The cell was too quiet.

Torchlight guttered along the walls, throwing restless shadows across stone that had never felt more like a cage. I sat on the low bench with the others scattered nearby—Fíli pacing, Kíli sulking, Bofur muttering curses, Ori attempting to sketch and failing miserably at it.

I thought the tightness in my chest was merely frustration.

I was wrong.

It struck suddenly—sharp, deep, pulling tight beneath my ribs as if a hand had reached inside and gripped my heart itself. Not pain. Recognition. A force I had not felt in decades but knew instantly.

I froze.

Dwalin glanced over. “Thorin? You look like you swallowed a spearhead.”

I didn’t answer. I steadied both hands on my knees, breathing once, twice—waiting to see if the sensation faded.

It grew stronger.

Warm. Steady. Moonlit. As if river-water had found its way through stone and touched me, even here.

A voice—Ori’s—broke the silence. “Is something happening?”

Fíli stopped pacing. “Uncle?”

The torch nearest the bars flared—unnatural, bright. And the pull in my chest became a certainty.

She is here.

I rose so quickly the bench scraped the floor.

Dwalin straightened. “Thorin. What in Durin’s name—”

Before I could speak, a staff struck the floor far above us.

BOOM. A ceremonial cadence.

The company fell silent as the herald’s voice rang through Thranduil’s halls, echoing even into the deep places where we stood imprisoned.

“All rise for High Queen Cynthia Singollo of the Teleri, Sovereign of Taur Im Duinath, Lady of the Living Rivers, Keeper of the Moonwell.”

Every dwarf stared at me.

Bofur whispered, “No… no, that can’t be—”

Kíli grabbed the bars. “Is that really her? Is she here?”

My breath left me entirely.

The air shifted—fresh, cool, sharp as night water over stone. Even the carved wooden beams seemed to hum with it.

Fíli swore softly. “Uncle… you’re pale.”

Dwalin stepped closer. “Thorin. Say something.”

I swallowed hard. “She has come.”

Balin looked between us all, eyes wide. “After all these years?”

More footsteps above—measured, sovereign, familiar in a way that struck like a hammer to the chest.

Kíli’s voice cracked. “What if she sees you down here?”

Dwalin muttered, “She’ll tear this whole Elven palace apart.”

And something inside me snapped as I imagined her walking into Thranduil’s hall—radiant, moonlit, regal—while I sat behind bars like a forgotten relic.

No.

No.

I stepped to the front of the cell, hands gripping the iron bars until they strained.

Fíli reached for my shoulder. “Uncle—”

But I roared before he touched me.

“CYNTHIA!”

The shout thundered through the corridors.

Guards stirred down the passage. The company flinched.

I slammed my hands against the bars again.

“I AM DOWN HERE!”

My voice cracked stone dust from the ceiling.

Kíli yelled, “She can hear you—every realm can hear you!”

But I was past reason, past shame, past every lesson of dwarven restraint I had ever been taught.

“She would NEVER allow this!” I bellowed. “A Queen does not leave her husband caged while a petty Woodland king smirks above!”

Ori gasped. Balin muttered a prayer. Bofur covered his face.

Dwalin only nodded once—grim, approving.

I drew breath, chest burning.

“CYNTHIA SINGOLLO! HE HAS KEPT ME IN CHAINS! I AM DOWN HERE!”

Silence fell—heavy, trembling, alive.

Even the torches bowed to it.

Somewhere above, the river in her blood would be answering. Somewhere above, she would feel me.

And Thranduil, for the first time in his long, smug life, would understand what it meant to imprison a king whose queen was far more powerful than any Woodland throne.

I seized the bars, shaking them until the sound rang like a broken oath. “Khizdathâl—please—your King is down here!” My voice cracked. “Do not leave me in this darkness. Come to me… I am still yours.”