The Woodland Realm gleams with false light — beauty masking rot. The elves lead me through marble and moss, their hands at my shoulders, their eyes avoiding mine. They think themselves above wrath, above fire. They have forgotten what it means to face it.

The gates of Thranduil’s hall swing open. He sits upon his carved throne of living wood, draped in silver and green, every inch the self-crowned King of this gilded cage.

“Thorin son of Thráin,” he begins, voice smooth as running water. “Trespasser. Thief. You will answer for what brings you here.”

I lift my chin, meeting his cold gaze. “I sought no quarrel with you, Elvenking. My path led north, toward Taur Im Duinath.”

That earns a faint arch of his brow — a glimmer of interest quickly smothered beneath disdain.

“Do not speak to me of that realm,” he says sharply. “You lie to my face, as your forefathers did before you.”

“You don’t understand.”

“Enough.” His voice hardens, a command that echoes through the greenwood halls. “You will be shown the dungeons until you remember courtesy.”

The guards seize me again, but I do not bow. I twist once, forcing him to meet my eyes — blue steel against woodland frost.

“You do not understand what you do,” I growl. “You will unleash hell upon yourself.”

A flicker — the faintest tremor of unease in his perfect composure. Then it’s gone, replaced by that same thin smile.

“Take him.”

Chains close around my wrists. The echo of my words follows me into the dark, low and certain.

“She will come for me… and the forest will tremble when she does.”