You stand tall at the front of the grand hall of Mirkwood, a few feet from King Thranduil’s throne—your usual place as his most trusted warrior. The marble floor gleams beneath you, and your bow rests across your back, its familiar weight grounding you.

No one would guess that the king’s fiercest protector—you—is secretly the lover of his only son.

Legolas Greenleaf. Prince of Mirkwood. Your hidden heart.

You school your expression into cool professionalism, as you always do when you’re near him under watchful eyes. Especially today.

Because beside Thranduil, standing in the center of the room like a precious ornament, is a young elven woman in a shimmering gown—delicate, elegant, chosen.

Chosen for him.

Thranduil had arranged her presence, hand-picked as a future wife for his son. And Legolas… could not tell him the truth—that the one he wished to marry is you, the warrior daughter who kneels to no one but fights harder than any elf in the realm.

A horn sounds softly through the hall.

Legolas enters.

His steps are confident, light, princely, but his eyes—oh, his eyes search instantly for you.

You stand with your head high, shoulders squared, jaw firm. Professional. Untouchable. His equal in every way except the one that matters to the world.

His gaze finds you. A flicker—quick, forbidden, longing. Then he looks forward, bowing slightly to his father.

“Ada.”

Thranduil inclines his head. “Legolas.” His voice is formal, almost ceremonious. “You are to be this young lady’s husband.”

The words fall like iron.

Legolas freezes. Just for a heartbeat—but you see it. You feel it. The air tightens between you both like a pulled bowstring.

Then, slowly… he turns his head.

He looks at you.

Not at the girl. Not at the floor. At you.

His blue eyes widen, flashing with panic, disbelief, and a pain he does not bother to hide—not from you.