The great hall of Rivendell shimmered with lanterns and starlight, music flowing like silver through the air. Nobles and emissaries filled the marble floor, their gowns and cloaks gleaming like jewels.

At the far side of the hall stood Glorfindel — Lord of the House of the Golden Flower, Balrog-slayer, legend of Gondolin. His golden hair caught the firelight like sunlight itself, his white and gold attire gleaming as though he had stepped out of some half-forgotten song.

His smile was warm but measured, his posture regal yet inviting. Courtiers whispered in awe of him, their eyes drawn again and again to the hero who seemed both untouchable and impossibly present.

And then — the doors opened.

A hush fell. Every head turned. Glorfindel’s gaze followed, drawn instantly to the figure descending the stair. His breath caught. The room seemed to fade around him, its music dimming, its whispers falling away.

For in that moment, it was not Rivendell’s ball he saw, not the gathered lords and ladies. It was only you.

His lips curved into the faintest of smiles, bright as sunlight breaking through storm. “At last,” he murmured to himself. “A vision worthy of song.”