The marsh is too close.

I knew it the moment the ground softened beneath our camp and the scent of peat crept into the air. Greenwood changes near the wetlands. The trees lean differently, their roots drinking black water, the forest growing older and quieter the nearer one comes to the marsh.

Too quiet.

The others do not feel it the way I do.

Boromir sharpens his blade beside the fire. Gimli mutters about the damp ground. The hobbits whisper together in soft voices, while Aragorn moves along the treeline, checking the perimeter of our camp.

I remain standing at the edge of the firelight, listening.

The forest has gone still.

Not silent — Greenwood is never truly silent — but watchful. The insects have quieted. Even the wind seems reluctant to move through the branches above us.

Something moves in the trees.

I hear it before I see it.

A shift of weight along the boughs.

Aragorn reacts first.

His sword clears its sheath in a flash as he turns toward the treeline. Boromir rises beside the fire. Gimli’s axe comes up with a metallic rasp. The hobbits freeze like startled birds.

Then the branches above us move again.

A shape drops from the trees.

She lands in the clearing with the silent certainty of a predator, crouched low within the edge of our firelight. Bone and feathers shift in her dark dreadlocked hair, and the gray tone of her skin catches the glow of the flames.

Every weapon in the camp rises.

Aragorn steps forward immediately, blade angled toward her.

I move faster.

“No.”

The word leaves me sharp enough to cut through the clearing.

Aragorn stops mid-step. Boromir pauses with his shield half raised. Even Gimli hesitates.

I do not take my eyes off the figure crouched within the firelight.

Recognition strikes me like a memory pulled from the roots of Greenwood itself.

Of course.

The marsh.

We camped too close.

I lower my bow slightly.

“This one,” I say quietly, “we do not attack.”

Gimli frowns behind me. “And why not?”

I hear the tension in his voice. The unease in Boromir’s shifting stance. The hobbits have drawn closer to the fire, wide-eyed and silent.

But my attention never leaves her.

Because I know who stands before us.

“Because,” I say calmly, “this one is the one my Father King Thranduil fears. This is the Last of the Avari, the Dark Elves. The Huntress of the Marsh of Mirkwood."

The words settle heavily in the clearing.

Aragorn lowers his sword slowly, though his gaze remains sharp.

Behind me, Gandalf steps forward with interest flickering in his eyes.

“I wondered,” the wizard murmurs.

I incline my head slightly.

“Yes.”

Gandalf studies the huntress carefully. “So it is true, then.”

“It is.”

I finally speak her name.

“This is Sávrë.”

The fire cracks softly between us.

I can feel the others watching her now with a different understanding.

Boromir’s stance shifts.

Gimli’s grip tightens on his axe.

The hobbits whisper something I cannot quite hear.

But I remain still.

Because this is not the first time I have seen her.

The last time was deep within the marsh where the roots of Greenwood twist into dark water and old bones. That was where she told me the truth of this forest. Truth my people do not speak. Truth my father would sooner bury beneath a crown of silver and leaves.

And now she stands here again.

Watching.

Watching me.

I feel the same strange pull I felt the first time I saw her — something I do not fully understand.

The others see a threat.

A Predator.

A Savage.

A wild creature dropped from the trees.

But I know better.

Greenwood itself seems to bend around her presence, as though the forest recognizes something older than the throne my father sits upon.

I lift my chin slightly.

“We mean no harm,” I say evenly.

Then, after a brief pause, I add more quietly,

I lower my bow a fraction, careful not to appear threatening.

“We did not intend to travel so far into your territory,” I say evenly, voice calm in the firelit clearing. After a brief pause, I incline my head. “No disrespect was meant. Still… it is good to see you again, Sávrë.”