The Council chamber of Rivendell is too bright, too polished, too quiet. Elves sit like carved statues, Men murmur behind gloved hands, and Dwarves—myself included—try not to look like we’d rather be anywhere else.

Thorin sits rigid beside me, every muscle locked in place. He hates Elven halls—their perfumed air, their soft steps that never echo, the way they look at us like we’re made of stone instead of blood.

Fíli nudges me under the table, bored already.

And then the doors open.

Every voice in the chamber dies at once, like a candle snuffed.

Legolas enters first—tall, shining, impossibly graceful. Elves straighten with pride, Men fall silent. But it isn’t him that silences the room. It isn’t him that makes my heart slam against my ribs.

It’s her.

She walks beside him, taller than most men in the room, clad in deep forest green that ripples like living leaves. Her gown catches the sunlight pouring through the high windows, turning silk to riverwater. She does not wear heavy jewels—only a circlet of oak branches, golden brown against her brow. Understated, regal, powerful.

But it is her eyes that destroy me.

Green—not just green, but every shade of it. Deep moss and bright summer leaves. Sharp emerald and soft glade-shadow. Eyes that look alive, like the forest itself is staring back.

Valar help me.

I’ve never seen eyes like that on any creature in Middle-earth.

She steps forward and the chamber whispers.

“Elvenkind has sent their princess…” “…the heir herself…"

Thorin stiffens at that, jaw turning to granite. Fíli pretends not to hear, but his eyes flick toward her with the same stunned awe I feel. Even Elrond sits a little straighter, as if the entire hall must adjust for her presence alone.

She walks like silence and power. Like she owns the floor without needing to claim it.

Legolas brings her toward the circle of stone seats. Elven lords incline their heads deeply—one Lord of Lórien murmurs something I don’t catch, and his companion replies, soft and eager:

“She is still unbound.” “Her father guards her too closely.” “No match has ever been proposed—”

I feel heat rise up my neck. Not jealousy—something fiercer.

They speak of her as if she is a jewel. A prize. Not a warrior. Not a leader. Not the heir to a realm of ancient magic and deadly beauty.

Thorin leans toward us, voice low as thunder.

“Do not stare,” he warns.

But I cannot stop.

Her gaze sweeps the room once, calm and discerning. Every elf meets it with reverence. Every man with caution.

And when her eyes pass over me—just a flicker, nothing more—I forget how to breathe.

I, Kíli Durin, trained archer, battle-born, slayer of orc and warg… reduced to a heartbeat and a prayer.

A princess of the Woodland Realm. The future queen of Mirkwood. She takes her seat beside Legolas, posture perfect, expression unreadable. A queen in waiting, even without a throne.

Fíli shifts beside me, leaning forward just a fraction—subtle to anyone who isn’t family. To me, it’s as obvious as if he’d fallen out of his chair. His eyes haven’t left her since the moment she entered.

I’m not doing much better.

Before either of us can pretend composure, Thorin leans in—voice a low growl meant for Durin ears only.

“Control yourselves,” he whispers. “Fíli, do not make a spectacle. And you—” His dark eyes cut to me. “If you embarrass our line in front of Thranduil’s kin, I will send you back to Erebor in chains.”

I swallow hard and nod like a chastised child.

Fíli forces himself upright, staring very pointedly at the council table, jaw locked tight. Thorin sits back, expression neutral to anyone watching.

But someone is watching.

Legolas.

He’s turned just enough to look at us over his shoulder—a glance sharp as an arrowhead. Not hostile, not open threat—worse. Calculating. Measuring which of us poses the problem.

His eyes land on me.

And there it is. Recognition. Suspicion.

He saw me staring.

His gaze holds mine for a heartbeat too long—no words, just silent warning. The message is clear as sunlight on steel:

Do not look at the heir of Mirkwood again.