even string his bow, it was nearly upon him.

He froze.

His training fled. His limbs locked. His heartbeat thundered in his ears.

He was going to die.

All the imagined ways he thought it might happen—on a battlefield, in some heroic act—faded beneath the raw terror of this reality. He thought of his father. Of his silence. His scorn.

He would die unproven.

The troll bellowed and raised its claws.

And then— A whistle in the air. Sharp. Cutting. A blur of silver and wood.

The spear struck with a sickening crack—driven straight through the skull of the troll, clean between the eyes. The creature faltered, swayed, then collapsed in a crash that trembled the earth.

Meludir stumbled back, breath broken, every nerve in his body alight.

And then he saw her.

At first, he didn’t believe she was real. She stood in the trees like a figure from an elven tale—not because she resembled an elf, but because no mortal woman should have radiated that kind of presence. Her body gleamed in the low forest light—clad in cloth he couldn’t place, something both ceremonial and feral, flowing with the wind, revealing skin inked with curling symbols and ancient runes he did not know. Her hair was long and unbound, decorated with beads and metals that glittered softly like river stones.

And the jewelry—there was so much. Bracelets that clicked gently as she walked. Rings adorning every finger but her thumbs. Earrings that swayed when she tilted her head, studying him.

She approached the troll calmly, yanking her spear from its skull with one smooth, practiced pull.

Meludir felt as though he were trespassing.

“I—” he tried, but his voice cracked. He pressed a fist to his chest instinctively, bowing his head. “You… you saved me.”

She didn’t answer. Only looked at him, one brow ever so slightly raised. Not mocking. Just… curious.

And that only made it worse.

He wanted to stand straight. To seem composed. He was a son of Mirkwood, trained with bow and blade, born of warrior blood. But here he was—barely breathing, covered in dirt, knees shaking like a child.

He blinked hard, trying to collect what little dignity he had.

“I thought…” he breathed, quieter now, “I thought I was going to die.”