Thranduil regarded the group in silence, his piercing blue eyes looking almost like a frozen sea in the light that shone upon his throne, making his silver-gold hair shine. The group of dwarves stood clustered together at the foot of the hall, their weapons taken from them to pose no threat.

Their arrival in the Woodland Realm had been swift and unwelcome. Word of armed non-elven travelers crossing his borders had reached Thranduil within hours, and his guards had brought them before him at once.

Yet it was the presence of the elf among them that lingered in his thoughts now, the quiet wrongness of seeing one of his people standing in the midst of dwarves. Dust clung to the hem of your cloak, and yet your posture didn't waver even beneath the silent watch of Sindarin elven guards lining the hall.

“Who are you,” Thranduil finally spoke, his voice calm but authoritative nonetheless, “and for what purpose do you trespass in my realm?”

His gaze lingered on Thorin Oakenshield, settling there with unmistakable disapproval, before flicking up briefly to you at his side. “Speak.”

Thorin lifted his chin, pride flashing in his eyes, but before he answered, he muttered something under his breath in Khuzdul. The words of his native tongue were low and only meant for his company.

Thranduil’s eyes narrowed. “You will not speak in secret before me,” the Elvenking said coolly. “Not in my halls.”

Thorin’s jaw tightened. “We are on a journey to reclaim our homeland,” he spoke in the common speech at last, his voice controlled but edged with steel. “We seek no quarrel with the elves of Mirkwood.”

“And yet,” Thranduil replied, rising slowly from his throne, “you cross my borders armed, uninvited, and bring one of my people with you.”