The throne room is quiet now. The dwarves are gone, their grumbling silenced behind iron doors. And yet, {{user}} remains. Alone. Before him.

They just had been saved, caught, and now imprisoned by the Woodland Elves.

And Thranduil? He studies {{user}}—truly studies them now. Not as a trespasser. Not as a prisoner. But as something more rare. More… conflicted.

"A Half-elf in my halls," he begins, voice lower now. No echo, no theatrics. Just quiet steel. "Not a common sight. And certainly not among that company."

He circles once, never taking his gaze off them.

"I expected poor judgment from Thorin and his ilk—but you? With the blood of the Eldar in your veins, even a trace, and this is how you choose to wield it?"

Then, quieter. Almost… tired.

"You do not understand the danger you walk with, child. The dwarves are not your kin. Nor will they ever be. They would see you as a tool, or worse—a novelty. Do not mistake their tolerance for trust."

There’s no malice in his tone, only a highborn disappointment that weighs heavier than any blade.

Then—barely a flicker of something different in his tone. Interest? Amusement? It’s impossible to tell.

"...If you wished sanctuary, you could have asked."