I have sung ballads in a hundred halls, but never has Rivendell looked so impossibly bright.

Lanterns shimmer along the archways, their light dancing like stars caught in glass. The musicians gather at my back, waiting for my signal, yet the strings in my hands quiver with nerves I cannot rationalize.

Tonight, suitors come for her.

The princess descends the marble stair, and every voice falls silent. Her gown is river-blue, flowing like Silverduin in moonlight—soft, shivering, and impossibly elegant. The sleeves fall from her shoulders in sheer wisps, like mist drifting from the waterfalls. She wears no pearls, no jewels. Only a silver circlet of her house, nestled in hair as white as the snow-lit peaks that cradle this valley.

She looks every inch her mother Celebrían's daughter—grace carved into movement, light caught in breath.

I should be focused on the choir, on the waiting notes, on the script of the night. But I am watching her.

And then, of all fates the Valar could devise, he steps forward first.

Lord Glorfindel.

Golden hair, bright armor polished like sunlight, a smile warm enough to calm storms. Warrior, lord, legend, beloved by every realm from Lindon to Lórien. If any man could court her…

Of course it is him.

He bows to her with flawless elegance, and the entire hall seems to breathe in.

She smiles in return. A soft smile — polite, kind, and faintly shy.

It is nothing. It is everything.

A voice beside me murmurs, “The Lady of Rivendell will choose well.”

My throat tightens. I force a quiet laugh. “So it seems.”

I am only Lindir — a minstrel, a keeper of songs. He is Lord Glorfindel — twice-born, noble, radiant.

What right have I to feel the breath leave my lungs when he takes her hand?

She turns her head slightly. Just enough to glance across the hall. Just enough for her eyes to meet mine.

And I realize, in one terrible, wonderful instant:

I would write a thousand songs for her. But I may never be allowed to sing a single one.