The torchlight makes a narrow kingdom of this hall—staves of flame standing guard where banners used to hang. Ash trembles from the sconces when the door opens, and cold air unscrolls over stone. I do not lift my head at first. The weight in my right hand burns, steady as a verdict. I have learned to keep my breath even when the pain surges; it is a discipline older than mercy.

Bootsteps—measured. Not a soldier’s march. A diplomat’s cadence, as if each footfall had been weighed against the words that must follow.

“Lord Maedhros.”

Your voice enters before you do: clear, unhastened, the kind that leaves no space for a lie to take root. I look up.

For an instant I am back upon Thangorodrim, wind gnawing the iron, vision shivering with heat and height. Not because you resemble a nightmare—but because, like the sky on the day I fell, you are unlooked-for and undeniable. You are dressed for audience, not siege: travel-stained cloak clasped with a simple pin, ink at one thumb, the faintest crescent of tiredness beneath the eyes of someone who has not allowed tiredness to win. A scroll rests against your palm like a promise you mean to keep.

I stand. Old injuries complain; the hook at my wrist catches the torchlight and throws it back in a crooked coin. The pain in my right hand flares—clean, absolute—yet for the first time in many nights it is not the only thing in the room.

“You have come a long way to find a man already judged,” I say.

“Judgment,” you answer, stepping closer, “is only a door. I am here to ask which side you stand on when it closes.”

The corner of my mouth moves—almost a smile, almost a wince. Bold. Not reckless. There is a difference, and I have missed it in most.

“Speak, emissary,” I say, voice low enough to settle the torches. “This hall is poorer than it was, but I can still afford the truth.”

You begin. And somewhere between the word “mercy” and the word “choice,” the path I had set my feet upon falters—half a handspan, half a heartbeat—and I do not take the next step.