From Darkness To Light

by Oculi

Summary:

||She was supposed to rule the Underdark. Instead, she landed in his forest.

Ambrose Veylthra expected spider silk, feasts, and the undying fear of her enemies.

What she got was sunlight. Singing birds. And a very pretty elf prince trying to shoot her out of a tree.

Dragged before King Thranduil as a trespasser, Ambrose finds herself caught between worlds—and in a dangerous game of wills with a king as cold and beautiful as winter.

Enemies, allies, or something in between? Only the forest knows.

Notes:

Hello you filthy Thranduil lovers! I’m here to let the reader step into the shoes of a sassy Drow woman. Sit back in your cozy place and enjoy~!

Chapter 1: Chapter One – Shadows in Starlight

I was supposed to be crowned matriarch today.

The great ritual of my House should have ended with me draped in spider silk, my hand raised over kneeling kin, ready to claim districts of the City of Spiders as my rightful domain. Instead, the goddess frowned upon me—or perhaps merely found my ambition amusing.

Why else would the Weave tear me from the Underdark and hurl me into… this?

Wherever “this” was.

I groaned, sitting up on a bed of moss that smelled far too alive. Sunlight stabbed through the canopy above, shards of gold cutting across my vision. The world was painfully open, shadows fleeting and weak. This was no cavern, no beloved darkness.

The Weave was thin here. Faint. Back home, any wizard, warlock, or sorcerer could simply reach out and caress it. Here, it slipped through my fingers like a dying spider’s thread. The gods felt distant, as if their backs were turned. And yet… the earth thrived.

I lifted my hands, checking myself over. Still me. Regal, beautiful, bountiful in both mind and body. My deep pink eyes glared back from the faint reflection in a nearby pool, my deep gray skin flawless despite my unceremonious landing. My long black hair—dyed religiously to reject the traditional white of my kin—was a bit mussed, but no worse for wear.

Everything was in place… outside of a few scuffs and bruises.

Then—crack.

I froze.

Soft, deliberate footsteps whispered through the forest. My blades slid into my hands with a hiss as I turned toward the sound.

And there he was.

Tall, golden, and infuriatingly beautiful, his hair catching the sunlight like woven fire. His bow was drawn, eyes—green like fresh-cut gems—locked on me with alarm. He muttered something in a lilting tongue that sounded like music and threat all at once.

I grinned.

“Ah. A hunter. Tell me, little surface elf, are you lost?”

He hesitated, narrowing his eyes and edging closer. When I took a single step toward him, he loosed the arrow.

I laughed, rolling aside as it thudded into a tree. Moss and leaves scattered beneath my boots as I bolted. The forest became a blur of gold and shadow, my heart racing with a thrill I hadn’t felt since dueling my sisters for dominance.

He gave chase. Oh, how he tried. His steps were careful, balanced—he knew this forest well. But he was no Drow. He did not know how to vanish into a world’s blind spots.

I let a whisper curl from my tongue, taunting in my native Drowish:

“Usstan kyorl dos, l’khel.” (I see you, little one.)

He spun toward the sound, confused—

And I was gone again, leaping silently into the branches above.

He tracked me well enough, I’ll grant him that. His arrow quivered into the branch just below my perch. Clever boy.

I dropped from the tree in front of him, landing in a crouch. His bow jerked upward, string tight.

“Do you always greet women with weapons drawn?” I purred, sliding a blade into my hand.

He barked something in that musical tongue. I smirked.

“I have no idea what you said, but I imagine it was rude.”

“Legolas.”

The new voice was colder. Commanding.

I turned, and my breath caught—not from fear, but recognition of power. Another elf stepped into the clearing, taller and cloaked in forest and starlight. A crown of twigs and leaves adorned his head, and his eyes—icy, old, and piercing—locked onto me with judgment.

Ah. This one was no mere hunter.

“Stupid pretty man of the Fae,” I muttered in Drowish, lips curling. I’d been playing with his guard… no, the look he gave the boy was strained but familial. A prince, then. How quaint.

“Ji ver’n whol natha shinduago duenhug,” I said lazily. So serious for a surface dweller.

The two exchanged glances. They understood enough to be wary.

Then the forest erupted.

Actual guards—armored and alert—stepped from the trees, bows and blades ready. At least a dozen. I sighed and rolled my eyes, finally lifting my hands.

“Fine, fine,” I said in the common tongue. “I see how it is. I play with the prince, and suddenly the whole forest shows up to scold me. Very dramatic.”

The taller elf—Thranduil, I would soon learn—stepped closer, each stride measured, confident. “I am Thranduil,” he said, voice like smooth steel. “And you… do not belong here.”

I tilted my head, grinning. “Neither do you, pretty king. You should be underground, where all the real fun is.”

His jaw tightened just enough to betray irritation. He flicked his fingers, and soldiers closed in, seizing my arms. I hissed and twisted, but numbers won over pride.

“Take her to the halls,” he commanded.

“Is that an invitation?” I quipped, even as I was dragged away.

 

 

 

The forest path gave way to bridges and archways woven from living wood, twisting down into a massive hollow in the earth. The halls of Mirkwood.

Lanterns glowed like trapped stars, illuminating polished roots that formed elegant walkways. The air smelled of resin, damp stone, and faint smoke. Every few steps I caught glimpses of the deep halls, their ceilings high and ribbed with arching roots.

Hmph. Pretty. In a soft, defenseless sort of way.

They dragged me into a wide, arched hall lined with columns that seemed to grow from the floor. The throne room yawned open ahead, shadows collecting in the corners like loyal pets. I liked that part.

I was pushed to my knees.

I laughed, sharp and loud.

“Oh, I think not.”

I rose with deliberate grace, meeting a few startled gasps with a wicked smile. My House trained me to command rooms filled with assassins and liars; this court of light and music would not see me crawl.

Thranduil watched from his throne of living wood and stone, his crown glinting like spun gold in the lantern light. He did not move, but I felt his attention like a blade against my throat.

“You enter my forest unbidden,” he said at last. “You attack my son.”

I tilted my head, feigning innocence. “Attack? Please. If I had attacked him, he would not be standing there pouting like a child.”

A low murmur rippled through the court. Legolas’ jaw clenched. Delicious.

“You will explain yourself,” Thranduil said, voice quiet now, heavy as stone.

“And if I don’t?”

His lips curved, the faintest ghost of a smile. “Then I will decide what is to be done with you.”

I took one step forward, ignoring the hiss of drawn blades.

“Then remember my name, pretty king: Ambrose Veylthra. I do not belong to your forest… and I will not break for it.”

The room went silent, and somewhere deep in my chest, excitement stirred.

A game had begun.

Chapter 2: Chapter Two – Games in Gold and Shadow

Summary:

The king of Mirkwood wrestles the answers he needs from you.
No one is happy about the outcome, yet you find that it's hardly your fault they can't accept the truth.

Notes:

Here's the second chapter! I love blending LOTR in with general D&D, watching Thranduil clash with a Drow is entertaining in it's own right no?
I keep my chapter in between 2-4k so there's a bit more substance to chew on, yet it always feels so SHORT!

Even in his anger, Thranduil was beautiful.

