The horn sounds three times—low, deep, and mournful—and the whole mountain seems to listen. I’ve heard that call only once before: when an oathbound ally returns after long silence.

When the gates open, the snow sweeps in before her like heralds. I stand near the lower steps, hands still rough from the forge, heart unsteady as if the stone itself were holding its breath.

And then I see her.

Seraphin—white as mist at dawn—steps from shadow into torchlight, her coat untouched by soot or ash. Upon her back sits the Queen of Taur Im Duinath, Lady of the Living Rivers silver and moss gleaming across her armor like moonlight drawn through a forest canopy. Her crown of birch catches the glow from the forges, every pale branch traced with veins of light. For an instant it feels as though the mountain kneels.

No one speaks. Even the anvils are still. The dwarves beside me bow their heads—not from command, but from something older than custom. Reverence. Memory.

I have never seen her before, and yet I know her from the whispers that shaped my childhood—the Elven Sovereign my uncle could not keep, the oath he broke, the silence that followed. He said her name only once, bitterly, and even then it sounded like a prayer half-swallowed by pride.

And now she rides into his halls again, unaged, untouched by time. The same river he tried to damn—flowing back to the mountain he left unguarded.

You let her go. The thought isn’t mine, or maybe it is. The forge smoke twists, and for a moment I swear I hear his voice inside it—low, rough, half-regret, half-command. You let her go. Don’t make my mistake.

I blink hard and the echo fades, but it leaves a weight behind, heavy as the gold in our vaults.

I step forward, one hand pressed to my chest. My voice comes quieter than I expect, meant only for her and the stone that remembers.

“The mountain remembers your oath,” I whisper. “Let me honor it where he could not.”

She doesn’t answer. She doesn’t need to. The torchlight flickers once across her armor, and for a heartbeat I think I see her look toward the old throne—empty still, draped in shadow.

The mountain hums beneath my boots. I swear it breathes again.