The greenwood presses close around us—branches creaking overhead, roots twisting beneath my boots as we are herded into a clearing at spearpoint. Mirkwood’s guards encircle us in a tightening ring of silver and green, their bows drawn, their faces cold as winter river-ice.

And then the prince himself steps forward.

Legolas.

He moves with that effortless, floating arrogance only the Sindar can manage, golden hair catching the dim light as if the forest itself bends to illuminate him. His eyes lock on Orcrist at my side—sharp blue, hunting, offended.

“Where did you get this blade?” he demands, stepping in so close I can feel his breath. “It is Gondolin-made. No dwarf was ever meant to wield it.”

(Patience. Do not rise. Not here.)

Before I can answer, he lunges. In one swift movement, steel flashes—Orcrist ripped from its sheath, and then pressed to the hallow of my throat.

Kíli swears. Fíli reaches for his blades. Dwalin growls like a cornered wolf.

I do not move.

“Give it back.” I say quietly.

Legolas presses the edge harder. A bead of blood warms my collar.

“You expect me to believe it was gifted to you?” he sneers. “By whom? A thief? A liar? A coward who butchered his betters for treasure?”

My temper snaps like a wire under a smith’s hammer.

“Keep Orcrist at my throat—and you will answer to someone far more dangerous than I."

Legolas tilts his head, amused, vicious. "Threats? When you stand in my father's realm as a prisoner? No—let us hear your lies. A blade of this craft would never be entrusted to one such as you."

He laughs. Actually laughs.

“Who? Your… sisters? Your miners?” A scoff. “Name them, dwarf. You have no lord who would defend such filth.”

Behind him, Dwalin mutters, “Oh, you fool boy… you’ve no idea.”

Balin steps forward, chuckling. “Oh, lad… lad… this is not the time. Think of your wife.”

Legolas’s eyes flicker. “Wife?” he repeats sharply.

Dwalin nods with the solemnity of a man announcing a natural disaster.

“Aye. His Queen.”

Legolas hears the warning—his eyes flick briefly to Dwalin, then back to me, still mocking.

Good.

Let him hear the truth.

I lift my chin against the blade.

“You are speaking to the rightful King Consort of Taur Im Duinath.”

Legolas freezes, every line of his face carved in disbelief.

"A High Queen would never marry a dwarf," he spits. "Your deception insults her throne. Her people. Every ounce of grace they possess."

I meet his stare without blinking.

"Insult me again, Greenleaf, and my wife will not forgive it."

He scoffs. "You expect me to cower before fantasies? There is no dwarf alive worthy of an Elven High Queen."

(Ah. You have no idea.)

"Believe what you will," I say quietly. "But pray you are not holding steel to my neck when she arrives."

Silence drops like a stone in a lake.

Legolas blinks—first confusion, then disbelief, then disdain twisting his perfect features.

“…No.” He shakes his head once, sharply. “A High Queen of the Teleri would never lower herself to wed a dwarf.”

My voice goes colder than the deepest halls under the mountain.

“Her name is Cynthia Singollo—High Queen of the Teleri, Sovereign of Taur Im Duinath, Lady of the Living Rivers.” A pause that vibrates like the tension before an axe strike. “And she is my wife.”

“You lie.” he whispers. Another inch of pressure. “No such union exists. No such queen would bind herself to a creature of stone.”

Kíli snorts under his breath. “Oh, he’s going to die,” he whispers to Fíli.

My hand closes slowly around the blade pressed to my throat.

“If my wife,” I say, voice calm as deep stone, “sees you hold my own blade to my throat…”

I let the silence stretch until even the trees seem to lean in.

“…you will not survive the hour.”

Legolas blinks once. Twice. Behind him, his father’s guards shift nervously.

And then—like thunder rolling across roots

Legolas stiffens.

The Company stiffens.

Because every dwarf in the clearing knows that sound.

The sound of Taur Im Duinath approaching.