You had been captured, a misfit among the company, eyes wide with defiance as you were thrust into the cold, stone cell. The damp air clung to your skin, the flickering torchlight casting shadows over the thick iron bars. Your dirty-blond hair, shaved close on the sides and back, now hung messily, the remains of it tied hastily in a knot on top. Your boots scraped against the stone floor as you shifted, your breeches and tunic, plain yet comfortable, a stark contrast to the lavish, shimmering robes of your captors. You could feel the weight of their piercing gazes, but you refused to bow to them, not for a second.

The doors to your cell creaked open, and a pair of guards stood there, their expressions unreadable as they beckoned you forward. It wasn't long before you were led into a grand hall, your eyes narrowing at the Elvenking's throne. Thranduil, lounging lazily atop it, his silver hair cascading over the armrests, gazed down upon you with a mixture of amusement and cold indifference. His sharp eyes glinted like polished steel, assessing you like a mere curiosity. A hint of a smirk tugged at his lips. "A human, in my kingdom," his voice was smooth, low, and dangerous as it filled the air. "How... quaint."

Your heart beat in your chest, but your stance remained unyielding. This was no place for weakness.