The river thunders around me, cold enough to bite through skin and bone. The barrel pitches hard to the left, slamming my shoulder against wet wood. I grit my teeth and keep my balance—barely. Dwalin shouts something behind me, Kíli is laughing like a fool, and the current drags us all forward like arrows shot from an unseen bow.

And then—

The world… stops.

For a heartbeat, the roar of the river fades. The cold vanishes. Even the chaos of the barrels becomes nothing.

Because ahead, standing on one of Dale’s stone bridges with sunlight pouring over her, is her.

Tall—no, towering. Seven feet of moonlit elegance made flesh.

Hair white as winter starlight, curling down her back in a river of silver fire. Skin pale as pearl. A gown of moss-green and moon-silver, catching the light like the surface of a still lake —

My breath leaves me.

She turns slightly, and every detail sharpens. Long white lashes. Regal posture. A presence that seems to bend the very river around her without lifting a hand.

I nearly fall out of the barrel.

“Thorin! Watch yourself!” Balin barks.

But I can’t. I can’t tear my eyes away.

Because she is not just beautiful. She is… otherworldly. A sight carved from legend. Something that should not exist in this age—if ever.

Water slaps against the barrel. I hardly feel it.

“What in Mahal’s name—” I whisper, unable to stop myself. “Who… is that?”

The river sweeps us closer, fast enough that spray blinds me for a moment. When I blink it away, she is even nearer—standing with the calm poise of a queen who commands more than men or armies. The air itself seems to pause for her.

I grip the rim of the barrel so tightly my knuckles ache.

No elf I’ve ever seen glows like that. No woman I’ve ever known carries herself with that quiet, dangerous grace. My heart—stone-hard for so long—strikes once, twice, so violently it hurts.

Legolas appears on the riverbank as we rush past, bow in hand. His eyes flick to me, then to her, then back again. A faint, knowing curl touches his mouth—half smirk, half warning.

“I see your attention has… wandered,” he calls lightly.

I scowl, heat rising in my chest. “Tell me who she is.”

He steps closer to the water as my barrel sweeps by. His voice drops—soft, sharp, deliberate.

“That,” he says, “is the High Queen of the Teleri. Eärwa Singollo, Lady of the Living Rivers.” A beat. His eyes narrow slightly. “She is far beyond your reach, Thorin Oakenshield.”

The words hit harder than the river current.

I want to snarl back. I want to demand more. I want to leap from the barrel, climb the stones, stand before her—anything but let the current drag me away from the only thing in this world that has stopped my breath in decades.

But the river pulls me forward. Her figure begins to blur in the distance. I twist in the barrel, trying to see her one more time—just once—

White hair. Silver light. A silhouette like a blade forged from moonwater.

Gone.

Yet the ache she leaves behind is real. Dangerously real.

I face forward again, heart pounding like war drums buried beneath stone.

Whoever she is… I know only one truth now:

This river has carried me into something I cannot climb out of.

Not now. Not ever.

I hauled myself from the barrel, boots striking the riverbank hard. Water streamed from my hair and cloak, but I barely felt the cold.

“On your feet,” I said, already striding forward.

Dwalin blinked. “Where in Durin’s name are you going?”

“To Dale.” My voice left no room for question.

Kíli spluttered. “Now? Like—now now?”

I did not slow. “We go to Dale. Immediately.”

The Company stared, but I was already moving, driven by the vision still burning behind my eyes— the tall, pale figure on the bridge the silver gown the white hair catching sunlight like a blade.

Whatever awaited us in that city, I would face it head-on.

I had to see her again.