Morning light lays pale ladders across the long council table. The winter air is clean—the kind that makes breath a visible thing, even in halls this high and kept. I stand before the great map of Greenwood, and the river lines gleam like threads of silver drawn tight across green.

The doors whisper open.

She enters without escort, the Princess of Taur Im Duinath—Lady of Living Rivers—unhurried and entirely composed. The light takes to her at once: the sheen along the edge of her sleeve, the small shine on the white birch circuit at her brow, the calm upon her face that unsettles men who mistake noise for authority. She wears the colors of Taur Im Duinath moonlight silver and dark moss green upon her dress.

Legolas’s chair remains empty as always.

She does not search for him. She merely pauses—just long enough to acknowledge the absence as one acknowledges weather—then takes the seat set by custom at his right. Her hands rest upon the parchment before her, not clutching, not idle; a sovereign’s stillness, learned without throne.

The councillors’ glances flicker like minnows. I feel the pull to correct them and choose silence instead. It is enough to let their eyes find mine and learn what will and will not be permitted in this hall.

I realize, belatedly, that I am looking at her longer than courtesy allows.

There is a line between appraisal and regard. I step back across it.

I draw breath and let the room belong to law.

“Let us begin,” I say, and my voice carries easily in the quiet. “First: the winter roads to the east. Caravans from the Celduin report frost heave along the lower cut. We will divert through the birch pass and post wardens at dusk. Second: river-levy shares with Taur Im Duinath. The spring thaw will swell their banks before ours; Greenwood will release stores early and accept later return. We are neighbors, not rivals.”

A rustle, a faint shift of surprise. I do not look their way.

“Third: grievances brought by the southern foresters will be heard in the afternoon watch. I expect restraint in speech and precision in claim. These halls are not a market for pride.”

Only then do I let myself glance again—briefly, properly—toward the space where she sits. The morning light has found her pale blonde hair. She has not spoken a word. And yet the room feels steadier than it did when I entered.

“Proceed,” I say softly, and the council remembers how to breathe.