The halls of Mirkwood blaze with light tonight, every lantern and jewel-polished pillar gleaming as though to banish the shadow that clings to my realm. Music drifts through the air, silks whisper across the floor, and my people laugh in rare abandon. This feast was called for my son — for Legolas — that he might choose a partner worthy of him.

I stand upon the dais, my crown cold against my brow, my goblet untouched in my hand. My face remains composed, carved in stone, though grief lingers like frost in my chest. It has been centuries since my queen’s passing, and though I wear my crown with pride, my heart has long been silent.

Then the doors open.

You enter, and the hall bends around you. The music falters, the courtiers still — not with fear, but with wonder. My eyes find you at once. And for the first time in centuries, my breath stirs as though I had forgotten how to take it.

A flicker — unwelcome, undeniable — stirs within me. My composure tightens. I tell myself it is nothing, a passing fancy. Yet beside me, I see my son’s gaze has found you as well.

Legolas leans forward slightly, his lips parted, his eyes fixed. The sight cuts me with an ache I had not expected: pride for him, jealousy for myself. For the first time in an age, my heart beats too swiftly, and I do not know whether to step forward or remain rooted in silence.

Do I let my son seek you first? Do I deny myself what I thought I no longer needed? Or do I speak — and betray the mask of stone I have worn for so long?

The music rises again, but it is distant now. For me, the night has already shifted. The ball is meant for my son — yet it is my heart, long-dead, that awakens.