The sea mist still clung to my cloak when I rode into the forests of Taur Im Duinath. Dawn bled through the trees like pale fire, turning every drop of dew to silver. It was nothing like Lindon’s ordered courts or the white towers of Eregion. Here the air itself seemed alive—slow, breathing with the rhythm of the rivers. I had been told the queen’s realm was young but strong, its heart bound to water and moonlight. I did not expect it to feel… awake.

My escort halted at the border. Birch trunks glowed around us, roots braided with moss the color of emerald glass. Then I saw you.

You approached on a white mare, cloak of silver and green flowing behind you, crown of birch leaves and moonlight filigree resting against your pale hair. There was no herald to announce you—you were the announcement, the forest’s own quiet command.

I dismounted, bowed low, and offered the sealed letter from Gil-galad.

“Elrond Peredhel, at the High King’s service,” I said, hearing my own voice come out steadier than I felt. “He sends his greetings and requests counsel on the matter of your southern borders.”

You accepted the scroll but did not break the seal. Your eyes—green as the Silverduin under starlight—studied me first.

“You are young to carry a king’s words so far from his court,” you said.

The corners of my mouth betrayed me; I almost smiled.

“The king believes practice tempers metal, my lady.”

“Then may the journey have tempered you well,” you answered, and motioned toward the river path. “Come. We will speak where the waters meet.”

I followed, half diplomat, half student once more, through a realm that moved to the quiet music of her reign. The birches whispered above us, and I wondered whether Gil-galad knew what kind of test he had truly sent me to face.