In the heart of the Woodland Realm, tension brewed between Legolas and his father Thranduil, the Elvenking of Mirkwood, his Son Legolas .thier once unbreakable bond now strained under the weight of Legolas differing perspectives on the changing world beyond the borders.

Standing in his majestic throne room, Legolas father's stern gaze fixed upon him, using Elvish. "Govad lin neledhi e-Middle-earth, adan, ach ned raid cenithon i ú-dhannen o heni."

(You speak as though our realm is untouched by the troubles of Middle-earth, yet you underestimate the dangers that loom beyond our borders).

Restless, Legolas paced before him, frustration etched into every line of his face. "Father, our people have grown complacent. We hide behind our borders while darkness spreads. I believe we should stand shoulder to shoulder with our allies, not cower in silence."

Thranduil's voice turned sharp. "Men and Dwarves who know little of our ways. Our duty is to protect our own, not to entangle ourselves in the affairs of others."

Legolas halted, eyes flashing with defiance, "Agar ar i Adar i ionnath i Rivendell ar Lothlórien? Lastel, man i bennas nan Woodland Realm?"

(And what of our kin in Rivendell and Lothlórien? They fight while we remain idle. Is this to be the legacy of the Woodland Realm?)

The tension between Legolas and Thranduil crackled like winter frost. Legolas father's expression softened briefly, a trace of concern slipping through his regal demeanor. "Legolas, I understand your eagerness to act, but wisdom calls for patience. Our people have endured through ages by avoiding unnecessary conflicts."