The doors to the hall had opened with a soft groan of wood, and I was dragged forward into a cathedral of living trees. The vaulted ceiling soared high above me, its dark beams interwoven with thick, golden branches. Lanterns hung like captured stars, dripping warm light across the polished floor. The air was sweet with pine and leaf mold, so different from the cool, dry tang of stone and shadow back home.

Every eye turned toward me.

I have been stared at many times in my life: in respect, in envy, in fear. But this was different. There was no precedent for me here—no name or House or rank they could whisper about behind their hands. They only saw a stranger in their court. A threat.

The guards shoved me forward until I stood alone in the open stretch of the hall, a single shadow in a room of gold and green. At the far end of the room, seated upon a throne carved as though it had grown from the very roots of the trees, he settled and waited.

Thranduil.

He was all sharp elegance, silver and gold, and the kind of stillness that belongs to predators. His pale hair spilled like liquid moonlight over his shoulders, his crown of twined branches and leaves catching glints of fire from the lanterns. But it was his face that rooted me in place—aristocratic, unyielding, and cold as ice carved from a winter river.

Our gazes locked across the hall, and something in my chest gave a small, traitorous flutter.

He did not move at first. He simply stared, and the weight of his silence pressed down on the room. The courtiers who had been whispering behind their hands moments ago now stood rigid, waiting, as though their king’s thoughts alone could command them.

Then, the mask cracked.

It was subtle, but I saw it. The perfect stillness in his posture shifted, and a glimmer of fire licked at the edges of his pale blue eyes. His lips pressed together in a tight line, the faintest flicker of tension in his jaw.

Anger.

A shiver ran down my spine, delicious and unbidden.

In my world, women ruled. Matriarchs commanded with an iron will; priestesses of Lolth shaped the fates of entire Houses. Men were necessary, yes—but they learned quickly to step lightly, to measure their words, to bend under the weight of female power. Seeing a male—let alone a king —allow such raw emotion to break across his face? Rare. Precious.

I tilted my head slightly, drinking him in, letting a slow smirk curl at my lips.

Oh, this is going to be fun.

He rose from his throne with a predator’s grace, every movement precise and fluid. His long robes trailed like shadows as he descended the steps, one hand lightly touching the carved wood of the railing, the other loose at his side. He did not rush; he didn’t need to. Every stride was deliberate, measured, like the coil of a serpent before the strike.

The hall held its breath. Even the flames in the hanging lanterns seemed to still, as if afraid to flicker in his presence.

I watched him approach, deliberately unbowed, my chin lifted and my hands still loosely bound. The guards at my back shifted, tense as drawn bowstrings.

Finally, he stopped a single step away. Close enough that I could see the faintest pulse in his throat, the subtle twitch of his jaw as he looked me over, cataloging every line of my face. The scent of fresh leaves and polished wood clung to him.

Up close, he was even prettier.

The thought curled like smoke in my chest, and I let it paint my smirk wider.

Here he was—the king of this golden forest, blazing with cold anger, standing so near I could taste the tension radiating off him like heat.

And I had his full attention.

He didn’t speak immediately, but I could feel his scrutiny, the cool weight of his gaze raking over my face, my skin, the cut of my armor. Around us, the hall remained silent except for the faint crackle of the lantern flames. The elves of his court watched from the sidelines, curiosity and unease flickering in their eyes.

I could practically hear their thoughts:
What is she? Where did she come from?
Why is she smiling?

I tilted my head ever so slightly, letting my smirk deepen.

“Well?” I said at last, my voice carrying easily through the cavernous room. “Are you going to ask your questions, pretty king, or will we just stare at each other until someone faints?”

A soft, scandalized murmur rippled through the court. The guards behind me stiffened, their grips tightening on my arms. One of them muttered something under his breath in Elvish, likely an insult—or a prayer.

Thranduil’s voice, when it came, was smooth and controlled, yet sharp enough to draw blood.

“You speak as though you are in command.”

I laughed softly, the sound curling like smoke through the hall.

“I am in command,” I purred, spreading my hands in mock innocence. “Of myself, at least. That’s more than most men can claim around me.”

Another wave of murmurs. I noticed Legolas shift his weight off to the side, lips pressed tight as though restraining a sigh. I couldn’t tell if he was embarrassed for his king or simply exasperated that no one had gagged me yet.

Thranduil’s gaze sharpened, icy and assessing. He didn’t like my tone—oh, he really didn’t like my tone. A thrill of satisfaction hummed through me.

“I should have you locked away,” he said at last, voice sliding over me like silk drawn over a blade. “I do not know if you are a threat, a spy… or some manner of sorceress.”

“Mmm… flattery,” I hummed, beginning to slowly circle where I stood. I didn’t get far before the guards tensed and one even took a step forward. I raised my eyebrows in mock offense. “Easy, boys. I’m only stretching my legs.”

Thranduil tracked me with the same focus a hunting cat might give a bird that might take flight. His presence was like a wall of ice and steel, and yet every subtle shift of his jaw, every narrowing of his eyes—it all fed me.

I let my fingertips graze the air lazily as I continued, tone light as silk:

“But no. I’m not your enemy… yet. I am…”

I twirled one finger toward the high, ribbed ceiling of his hall, letting my eyes drift upward for effect.

“…a little lost. Through no fault of my own, of course.”

A faint murmur ran through the court at my brazenness, but I ignored it, letting my gaze fall back to him. My smile was all teeth.

“Do you always greet strangers like this, or is it just me?”

“You are not a stranger,” Thranduil said, his voice low and dangerous. “Strangers come from known lands. I know the races of this world. And you… you are none of them.”

I shrugged, deliberately careless.

“Perhaps you need to travel more. There’s a whole wide world beyond your pretty forest, isn’t there?”

The guards tensed again as I shifted my weight, folding my arms in a gesture that looked casual but was calculated—enough to make their king step a fraction closer, shadow stretching over me once more. His scent hit me then: pine and something faintly metallic, like cold steel kept in immaculate condition.

He smells like control.

I tilted my head again, letting the silence stretch just long enough to become provocative. Then I offered my name like a jeweled dagger.

“I am Ambrose Veylthra, of Menzoberranzan. Matriarch-to-be of my noble House.”

The name meant nothing to him, of course. His expression didn’t change, though I caught a flicker of confusion from one of the courtiers. The murmur of voices in the hall swelled again, growing restless.

I let my smirk sharpen into something almost wicked.

“I can see you’ve never heard of it. Don’t worry. I wouldn’t expect a surface king to know the great cities that thrive far beyond his reach”

I turned slightly, addressing the room at large, letting my voice project like the priestesses I grew up emulating:

“My world is darker than yours. Literally and figuratively. A place where the sun never touches our skin, where power is taken, not given. And in that world, I rule—or soon will.”

Some of the elves flinched, some narrowed their eyes. A few looked at me like they weren’t entirely convinced I was real. I basked in their unease.

And then, with a slow, almost lazy pivot, I returned my full attention to Thranduil.

“So, King of Trees and Lanterns…” I murmured, letting the words bristle just under polite. “…what will you do with me now?”

His eyes narrowed to slits of blue fire.

Oh yes, I thought. Bristle for me, pretty king.

