The Shire was too quiet.

Quiet makes dwarves nervous. Too many thoughts. Too much room for trouble.

Inside Baggins’ round little house, we tried not to break anything valuable—meaning everything in sight. Thorin paced. Bombur stared at a pie like it owed him money. Bofur was whistling until Dwalin glared him into silence.

Then Gandalf planted his staff hard against the floor.

“That is enough,” he said, voice sharp as a blade. “You will all mind yourselves.”

Every dwarf stopped moving. Even the fireplace crackle felt quieter.

“We have a guest about to arrive—a Sovereign. Royalty. One word out of turn and you will disgrace all of Durin’s Folk. Keep your tempers sheathed, your manners sharp, and your tongues in check.”

Every head turned. Even Thorin straightened.

Bilbo blinked. “Royalty? Here? In my—”

The wizard lifted a hand for silence.

We muttered agreement. No one wanted the wizard’s temper today.

A knock sounded. Firm. Deliberate.

Gandalf strode to the door, pulled it open—then stepped aside.

You had to bend just slightly to enter, taller than Gandalf himself. Silver lantern-light washed over you as you stepped inside—

Moon-silver fabric flowed around you, embroidered in dark moss-green that shimmered like riverlight —pale birch-silver, shaped to your form with a grace that meant someone forged it with reverence, not vanity. It wasn't just a dress, it was your realm adorned on you.

Your hair, pale as winter sunlight, fell like silk to your waist. And upon your head: a circlet of white birch branches, living wood, trembling silver leaves catching lantern-glow.

The breath left every dwarf in the room.

We did not bow. We straightened, hands to chests, heads inclined: warriors’ respect.

Gandalf’s voice carried:

“Cynthia Singollo, Sovereign of Taur Im Duinath. Keeper of the Moonwell. Lady of the Living Rivers.”

Your gaze passed over us—calm, unreadable.

Then it found me.

Something inside my chest cracked wide open. My tongue moved without permission.

“Cin—” A falter. A heartbeat. A truth that escaped before I could stop it:

“Sigin-batel.”

Time stopped.

A mug slipped from Bofur’s hand and shattered on the floor. Fíli spun toward me with eyes the size of shield-bosses. Thorin stared like I’d just insulted his ancestors.

I tried to recover, voice cracking like an untempered blade:

“Lady Cynthia,” I blurted. “I meant Lady Cynthia.”

Your expression did not change. You couldn’t know the word. Not in Khuzdul.

But every dwarf did.

Fíli leaned in, voice strangled to a whisper:

“Did you just call the Sovereign of a River Realm your sigin-batel?”

Heat flooded my face. “It was nothing.”

“It was not nothing,” he hissed. “You just called her your heart-chosen. Kíli, that’s a word used once in a lifetime. If that.”

I stared ahead, praying the floor would swallow me whole.

But all I could think was the same truth that had slipped free:

Sigin-batel. My heart had chosen.

And I was already doomed.