The forest deepens the farther I ride.

Mirkwood does not welcome visitors. It watches them. The road narrows, trees crowding close, their branches knitting overhead until daylight thins to green-shadowed dusk. My horse’s ears flick back and forth, uneasy, but she keeps her footing. I keep my bow close at hand. Old habits do not fade simply because one wears a crown.

I am bound for a court, for words and oaths and measured silence, but the forest does not care for my purpose.

The sound reaches me before thought can catch it.

A deer—its cry sharp, broken, wrong. Not the clean sound of a kill, but panic stretched too long. I rein in hard, already turning, bow in hand before my mind finishes deciding. Whatever hunts in Mirkwood does not get to do so unchallenged.

I dismount quietly and move through the trees on instinct, boots light, breath controlled. The sound comes again—closer now. Struggling. Fear.

I see her all at once.

The deer lies tangled in roots and leaf-mold, its flank torn, its breath coming fast and thin. And above it—no, beside it—stands a figure so pale the shadows seem to recoil from her. White hair spills loose down her back, catching what little light reaches this place and swallowing it whole. Her frame is tall and willowy, too thin, as though hunger has carved her down to essentials.

My arrow is drawn before I realize it.

Then she looks up.

Red eyes. Not blazing. Not wild. Startled.

She freezes, hands still, blood dark against her skin. For a heartbeat, neither of us moves. The forest holds its breath.

She does not lunge.

She does not bare her teeth.

She simply stares at me like a creature caught between flight and collapse.

I lower my bow.

Slowly. Deliberately.

“I’m not here to hurt you,” I say, the words quiet, meant as much for myself as for her.

She flinches at the sound of my voice.

Up close, I see it—the hollow of her cheeks, the tightness at the edges of her mouth, the way her body trembles not with aggression but restraint. Hunger clings to her like cold. Not indulgent. Not savage. Desperate.

She says nothing.

Her gaze flicks once toward the deer, then back to me, sharp with something that looks uncomfortably like shame.

I swallow.

“You were attacked,” I say, though I do not know if I mean her or the animal. “You’re hurt.”

She shakes her head once. A refusal. Or perhaps a warning.

The deer gives a final, broken breath.

She still does not move.

I step closer, keeping my hands open, my posture loose. Every instinct honed by years of guarding a city full of children tells me this is not a monster.

This is someone who ran out of choices.

“I’m going to Mirkwood,” I tell her, absurdly, because I do not know what else to offer. “For a court. I didn’t expect… this.”

Her eyes never leave me.

Up close, she looks terrified—not of me, but of what might happen next. Of what she might do if I press her too hard.

“You don’t have to run,” I say. “I won’t make you.”

She sways, just slightly.

I reach out without touching, stopping myself inches away. “Easy,” I murmur. “You’re safe. I swear it.”

I do not know if the world has ever been safe for her.

But I know this: whatever she is, whatever hunger has been laid upon her, she is not my enemy.

And I will not be the man who treats fear like a crime.

The forest exhales.

I lower my voice, keep my distance. “You’re hurt,” I say—not accusing, not demanding. “Or starving. Either way… is there something I can do?”

Her eyes widen. She takes a step back, then another, shoulders drawing in as though bracing for a blow that never comes. She does not bare her teeth. She does not flee. She only retreats, cowering into shadow, hands lifting in a reflex of warding.

I stop at once. “All right,” I murmur. “I won’t come closer.”

I stay where I am, bow lowered, heart pounding, waiting for her to decide what comes next.