Thranduil did not answer me immediately. He studied me like a jeweler examines a strange gem—searching for flaws, for cracks, for a reason not to keep it. His posture was perfect, all sculpted control, but I could feel the weight of the decision spinning in that sharp, calculating mind.

I let the silence stretch. It was always better to speak into stillness.

“I am not from here,” I said at last, letting the words drip into the hall like ink into water.

The murmur of the court grew louder. I savored the ripple of unease that followed.

Thranduil’s pale brows drew together just slightly. “What do you mean?”

“I mean,” I said, lifting my chin, “that I am not of this world. I was born in the Underdark, beneath a land of surface cities like Neverwinter and Baldur’s Gate—soft little kingdoms that scurry in the sunlight while my people thrive in shadow.”

The names fell from my lips like gemstones, unfamiliar and sharp in their ears. I watched the confusion spread across the court like a slow bloom.

“Neverwinter,” Thranduil repeated, the syllables foreign in his mouth. His voice was low and cold, though I detected the faintest wisp of doubt behind it. “I know no such land. Nor any city by that name. You speak of a world that does not exist.”

I let a soft laugh escape me, low and amused.

“Oh, it exists. My city exists. My House exists. I was to be Matriarch, to rule over my family, my district, my rivals. And yet…”

I gestured upward, toward the ribbed ceiling and the forest beyond, letting my voice take on a lilting cadence.

“…the Weave had other plans. It caught me, twisted me, and cast me into… this.”

I spun slowly, taking in the gilded hall, the perfect woodwork, the faint smell of pine sap.

“Your forest is the first sunlight I have seen since I was a child. My gods are silent here. My goddess…”

A flicker of something colder moved through my chest, but I did not let it reach my face.

“…my goddess has turned her back on me. And yet the earth flourishes without her. Curious, isn’t it?”

A hushed whisper passed through the court. I didn’t need to understand their language to know the shape of their fear. Demon. Witch. Otherworldly. They were all thinking it.

I let my smirk return, sharper than ever.

“So no, pretty king. I am not from your… Arda.”

That name was new to me, unfamiliar, and I rolled it on my tongue with deliberate disdain.

“I’ve never even heard of an Arda. So I suppose I am not of it.”

The hall went very still. I could almost taste the tension, sweet and metallic, as if the air itself were holding its breath. A ripple of unease spread through the gathered elves, and several shifted as if to create more space between themselves and me.

Legolas frowned faintly, his bright eyes flicking between his father and me, as if trying to read both at once.

“Then what are you?” one of the guards demanded, his voice breaking the hush.

I turned toward him, smiling slowly.

“A guest. For now.”

“You are no guest,” Thranduil said, his voice suddenly like winter frost on glass.

He stepped closer again, and this time I could feel the faint hum of his power—less overt than a mage’s, but coiled tight, rooted in authority and the weight of centuries. His eyes burned cold and bright, and I found myself grinning wider, because he was magnificent like this: angry, conflicted, alive.

“You walk into my halls,” he said softly, “boasting of powers and worlds that do not exist to us. You speak with mockery and pride. And you expect me to… what? Trust you?”

“Trust me?” I echoed, letting a laugh slip from my lips. “Oh, no, pretty king. I expect you to watch me. Closely.”

His jaw tensed at that, and I watched his throat work as he considered his next words.

“Perhaps I will,” he said finally, voice like a dagger sheathed in ice. “Perhaps you will remain here, under guard, until I decide what to do with you.”

“Mmm,” I hummed, tilting my head with a spark of delight in my eyes. “A gilded cage. How thoughtful.”

The court erupted into whispers again, scandalized that I would dare respond so lightly to his judgment. I simply let the noise wash over me, my attention fixed on him.

“And what if I like it here?” I murmured, low and velvet, letting the suggestion hang in the air like perfume.

For the first time, I saw his eyes flicker—not with fear, but with something else he quickly buried.

Oh, yes, I thought, suppressing the urge to laugh again. This will be very fun.

A low laugh slipped past my lips, dark and velvety.

The game had only just begun.

Chapter 3: Chapter Three – Gilded Threats and Poisoned Petals

Summary:

Dragged before the Elvenking, Ambrose Veylthra stands her ground in the golden hall of Mirkwood, trading venom-laced barbs with Thranduil as courtly tension thickens like perfume. But beneath her teasing smile lies the ache of a sorceress unmoored—a Drow priestess from a world not even whispered of in Arda. As spores stir sluggishly and the Weave flickers faintly, she claims no allegiance but her own, drawing curiosity, fear, and fascination in equal measure. Sent to guest quarters and placed under careful watch, Ambrose begins to probe the roots of this strange land while Thranduil, restless and sharp, begins his own search for answers. Two rulers. Two realms. And a slow-burning game neither fully understands—yet.

There it was again—his fury, sharp and heady like spice on my tongue.

The bait had been taken, and oh, how beautifully. His voice thundered through the golden hall, velvet-wrapped violence with a crackling edge.

"Sorceress. Fiend! You tempt what you do not know. You pride yourself so fondly, you nearly preen ."

He stepped closer, each word spat like a curse. My spine thrilled at the proximity. He was no longer still, no longer cold and untouchable—he burned .

"Perhaps I should keep you like the exotic pet you make yourself out to be."

Ah. There it was. The court gasped, the word falling like a stone into water, rippling outward in scandal and silence.

You, a pet to a surface-dweller—

I laughed.

It slipped past my lips like silk soaked in venom, low and musical and utterly amused. I saw Thranduil's jaw clench at the sound. Good.

"A pet?" I echoed, my voice all lazy delight. "You flatter yourself, kingy ."

A few of the courtiers winced, as though the nickname were a whip crack. The guards flanking me stiffened, one of them shifting like he expected violence to follow.

I let my gaze slide across Thranduil's face, watching that fine tension in his shoulders, the precise stillness of a man on the edge of something primal.

"Where I come from, keeping a Drow woman as a pet is a death wish, not a pastime."

I stepped forward once—just enough for the guards to twitch, but not enough to stop me.

"You mistake arrogance for submission. I chose to stand here and amuse you. But if I wished, I could have disappeared into the folds of your forest before your guards ever glimpsed me."

That wasn’t entirely true—but it didn’t matter. Confidence was its own kind of sorcery.

Thranduil’s eyes narrowed. "You speak as if this court were yours to mock."

"I mock nothing," I said sweetly, almost purring. "I observe . It’s not my fault your people are so easily scandalized."

There was a pause—then, to my great delight, a chuckle. Low. Dry. From the direction of his son.

Legolas, standing rigid near the edge of the court, looked faintly exhausted.

"Father," he said in Elvish, just loud enough for me to catch, "she’s baiting you."

"Of course she is," Thranduil replied, just as sharply. "And yet she is still standing here."

I raised a brow. "You could always throw me in a cell if that would soothe your bruised pride."

His gaze sharpened like a drawn blade.

"No," he said. "Cells are for criminals. You are something... else."

A beat.

Then he turned to the room, his voice suddenly distant. "Clear the court."

The order dropped like a guillotine. Startled gasps, rustling cloaks, and the shuffle of soft-soled boots followed.

I didn’t move. Didn’t blink.

