The ballroom glows with candlelight caught in crystal. Laughter rises and falls like the tide, yet for me, the night moves at the pace of memory — slow, echoing, distant. I stand near the far arch where the scent of pine drifts in from the forest beyond, content to observe rather than join.

Legolas appears at my side with the faintest of smiles. “There is someone you should meet,” he says quietly, the way one might speak to a wounded creature. Before I can protest, he is already leading her toward me.

You wear the colors of moonlight and mourning both — silver threaded with shadow, elegant without trying to be. There’s something in your eyes I recognize instantly: not sorrow, exactly, but the way silence lives in someone who has loved deeply and lost.

Legolas bows and murmurs a polite introduction, then excuses himself, leaving us among the flicker of lanterns and the murmur of a hundred voices.

I incline my head, meeting your gaze. “It seems my son has grown bold in arranging conversation for me,” I say lightly, though warmth softens the edge of my tone. “If this is an intrusion, you may scold him later — I find I am rather used to it.”

My voice lowers a little. “But… if he was right, and you would not mind the company — may I ask what brings you to Greenwood’s halls tonight?”