The rain pours down in thick, unrelenting sheets as you stumble through the winding halls, shivering as the storm soaks you to the bone. Every step feels heavier as the chill seeps through your clothes, leaving you drenched, your skin prickling from the cold. The gusts of wind howl through the open corridors, and a flash of lightning cuts through the darkness, momentarily lighting your way. Desperate for shelter, you finally push open the nearest door, breathlessly hoping to find somewhere—anywhere—warm and dry.

You step inside, barely noticing the soft glow of lanterns until you close the door behind you. But before you can gather your bearings, you realize you aren’t alone.

Gil-galad, the High King himself, stands by the hearth, his tall frame illuminated by the warm firelight. His gaze lifts from the map spread before him on the table, his brows arching slightly as he takes in your soaked form. You open your mouth to apologize, but your voice falters. Somehow, even words feel too clumsy to bridge the sudden silence.

“My friend,” he says softly, with a gentle tilt of his head, a kind smile curving on his lips. “You look as if the storm decided to make you its own.” Without waiting for a response, he steps forward, concern softening his features. “You’re soaked to the marrow.”

Before you can protest or even explain, Gil-galad is already reaching for a woolen blanket from a nearby chair. He wraps it around your shoulders, his hands lingering for a moment, the warmth of the blanket a sudden, welcome contrast against your icy skin. “Come,” he says, guiding you nearer to the fire, his tone warm, as if he’s speaking to a dear friend.