They obeyed quickly, these glittering courtiers and silver-clad guards. Within moments the golden hall was nearly empty, save for Legolas, two guards, Thranduil—and me.

And the air grew very still.

He turned back to face me fully, crown catching the lamplight like a halo of thorns.

"Now," he said, quietly. "Speak without your audience. Tell me—Ambrose Veylthra of Menzoberranzan—what you really want."

I smiled slowly.

"To find a way home," I said, voice steady but cold. "I will not be a lesser here. I have my pride, and I fought for my place in life—I am not some welp sloshing about in the muck."

He raised a brow, but I went on, my tone cooling like the Underdark stone.

"My goddess is silent. The Weave itself feels distant. My spells obey, but sluggishly. My spores whisper, but faintly. I am unmoored."

A pause, then I tilted my head, smile returning in shadowed form.

"But don’t mistake that for weakness. I am still Drow. I am still Ambrose. And I have never needed permission to reclaim my power."

A silence stretched between us like drawn silk.

I felt it then, the faint stir of spores—my spores—responding to my pulse. Invisible to all but me, they curled like smoke beneath my skin, humming with awareness. The scent of pine and clean wood that clung to this place shifted subtly, darkening around the edges.

Thranduil’s nostrils flared. He noticed the change, if not the source.

"You are not entirely flesh and blood," he murmured, gaze narrowing. "What are you hiding beneath that smug grin?"

I let my eyes gleam.

"Wouldn't you like to know."

He stepped forward again—close enough now that the hem of his robe brushed the floor near my feet.

"You may believe this is a game, Ambrose," he said softly. "But I am not your opponent. I am your king. And you are far from your kingdom."

"Then make me bow," I whispered.

His eyes flared, blue ice with a crack of lightning.

For a breath, neither of us moved.

Then he exhaled slowly, a sharp command in every inch of his posture.

"You will not be caged," he said. "But you will not roam freely. I will assign a watch to you—discreet, but thorough. You will remain in guest quarters until I have decided what... purpose you serve."

My smile curved slowly, sweet and poisonous.

"So generous, kingy. I’ll try not to get lost in the halls."

He turned his back on me then, calling for the guards.

As they approached, I spoke one last time, soft and low.

"You should know something."

He paused, not turning.

"The last man who tried to keep me under watch," I said, voice velvet-dark, "still blooms mushrooms from his ribcage."

Legolas coughed.

Thranduil didn’t flinch—but I saw his hand twitch.

Good.

---

They led me from the hall. And I did not look back.

The guest quarters were beautiful, of course. All carved wood and amber light, like being tucked into the belly of a living tree. The ceiling arched above me in natural curves, shaped and woven as though the forest had folded itself around this space willingly.

But to me, it was a cage with prettier bars.

I wandered through the room with bare, quiet steps, brushing my fingertips along the polished furniture and rich fabrics. Every piece had been chosen carefully—nothing metal, nothing sharp. Decorative, decadent, and soft. Soft the way moss grows over bone.

A subtle insult, maybe. Or a warning.

There were no locks on the doors, but I knew better. Elves didn’t need locks when the trees whispered your every movement.

Still, I had no intention of testing them. Not yet.

Instead, I stood at the arched window and stared out into the vast stretch of Mirkwood, its trees shadowed and thick beneath the stars. Somewhere in that darkness, I could feel it again—that faint echo of the Weave. Thinner, quieter than what I knew… but there.

My fingers twitched, and I called to it—not loudly, not demanding. Just a whisper.

A shimmer danced across my skin, the barest hint of pale violet in the lamplight. The spores curled against my pulse again, sluggish but awake.

Relief bloomed in my chest, sharp and sudden.

"I am not lost," I whispered to the glass. "I am still."

A knock came at the door.

"Enter," I called without turning.

Legolas stepped inside, quiet and careful. He didn’t approach, just lingered in the doorway, arms folded.

"My father would speak with you again tomorrow," he said.

I gave a faint smile to the window.

"Let him stew tonight. It’ll do him good."

He didn’t rise to the bait.

"You’ll be watched," he added. "But not... unkindly. Consider this a courtesy."

I turned slowly, studying him.

"You’re more like your mother than your father, aren’t you?"

That earned me the faintest twitch of his lip—almost a smile. Almost.

"I’ll take that as a compliment," he said, and turned to leave.

When the door clicked softly shut, I let out a breath I hadn’t realized I was holding.

Alone again.

But not unarmed.

My fingers ghosted across my palm, and the spores stirred once more, loyal and silent.

The forest may not know me yet.

But it will.

I crossed to the bed and sat, fingertips pressed together. The room smelled too clean. Too quiet. No incense. No rot. Not even the faint hum of necrotic energy I was so accustomed to back home.

Here, the Weave was like distant music underwater. Harder to touch. Harder to hear.

But not gone.

I took a slow breath, closing my eyes.

From beneath the bones of my sleeves, I let the spores curl upward along my skin. They obeyed, sluggish but warm. I smiled.

They remembered me.

And if I stayed still long enough, if I listened close enough, I could feel it: the roots beneath this place. Old. Deep. Not hostile, but... unaware.

I pressed a hand to the wooden floor, eyes still closed.

"You don’t know me yet," I whispered. "But you will."

---

Thranduil did not sleep.

He sat at the long table beneath the map wall of his private chambers, one pale hand poised over parchment, the other curled around a half-drained goblet of wine. Candlelight flickered across his knuckles, the inkpot, the page.

Legolas stood nearby, arms crossed, watching his father draft yet another list.

"You’ve filled three pages," the prince noted dryly.

"And I’ve only just begun," Thranduil replied without looking up.

He dipped the quill again, scribbled: Menzoberranzan—underground city, ruled by women. Drow culture? Beneath that: Underdark. Baulder’s Gate? Neverwinter?

Names with no meaning to him. Places that sounded like something out of a fevered tale, and yet—she had not seemed mad. No, she had seemed far too certain .

He paused and leaned back in his chair, staring at the parchment. That name again. Ambrose Veylthra. It lingered on his tongue like unfamiliar wine—floral, bitter, strangely intoxicating.

He hated that it intrigued him.

He hated that her laugh still echoed in his mind, that her magic had made the very air shift . That her arrogance didn’t feel hollow.

He hated how alive he had felt in her presence.

"You believe her," Legolas said softly.

Thranduil’s eyes flicked toward him, sharp.

"I believe she believes herself. That is enough for caution."

He resumed writing. Weave magic. Weaker here? Gods unknown. Goddess silent.

He stared at the words, then added: Spores. Animate dead? Fungal necromancy?

He stopped.

His hand hovered over the parchment, and something in his chest pulled tight.

Spores that could raise the dead. Magic that seeped through stone and root. An Underdark empire ruled by women and blood and whispering gods.

She came from a world that mirrored his own only in cruelty.

Where would she fall, in time? A threat? A temptation?

A test?

Legolas finally stepped closer.

"You don’t think she’s a threat."

"No," Thranduil murmured, pouring a fresh inch of wine. "I think she is a revelation ."

He sipped, then sat back.

"If what she says is true… then our world is but one root in a forest we have never seen. And she has come from a place where the trees grow upside down and poison feeds the soil."

