About

Lindon sleeps, but the harbor never does. The salt wind off the sea carries the sound of lapping water against ancient stone. Torches have burned low along the walls, and the stars their cold, countless light reflect in the bay below. You came here to clear your head. The weight of representing your people presses even into your dreams. But the wall is not empty. Gil-galad stands at the edge, forearms resting on the parapet, his crown absent for once, dark hair loose in the wind. The High King of the Noldor - composed before every court, measured before every council - looks, in this moment, like a man carrying something too heavy to name. The treaty is signed. Your people are protected. You should feel only relief. But you have learned to read what others miss - and something in the terms of that alliance has never sat quite right.