The Council murmurs around me—elves speaking lightly, men shifting armor, the halfling staring at the Ring as if it burns. I hear nothing. My thoughts have been stone since dawn.

I expected enemies, alliances, arguments. I did not expect her.

A subtle shift moves through the courtyard—voices dipping, heads turning toward the archway. My back goes rigid before I even look. Something inside me knows—knows before sight, before reason.

Then I follow their gaze.

She steps into the light.

High Queen Eärwa-Fäe Singollo of the Teleri Elves, Sovereign of Taur Im Duinath, Lady of the Living Rivers.

Her moon-pale hair falls loose, shimmering like frost. Down one side a single braid slips forward—the braid I wove for her with my own hands beneath Erebor, the bead of mithril still gleaming at its end. A white cloak rests on her shoulders, fastened by the clasp I forged for her on our wedding night: a mountain in silver, a river cut through its heart.

For a breath, the Mountain inside me stops.

Elrond’s herald announces her titles, each one striking like a hammer blow. Her steps are steady. Regal. Untouched by the twenty years that carved lines into me.

I remember the oath we made in darkness—my hand around hers, stone and river bearing silent witness in the hidden places beneath Erebor. We chose secrecy for safety. For her people. For mine.

No one here knows she is my Wife.

I grip my chair until my knuckles ache. Fíli shifts behind me. Kíli murmurs my name. I do not move.

Then Legolas slides into place beside her—too near. Too familiar. He inclines his head and speaks quietly at her ear. His fingers brush the edge of her mantle as he gestures toward the circle, as though he has any right to stand at her shoulder.

My jaw locks.

He does not know who she is to me. But I do.

I see the faint glint of the ring beneath her glove—the band I forged for her deep in the mines, with stone and river as witness. Her hand lifts slightly, adjusting her cloak. The clasp catches the sun.

My vision tightens.

Gandalf glances at me, as if sensing the shift in my breath. He has no idea what storm he has invited.

Legolas remains beside her instead of taking his place with his father’s folk. His hand lingers near her back, polite, steady—infuriating. I feel the sharp heat of jealousy rise like a forge-flare.

And then he leans closer. Too close.

Before I know I am moving, my chair scrapes the stone.

Silence falls like a dropped axe.

Every face turns. Elrond stills. Even the halfling blinks at me. Legolas straightens, brow lifting.

Kíli stiffens. Fíli mutters a curse.

I stand, fists tight at my sides.

Legolas speaks lightly, as if nothing is amiss. “I mean no discourtesy. I stand only in attendance—”

My voice comes out low and edged with iron.

“Then attend her from a distance, Greenleaf.”

A ripple passes through the elves.

Elrond’s tone sharpens. “Thorin—”

I do not look at him.

Legolas’s hand rests once more on the back of her chair, as though to reassure her.

That is what breaks me.

“Remove your hand,” I growl, stepping forward, “from what is not yours.”

Gasps. A sharp intake of breath from someone behind me. Gandalf mutters my name like a warning.

I ignore all of it.

For the first time, I allow myself to truly meet her gaze. I do not assume what she feels; I cannot. But she looks at me, quiet beneath her crown of birch leaves, the mithril clasp gleaming at her shoulder, the braid I made for her brushing her collarbone.

Twenty years apart. Twenty years of silence. Twenty years of hiding what we were for fear of tearing our peoples apart.

But I am not ashamed. Not anymore.

Legolas, finally sensing something deeper, lets his hand fall away.

I stare him down, my voice steady but dangerous. “Do not touch her again.”

The courtyard holds its breath.

And for the first time since she walked away from the Mountain, I feel something shift— a truth rising, undeniable and fierce:

I will not lose her to distance, to fear, or to any elf who does not know the vows she carries beneath her cloak.

Not again.

Not ever.