Legolas didn’t speak. He didn’t need to.

Thranduil glanced down again at the notes, but his gaze wandered to the window. The moonlight spilled through the open lattice in soft silver streams.

He could feel her in his forest. Like a disturbance in the roots.

He closed the journal. Quietly. Deliberately.

"She will need watching," he said, barely above a whisper. "And understanding."

He did not say what else he feared: that he would understand her too well . That in some distant mirror, he might find something of himself.

And that terrified him far more than her magic ever could.

Chapter 4: Chapter Four – Silk Chains and Silver Eyes

Summary:

Escorted through the depths of Mirkwood, Ambrose moves like a shadow stitched into silk—a threat veiled in grace. The forest does not yet know her, but it listens. Beneath the gleaming gowns forced upon her and the prince’s watchful gaze, something darker stirs. She shares secrets of spider-born rites and venom-forged strength, while spores curl in silence, hungry and patient. But she is not the only one unraveling. Thranduil feels the tremor she leaves in the roots, and Legolas—meant to observe—finds himself drawn in. The forest has its secrets.
And Ambrose Veylthra is becoming one of them.

The woods of Mirkwood were not quiet.

They hummed with unseen life—root and leaf and whispering wind, laced with the weight of watching eyes. Birds sang in shrill bursts from the canopy, and somewhere deeper, something larger moved in the shadows.

I moved through it like smoke.

Three guards followed at a respectful distance, clad in pale armor that glinted like moonlight. And in front of me—ever the dutiful warden—walked the prince himself.

Legolas kept his posture loose, his steps silent. But I could feel the tension in his shoulders like taut bowstrings. He didn’t trust me.

Wise.

I did not speak. I let the silence stretch between us, winding through the roots and branches like a second trail. The spores stirred faintly beneath my skin, listening.

The forest did not hate me.

Not yet.

But it did not know me either.

And that, perhaps, was worse.

Every step I took in these woods felt like a whisper dropped into a still lake—watched, measured, judged. The trees were old. Older than memory. They spoke in creaks and rustles, and the very air shimmered with old magic.

And yet, none of it sang to me like the shadows back home.

I glanced down at the hem of the gown I wore—a delicate thing in shades of cream and gold, layered silk and gossamer. It drifted like mist with every step.

Ridiculous.

Beautiful, yes. But ridiculous.

Too soft. Too bright. Too fragile.

I missed spider silk and obsidian lace. I missed the comfort of tight corsetry and cut-glass jewelry, of darkness pressed against my skin like armor.

Here, I was clothed like a bride in mourning.

I knew whose hand that was.

Thranduil’s petty little vengeance.

He knew how I hated this.

And so, of course, it was all he allowed.

Gowns spun from light and ivory. Hair brushed to a silken sheen and left unbound. Jewels of amber and pale moonstone that caught the sun in ways that made me want to snarl.

Every piece whispered: soft. Contained. Decorative.

A thing to be looked at. Not listened to.

I had once worn a gown that shimmered like blood in candlelight, its bodice shaped with shadowsteel thread and laced with onyx beads carved to resemble spiders. I had stood at the altar of Lolth and spoken prayers laced with venom.

Now, the only venom I carried was behind my smile.

"You seem quiet today," Legolas said finally, not turning around.

"Am I meant to dance and sing in the sunlight like one of your wood-nymphs?" I asked, voice mild.

A beat.

"No," he said. "But you are meant to walk."

"I am walking."

"You’re prowling."

I smiled, letting the accusation slide down my spine like fine wine.

"And you’re still watching. So what does it matter?"

He gave a faint, almost resigned exhale.

Behind us, the guards murmured softly in Elvish. I caught one phrase—"unnatural stillness"—and let the corner of my mouth curl.

Let them talk.

Let them report.

I wanted them to.

Because every time they did, every strange behavior they recorded, every moment of silence or strange movement or flicker of violet shimmer across my skin—they’d be feeding his curiosity.

And Thranduil, for all his aloofness, was curious.

He wanted to unravel me.

So let him try.

Let him peel back the layers one silk thread at a time.

I plucked a tiny spore from my sleeve and held it between my fingers, letting the magic hum low in my blood. The forest didn’t resist. Not exactly. But it didn’t welcome me either.

The spore danced in the air a moment before I crushed it between my fingers. It vanished in a curl of smoke.

Legolas slowed, glancing back.

"What was that?"

"A breath," I said.

He didn’t press.

But the trees whispered louder.

Good.

Let them remember my name.

The deeper we went, the older the forest became.

Thorns twisted into vines thick as a man’s wrist. Bark darkened to near-black, gnarled and heavy with memory. A different silence settled here—not absence of sound, but a hush of reverence. As though even the birds knew to stay silent.

Legolas tread more carefully now. His hand hovered near the hilt of his blade, though his face remained calm.

"This path is old," he said, his voice low. "Few tread it now."

"Why bring me here, then?"

"You wanted to understand the woods."

I arched a brow. "And you think I’ll find understanding in silence and rot?"

He hesitated.

"Perhaps you’ll find humility."

I laughed, a soft, unkind sound.

"Wrong Drow."

But my fingers still brushed the edge of a blackened tree trunk, the moss clinging to it warm and pulsing faintly with life. Not my life—but something close.

Legolas watched.

He knew things about this forest that I did not. That much was clear. He moved with the wary grace of someone walking through a temple built from roots and memories. And when he stopped at a crumbling arch of stone half-swallowed by ivy, he bowed his head.

I stepped up beside him.

"This used to be a gate," he said. "Long before even my father’s rule."

"To what?"

"A place that should be forgotten."

That stirred something in me.

I could taste it then—beneath the loam and leaf mold, beneath the age and sorrow. Something festered here.

The spores curled closer to my skin. Not afraid. Hungry.

"You bring me to a ruin," I said softly, "and expect reverence."

"I bring you here because the forest remembers more than it tells."

A chill traced my spine.

For a moment, I almost respected him.

Almost.

I turned from the gate, gown whispering across the moss.

Let Thranduil dress me in ivory and light. Let his guards shadow my steps. Let his son play the diplomat.

This forest had secrets.

And I had spores to feed.

The moss darkened beneath my feet as I walked, as if recognizing something older than its roots. The air was thicker here, heady with decay and sweetness, like overripe fruit gone sour. My spores prickled with awareness, stirring as though in recognition.

Legolas watched me closely, eyes narrowing when I tilted my head and breathed deep.

"You should not linger here," he warned. "The ground remembers blood."

"Then it will remember me fondly."

A slow tension spread through the trees. Even the wind seemed to hesitate.

He didn’t smile.

"Do not underestimate what was buried here. There are reasons it was sealed."

I stepped closer to the arch, resting one palm lightly on the ivy-strewn stone. Fungal threads curled beneath the bark and mortar, not mine—but willing. The magic here was quiet, but not gone. It had steeped too long in ruin.

Beneath my palm, the spores pulsed once, twice.

And the earth answered back.

It was not a speech. Not quite. But an impression of memory, of bones and roots tangled deep, and something deeper still.

Buried fury.

"There was a temple here," I murmured. "Once."

