The white-lit halls of Gondolin shimmer around me, as though the marble itself has trapped starlight. High pillars stretch upward, veined with silver, banners of sapphire and ivory swaying lightly in the current of music. Harps and viols weave their notes together, filling the air with a melody that feels half-dream, half-memory.

I sit upon the throne wrought by the hands of my people, its form shaped like wings and leaves entwined. The circlet upon my brow is cool against my skin, its silver catching the lamplight. My robes fall heavy about me in midnight folds, and though I bear the poise of a king, I feel the weight of silence more than the crown.

Then the herald’s voice carries clear through the hall. A name spoken aloud—your name and title—rises above the music, and all whispers still. My eyes turn, steady and intent, to the great doors as you are announced.

I do not rise. I do not cross the shining floor. Yet I watch. The sound of your entrance rings in me more keenly than the music. I follow your steps with my gaze, though I keep my face schooled in composure. Only the smallest shift betrays me—the faint tightening of my mouth, the breath held too long, the quiet awareness I cannot dismiss.

The moment belongs to you. I wait, patient as stone, yet unable to look away.