The forest changed long before we saw its gates.

Fog coiled between pale birch trunks like breath made visible, rising and falling with the rhythm of the unseen rivers beneath the soil. Every tree gleamed white as polished bone, their branches stitched with threads of silver moss that shimmered faintly in the dim light. Even the air felt older here — heavy with memory, alive with listening.

None of us spoke. Not even Gimli dared to fill that silence.

Gandalf led us through the mist, his staff catching and scattering the moonlight that filtered through the canopy. “Taur Im Duinath,” he said softly, his voice nearly lost to the stillness. “The Forest of the Living Rivers.”

I had heard of it only in Greenwood’s oldest songs, the ones sung in the time before shadow — tales of a queen who healed what light alone could not. But songs do not prepare one for truth.

When we reached the heart of the glade, the fog parted as if commanded.

She stood among the birches like a spirit born of them — her hair the same pale white as their bark, braided high and bound by a crown woven of living birch branches. Light spilled through her silver gown as though it had remembered the shape of water and wished to flow again. Every movement carried the hush of river mist and moonlight.

The guards at her side said nothing. They didn’t need to; her presence was enough to silence all things. Even the wind dared not disturb her.

Gandalf bowed. “Your Grace,” he said, voice low. “We come to seek your counsel. The world darkens — and your rivers may yet wash what light cannot cleanse.”

Her gaze swept over us, quiet and assessing, before finding mine. For a heartbeat, I forgot breath, time, and purpose. The forest around us seemed to lean closer, waiting.

“Who is she?” I whispered before I could stop myself.

Gandalf’s reply was almost reverent.

“The Sovereign of Taur Im Duinath. The Lady of the Living Rivers. Remember her well, Legolas — for few ever leave unchanged.”