Legolas said nothing.

"You feared it."

"We still do."

My fingers curled.

"Perhaps you should."

The guards behind us shifted, one muttering something in Elvish that sounded like a warding charm. The arch loomed above me, half-devoured by time, but still watching. Still listening.

I smiled, slow and sharp.

"You should bring me here more often."

"Not even the spiders come this deep anymore."

That made me laugh.

But in the silence that followed, the spores beneath my skin settled.

They were listening now.

And they were very, very hungry.

Later, they rested near the edge of a brook, silver light rippling across the surface. A soft breeze combed through the reeds, carrying the scent of moss and loam.

Legolas passed me a carved cup of spring water. I accepted it without a word, eyes fixed on the mirrored ripples in the stream.

“You’ve mentioned spiders,” he said at last. “You speak of them as sacred.”

“They are,” I said. “Not kin. But more than beasts. They are priestesses of silk and poison. We raise them, study them. Learn from their venom.”

He tilted his head, watching me carefully.

“We brew their toxins into our wine. Steep it into our skin with needles. Sip it raw in youth so it won’t kill us later. It’s an art. A rite.”

His brows knit faintly. “Why?”

“Because power should be worn like a second skin. Pain teaches precision. Discipline. Survival. Our goddess shows herself through the spider’s web—fragile-looking, but deadly to those who stumble in.”

Legolas’s expression shifted, uncertain between awe and concern.

“It teaches tolerance,” I said. “Power. Pain. Elegance. I had a sister who let a phase spider bite her once a week for a year. She said it made her visions clearer.”

He blinked. “That’s madness.”

“To you, perhaps. But for us, it is survival—mastery. We don’t flinch from what others fear.”

I sipped from the cup, letting the cold water settle in my throat. Clear, tasteless, harmless.

“Venom is not death,” I said, smiling faintly. “Not when you know how to wear it.”

Legolas didn’t respond. But his gaze lingered.

On the curve of my mouth.

On the skin where spider silk once rested.

On the faint shimmer of something violet beneath my wrist—like spores curled in dreamless sleep.

He did not look away.

Behind us, the guards remained alert but still. One of them glanced at us more than once—not out of suspicion, but confusion. None of them knew what to make of me. A woman dressed like a painted doll, walking with a prince, speaking of poison like scripture.

And Legolas. He listened. Not like an interrogator or a jailor. But like a student.

And that would be useful.

Very useful indeed.

---

Later that evening, in the quiet of the King’s study, Legolas stood across from Thranduil, recounting every word.

"She’s not like anything I’ve seen," he said. "And the spores, they respond to her emotions. They... listen to her."

Thranduil did not lift his gaze from the scroll he was annotating. He moved with precision, marking the edge of an ancient Elven map with a soft, deliberate stroke of ink.

"And do you feel she is dangerous?"

Legolas hesitated.

"Yes," he said finally. "But not recklessly. She’s not careless. Everything she does is intentional. She’s watching us as much as we watch her. Every glance is weighed. Every word sharpened."

Thranduil’s quill paused. Ink pooled at the edge of a symbol.

He looked up. Eyes like moonlight, calm but searching.

"You’re fascinated."

Legolas didn’t flinch.

"So are you."

The words hung between them like a drawn bowstring. The tension of two minds too alike.

Thranduil leaned back, his expression unreadable. A long breath escaped him, quiet but telling.

"She speaks of a world ruled by shadow and silk. Of gods we do not know, magic we do not trust, and customs that would tear our laws apart."

"And yet you keep her here."

"Would you rather I let her slip into the roots of this forest? Corrupt it with her spores until we no longer recognize what grows beneath our feet?"

Legolas said nothing.

Thranduil's voice dropped low. "You saw her with the tree. She touched it like it remembered her. And it listened."

"She didn’t harm it."

"No," Thranduil agreed, folding his hands. "But she could have."

A beat.

"What else?"

Legolas exhaled. "She misses her world. I think she mourns it even as she challenges ours. She’s angry. Proud. But not without grief."

"She’s unraveling," Thranduil said, almost to himself. "Or testing us with the illusion of unraveling."

He stood and moved toward the window, gazing out into the black stretch of forest.

"The guards reported her affinity for poison. For spiders. For pain transmuted into power."

Legolas joined him. "It’s how she was raised. To endure. To weaponize beauty and pain alike."

"A dangerous philosophy."

"A familiar one," Legolas said softly.

Thranduil’s jaw tightened.

A silence passed, weighty and unspoken.

"She is not from here," the king said at last. "And yet the forest knows she is here now. I can feel her in the roots. Like a song in a different key."

He turned to his son.

"Keep watching her. Not just with your eyes. Learn what she does not say. What she hides. What she fears."

Legolas inclined his head. "Yes, my king."

As he left the chamber, he lingered a moment in the doorway.

He could still smell her—earthy and sweet, like blooming rot. Magic that didn’t fade when she left a room. Magic that whispered.

And it lingered longer than it should have.

Thranduil watched the door long after it closed.

And the forest, far below, shivered in its sleep.

Chapter 5: Chapter Five – Beneath the Bark, Beneath the Skin **NSFW**

Summary:

The forest is changing—and so is she.

Ambrose Veylthra walks through Mirkwood no longer a prisoner, not yet a guest, but something far more dangerous. The forest senses it. The spores awaken. And Thranduil begins to truly see her—not just as a foreign entity, but as a rival. A temptation. A reflection.

In a moonlit meeting, games are played behind glasses of wine, veiled in silk and sharpened with words. But it’s after she leaves that the king unravels. Alone, haunted by the scent of her, he seeks answers in the artifacts she brought with her… and finds release instead.

By morning, Ambrose is given a gift: a gown that fits not just her body, but her power. She wears it without question, unaware of the storm she’s already begun to stir.

The forest whispered differently now.

Where once it had been a wary thing—silent and stiff, pulsing faintly with ancient suspicion—it now stirred beneath my steps like a restless beast learning the cadence of a new command. The roots no longer shrank from my passing. The moss softened beneath my bare feet, welcoming in a way it never had before. Not friendly, no—but curious. Testing. Willing.

And the spores—oh, the spores—had begun to wake in earnest.
They curled against my skin like smoke and blood, pulsing in tune with the forest’s hum. I could feel them shivering at the edges of my senses, brushing the backs of my teeth with phantom taste, tasting the air the way wolves taste the wind. They were hungry, yes—but attentive too. Listening not just to the forest, but to the shifts in power, in breath, in attention.

Something was changing.

I’d been watched since the moment I stumbled into this world of gold and green—first with suspicion, then with fascination. The guards had kept their distance. The prince had kept his questions. And Thranduil—he had kept his silence like a sword at his belt.

But now the watching had shifted.

It wasn’t just the guards anymore. It wasn’t even just the elves who walked the halls with orders in their pockets and knives in their sleeves.

No, now it was everyone .

The courtiers with their moonlit robes and empty smiles. The advisors with their knowing looks, always a fraction too long. The scribes whose quills paused just slightly when I entered the room, as if afraid to capture me on parchment.

Eyes followed me wherever I went—quietly, politely, but always .

And beneath the jeweled civility of the court, whispers bloomed like rot in soft fruit.

