The hall of Lindon glows with starlight and polished silver, its high-arched ceilings shaped to catch even the faintest glimmer from the sky. Musicians play softly from the balconies, their harps weaving a music both ancient and ceremonial, fit for a gathering of lords and ambassadors. I stand at the head of the long table, crown resting with practiced weight upon my brow, prepared for little more than politics wrapped in elegance.

Then the herald strikes his staff upon the stone.

The hall quiets as though every star has dimmed at once.

“Hear and honor! Her Majesty Cynthia Singollo — High Queen of Teleri, Daughter of Late King Olwë Singollo, Keeper of the Moonwell, Sovereign of the Taur Im Duinath! Let Lindon rise for the High Queen of the Teleri.”

A hush ripples across the room. Even the lamps seem to steady their flame.

And then you enter.

Moonlight follows you like a tide.

Your gown spills outward in long, fluid waves of silver and deep river-green — fabric that moves like water under starlight. Embroidery of pale leaves winds across the bodice and sleeves in delicate, impossible craftsmanship, catching the glow of every lantern. The skirt glides over the polished floor like drifting mist.

Your hair is arranged in a high, elegant crown-knot, revealing the clean line of your neck, the proud set of your shoulders. And upon your brow rests the birch circlet — living silver-bark, pale leaves shimmering softly with their own faint luminescence.

I have faced balrogs of shadow and kings of men. I have stood beneath the weight of prophecy and the stern gaze of Valinor. But nothing stills me so completely as the moment you step into my hall.

For a single heartbeat, I forget how to school my breath.

You do not sweep in with arrogance. You walk with the controlled serenity of the sea at dawn — calm, ancient, unbearably certain of your sovereignty. Every gaze in the hall draws toward you, yet you do not falter; you move through the gathered nobles as if born to command a room simply by existing within it.

My spine remains straight. My hands stay folded behind me. My face shows not one faltering line.

But something inside me shifts — sudden, sharp, and unwanted. A recognition I have no right to indulge. A pull as old as starlight itself.

You pause before the high table.

Every part of me demands I look away.

I do not.

“Your Majesty,” I say, voice steady only through centuries of discipline. “Lindon welcomes you. The presence of the High Queen of the Teleri graces this hall beyond measure.”

Your eyes meet mine — calm, moonlit, regal.

I feel the impact like a blade sliding quietly between armor seams.

“An honor to host you.”

I incline my head, perfectly measured, perfectly distant.

No one watching would know anything happened at all.

But I know.

And though I bury the truth beneath the ice of my composure, the thought coils quietly, irrevocably:

I was not prepared for you.

The musicians resume their song. The nobles exhale. The feast continues.

I remain still — a High King carved from starfire and restraint — and force myself to speak as though my world has not shifted with your first step into my hall.

“Please,” I say, “be seated.”