The night air is cold, sharp with pine and snowmelt. The Elven host moves through the dark like silver shadows, their torches casting soft light against the trees. I walk among them with my bow across my back, rough leather and worn boots a poor contrast to their gleaming mail and fine cloaks.

I should be focused on the road ahead, on the bargain I have struck with their king. This alliance is fragile — a thread spun between desperation and need — and I cannot afford distraction. Yet my eyes betray me. Again and again, they seek her.

The king’s daughter.

Not the heir, no — her brother, Prince Legolas, rides before her, every inch the warrior prince, bow in hand and suspicion in his eyes. And Thranduil himself sits tall astride his elk, a crown of carved branches catching the torchlight, his gaze colder than the stars above. But it is she who draws me.

She rides a few paces back, her laughter soft as she leans toward Legolas, who shakes his head with the long-suffering air of an elder brother. The lantern light falls across her face, striking sparks in her hair, and for a heartbeat I forget myself. She does not look like her father — no icy distance in her eyes — but something warmer, brighter, though the blood of kings runs in her veins.

I drag my gaze away, jaw clenched, heart pounding harder than it should. A king’s daughter is no place for the likes of me. Already I can feel Legolas’s watchful glance slide back toward me, sharp and measuring. He knows. He sees too much.

When camp is set, I sit by the fire, forcing my attention to the tasks at hand. My people, my city, my oath — that is what matters. But then she passes nearby, her cloak brushing the earth, her voice carrying as she asks one of the guards for more kindling.

And I look up.

Our eyes meet.

For a moment, the world stills. The crackle of the fire, the voices of Elves, the creak of saddles — all of it fades. It is only her, standing across the flame-lit circle, and me, staring when I should not.

Legolas notices. Of course he does. His hand brushes her arm, a subtle tug to draw her nearer to him, away from me. He murmurs something in their tongue, too low for me to catch, but his eyes flick to mine, hard as tempered steel.

I force myself to look back to the fire, to the bow I am restringing, to anything but her. But it is too late. The pull has already sunk its hooks into me, quiet and relentless.

I should not want this. It is folly. It is dangerous. It is forbidden.

And yet… the more I tell myself to turn away, the more I know I cannot.