I caught them in fragments:
“—too bold—”
“—not one of us—”
“—his eyes, have you seen—”
“—she’s dangerous, you can feel it—”

And worse, the ones who didn’t speak at all. The ones who looked .

The women, draped in gossamer and starlight, began to smile with teeth too sharp and voices too sweet. They passed me in corridors with empty greetings and trailing perfume, their gazes flicking between me and the king with thinly veiled curiosity. Or envy. Or worse.

Because they saw it.

They saw the way Thranduil’s gaze lingered just a breath too long.
They saw the softening of his voice when he spoke to me directly.
They saw what he refused to say aloud.

Not yet.

He hadn’t touched me. Not in the way they feared. But he had spoken to me. He had listened . And in a court ruled by silence and poise, that was more telling than any stolen kiss.

I was no longer a prisoner.
Not quite a guest.
Something in-between.

Something becoming .

And the forest knew it too.

Its silence had changed pitch. Its shadows bent differently when I passed. The roots leaned closer. The trees trembled not in warning, but in anticipation.

Even the spores—loyal, hungry things—had begun to whisper what the trees would not.

Something beneath the bark was stirring. Something that knew me. Or would.

I could feel it when I walked the deeper halls of the palace—beneath stone carved by hands far older than mine. I could feel it when I passed the overgrown archways, the forgotten doors sealed with wards. The forest had depths yet unseen, and something in those depths had begun to shift.

And for the first time since arriving in this gleaming cage of amber light and judgmental eyes, I felt the faintest scent of power on the air.

Not mine.
Not yet.

But close.

So very, very close.

I found him alone that evening.

No guards. No advisors. Not even his son.

Thranduil stood near one of the high windows of the eastern wing, bathed in moonlight like a figure carved from silvered bone. His crown was absent, and his robe hung loose at the throat—still regal, still sharp, but… relaxed.

His eyes met mine the moment I entered. No startled glance. No stiff posture. Just that same piercing calm that made the world feel quieter around him.

“You should wear that color more often,” he said, voice smooth as ever. “It brings out the sharpness in your eyes. Like thorns in honey.”

I glanced down at the dress he’d no doubt ensured was placed in my wardrobe—a pale blue slip embroidered with moon-thread. Delicate. Soft. Another cage of silk.

“You must be very proud of your court seamstresses,” I replied, voice low and dry. “They’re quite gifted at making me look… harmless.”

One of his brows lifted.

“Harmless?” he echoed. “Never. But disarmed? Perhaps.”

I stepped further into the room, my bare feet silent against the polished wood. The spores stirred, slow and curious.

“So this is how you play,” I murmured. “Not with swords. But with silk and flattery.”

“Flattery?” he echoed, eyes gleaming. “No. Observation. You look as though you stepped from a dream I don’t quite trust. And I find I like the dissonance.”

“Do you?”

He turned, and for a moment, the full weight of him faced me—immaculate and still and burning at the edges with something I hadn’t yet named.

“I find I like many things I should not.”

The silence that followed was not awkward. It was sharp. Taut. A wire pulled between us, humming with tension.

I tilted my head.

“You’re baiting me,” I said softly.

“Perhaps.” He moved toward the decanter on the table and poured two glasses of wine, then held one out without looking at me. “And perhaps you’ve already taken the bait.”

I didn’t hesitate.

I took the glass.

Let him think he’s winning.

Let me find out what he really wants.

The game, after all, was mutual.

---

From the other side of the room, he watched her lift the glass.

Not like a supplicant. Not like a lover.
Like a fellow conspirator. A shadow in moonlight. Something holy and unholy at once.

She sipped, slow and unhurried.

He watched the way her mouth curved afterward—not in thanks, not in softness—but in calculation. Like a queen measuring her opponent before the next move. A small gesture, almost imperceptible. But he caught it. Of course he did. And it thrilled him.

She was beautiful, yes. But not in the way his court understood beauty.
They were used to pale elegance and quiet poise. Soft voices. Softer threats.

Ambrose was none of those things.

She was built like a warrior and walked like a god.
Her frame held power the way other women held perfume—effortless, impossible to ignore. Her gown clung to her like a challenge, outlining strength where the silks of Mirkwood might have draped and demurred. And her hair—thick, untamed, unashamed—was nothing like the braided precision of his people. It fell like a banner of rebellion down her back, wild and heavy and dark as secrets.

Even the way she stood now, a few paces away—relaxed, poised—demanded attention.

Moonlight through spider silk. A prayer whispered with a poisoned tongue.

And he had handed her the wine himself.

A gift. A challenge. A test.

Would she have accepted it if he’d been anyone else? If he’d greeted her with the same tender civility reserved for foreign nobility?

No. Of course not. She would have turned him cold.

Ambrose liked her venom barbed. She enjoyed the game when it came with teeth.
And he—Thranduil, King of the Woodland Realm—had shown her his.

There were no guards. No advisors. Just the two of them in a chamber steeped in silver light and tension.

And then—something shifted.

She stepped forward. Not far. Just enough to let him feel it.

Her fingers brushed against the stem of her glass. Slowly. Thoughtfully. And for one fleeting second, her gaze dropped—not in submission, but in consideration.

Not at the wine. Not at the floor.
At him.

And when her eyes lifted again, they did not burn, did not cut. They lingered.

Just long enough to ignite.

It was the smallest spark—barely more than curiosity—but it lit something in him. A possibility. A question. A door she had not slammed shut.

He admired her for that. Gods, he wanted her for that.

To command silence with a look. To let a single breath become a sentence. She didn’t need words to make herself understood.

She was the language. And he was already fluent.

He lifted his own glass, savoring the weight.

“Tell me,” he said, voice low, “do you always wear your armor so well hidden?”

She smiled then—slow, cruel, delighted. But there was something else beneath it now. A softness, barely there. Something unspoken.

“Only when the blades are sharpest.”

He laughed. Quiet. Unbidden. It broke something in the air.

Not through fear—but familiarity . Recognition.
She unsettled him because she reminded him—not of himself, but of something he'd buried. She was not kin, not equal, not rival. She was temptation. A version of fate with teeth.

She would be his undoing, if he let her.

And gods help him—he wanted to let her.

He set his glass down slowly. “You know,” he murmured, “my court thinks I’ve gone soft.”

Her brow arched, amused. “Because of me?”

“No,” he said, glancing toward the window. “Because I haven’t turned you to ash.”

She stepped closer again. Measured. Intentional.

“Would it have helped?”

“No,” he admitted. “But it would have been easier.”

And then— she laughed.

Not cruel. Not mocking. Not forced. Just… amused.

Warm, like something real.
And it reached into him like sunlight through frost.

“But we don’t do easy, do we, your majesty?”

He didn’t answer.

He didn’t need to.

Because as the moonlight spilled between them and the wine sat untouched, and her scent lingered like incense on the air—Thranduil knew.

This was no longer just diplomacy.

This was seduction.
This was strategy.
This was war with velvet gloves.

And they were both already bleeding.

He waited until she was gone.

Not far—just out of sight. Far enough for her scent to still hang faintly in the air. Far enough for the quiet to settle again like dust on ancient stone.

Only then did he move.

He didn’t summon a guard. Didn’t give a command. He simply turned and slipped into the side chamber beyond the eastern wing, where a carved cabinet sat untouched save for him. A secret not quite hidden, but sacred all the same.

He opened it.

Inside, everything she had arrived with had been stored. Labeled. Documented. Studied. And yet, untouched in the ways that mattered.

There were vials, sealed with wax stamped in sigils his mages still hadn’t deciphered. Their contents shimmered in hues unnatural to Mirkwood—sickly gold, bruise-purple, iridescent green that pulsed faintly in the light. He recognized elvenroot in one, yes, but it was suspended in something darker—viscous and wild, something alchemical and forgotten. Toxic. Sacred. Ancient.

There were spools of spider silk wound around bone-white spindles, each thread thrumming with residual spellcraft. He hovered a hand over them and felt the vibrations hum through his palm—arcane weaving not meant for eyes like his. The silk pulsed softly, like the breath of a sleeping beast. Not hostile. But watching.

Beneath a layer of silk wrappings—books.

Some bound in soft hide, others cracked with age. One pulsed faintly, like something alive. Their titles shimmered in two tongues: Elvish and Drow. One smooth and lyrical. The other angry, knife-edged. Sharp as insult, beautiful in the way venom glistens before it kills.

He touched the edge of a grimoire. The words stirred. Not just ink, but intent. They slithered like shadows across snow, shifting into meaning, hissing like a warning.

A spell. A prayer. A curse. He wasn’t sure.

The Drow script stung his eyes—not in pain, but in memory. It was Elven, but distorted. A language bent and reforged under pressure. It made him wonder what Ambrose’s people had once shared with his, before war, before gods, before betrayal.

He ran a finger down the spine of one tome, then to the next—a tattered Mirkwood copy of an ancient healing manual, its pages marked with dry moss and root spells. He compared the glyphs between them. The Drow book commanded the soil to obey . The Elvish whispered for it to heal .

Same tools. Same power.
Different intent.

He wasn’t sure which he feared more.

“Still looking for answers you won’t find?”

Thranduil didn’t flinch.

Legolas stood in the doorway, arms folded, eyes shadowed.

“She’s not hiding them,” his son said. “You know that.”

“No,” Thranduil murmured, eyes still locked on the breathing spine of the grimoire. “She’s letting us choose what we fear.”

He closed the cabinet slowly, but not without one last look. The weight of her world lingered in that small space—her poisons, her prayers, her cloth and ink and whispers. She had not come empty-handed. She had brought her power .

And she had let him hold it.

***He waited until Legolas was gone. ***

Not just down the corridor— gone . The weight of his gaze no longer lingering at his back. The silence no longer thick with shared implication.

Only then did Thranduil move again.

He turned from the threshold like a man unspooling, the precision of his every step now hollow with deliberation. He returned to the cabinet like one returns to a wound—aching and intimate, already knowing what he would find, and knowing too that he should not want to look.

His fingers brushed past the grimoires and the poisons. Past the silk that still thrummed with spells even dormant. Each object catalogued, warded, handled by mages and archivists and trusted hands.

But not this.

There—beneath a square of spidercloth so fine it looked like breath caught in moonlight—he found it.

Lace.

Not of this realm. Not of his court.

Not made to flatter or conceal or adorn in the traditional sense—but to claim.

And he knew — knew in the marrow of his ancient bones—that it had not been left there by accident.

It was a mark. A token. A whisper. A dare.

Obsidian black, the lace gleamed at its edges with violet thread so fine it shimmered like oil over water—dark and iridescent and cruelly beautiful. It was delicate, yes, but not innocent. It was too rich for utility. Too sensual for battle. It was… hers.

It smelled like her.

Thranduil drew a sharp breath before he realized he was even holding it closer.

Spice. Forest. Heat. Smoke. A scent that had no name in any elven tongue—but one that had lingered in his thoughts, his sheets, his skin. It made his pulse beat hard once behind his teeth.

He should have folded it back. Should have tucked it away beneath protective spells and cold logic, sealed the cabinet, walked away.

Returned to his throne.

To his court.

To the cage of expectations that had always fit him so well, so tightly, he forgot it was even there.

But he did not.

He carried the lace with him—slowly, like a man condemned—through the quiet corridors of his private wing. Past the tapestry hall. Past the mirrored alcove. Past everything gilded and sacred and safe.

Until he reached the doors of his study.

He paused.

Just once.

As if there were still a choice.

Then the doors shut behind him with a whisper. And the lock turned with a soft, damning click.

He stood for a long while in silence.

The lace was draped over one hand now, no longer a scrap of fabric—but a weight. A question. A spell with no incantation.

He looked down at it like it might speak.

And perhaps it did.

Because something inside him shifted.

Slow and cold, like ice breaking beneath spring thaw.

His other hand came to rest against the edge of his desk—his sanctuary. His haven of logic, maps, treaties, weapons placements. The place where his kingdom was shaped not by swords, but by will. By restraint.

And now…

Now that hand was trembling.

He could feel it beneath his skin—heat. Hunger. Something he had kept locked so long it had become part of the foundation of who he was. But she had walked into his court with fire in her blood and rot on her tongue and a body built for defiance —and she had cracked it.

And now he sat.

Not like a king. Not like a predator.

But like a man undone.

He pressed the lace to his face—not in indulgence, but in confession. The scent of her filled his lungs. The texture of her pressed against his mouth like a kiss never given. Never earned.

Shame bloomed in his chest. Old. Rusted. It was a shape he hadn’t worn in years—had thought himself above.

You are too old for this. Too wise.

And yet…

The ache in his hands told another story.

So did the heat gathering low in his belly.

So did the way he closed his eyes—and saw her.

The sharpness of her collarbones. The way her hair spilled wild down her back. The smirk that wasn’t an invitation so much as a dare. The knowledge that she did not need to be touched to be felt.

He imagined her wearing this. Just this.

Sitting where he now sat, daring him to move. To command. To break.

And gods help him—

He wanted it.

Even if it cost him everything.

Even if it wasn’t real.

He could not stop now.

Not when the scent of her was branded into his palm. Not when his cock was hard and heavy against his robes, aching with something unspoken.

He leaned forward, lace still in hand, and whispered her name once.

It tasted like betrayal.

But it felt like relief.

There he was—not in the tall-backed throne-chair meant for declarations and war councils—but in the low one.

The personal one.

The one worn smooth by centuries of solitary thought, grief, and command made in silence. The one not even his son dared approach without invitation.

The one he sat in now, legs parted, crown abandoned, his breath already heavier than it should’ve been.

The lace was light as breath in his hand. A whisper. A ghost of her.

And yet it burned.

He brought it closer.

And breathed her in.

Spice. Bloodroot. Sweat. Night-blossoms crushed under foot. But also something older. Wilder. The musk of a woman who did not yield. Who allowed. Who chose.

It was a scent that made his jaw clench and his pulse throb beneath the skin of his throat.

His mouth twitched. Not a smile.

He dragged the back of his hand across his lips—then lower, where his desire already pulsed, thick and aching.

The rings on his fingers clicked faintly as he undid the clasp of his robe. Slow. