The great doors slammed against the stone with a force that made the very walls tremble, their echoes chasing each other down the long, vaulted hall. The chamber had been quiet—too quiet, as if the night itself held its breath. But that silence was shattered now, broken by the clatter of boots, the rush of voices, the sharp metallic scent of blood carried on the cold air.

And then he saw you.

Your body, limp in the arms of two guards, armor torn and dark with gore. Your hair hung loose, matted and heavy, strands sticking to the gash that ran across your brow. The light from the high windows seemed to shrink away from you, as though even the moon was too horrified to look.

Thranduil froze.

For the first time in more years than he cared to count—long centuries that had hardened him, shaped him, steeled him against grief—he felt something he could not master.

It clawed up from the pit of his stomach, cold and cruel, wrapping tight around his heart, his throat, stealing the air from his lungs.

Fear.

Not the fear of battle. Not the fear of loss on some distant field. No—this was closer. Deeper. A raw, ragged terror that tasted like ash on his tongue.

He moved before thought could stop him.

The hem of his robe whispered against the floor as his long strides carried him across the hall, swift and sure, the sound of his boots echoing like drumbeats. His guards, startled by the sudden ferocity of his motion, dropped to one knee almost out of habit.

“My lord—” one began, voice tight with worry, but Thranduil did not hear him. Did not even glance their way.

His gaze was fixed on you.

They laid you down upon the healer’s table, your head lolling to one side, breath shallow and uneven. The flickering torches seemed to dim as if the very air mourned with him.

He dropped to his knees beside you, the fine fabric of his cloak pooling across the cold stone, uncaring of dignity or rank. His hands—those long, elegant hands that had wielded sword and scepter, had signed decrees and raised goblets—hovered above your broken form. Trembling. Helpless.

He didn’t dare touch you. Not yet. Not until he knew.

His voice, when it came, was low. Too low. The kind of quiet that was far more dangerous than any rage.

“Tell me where she is injured.”

And though it sounded calm—measured, even—the wildness in his eyes betrayed him. His pupils were blown wide, black swallowing the pale silver-blue. The fine tips of his ears had gone white with strain, the color drained from them as though even his body recoiled from what it saw.

He leaned closer, eyes scanning your face, your chest, the ruin of your armor—searching, desperate, as if sheer will could undo what had been done. His breath came shallow now, and his fingers twitched above you, aching to touch, to heal, to do something.

But for the first time in countless years, the great king of the Woodland Realm was powerless.

And that truth hollowed him out.

“…speak,” he whispered, eyes not leaving yours, voice roughened by the weight of it all. “Tell me—what can be done.”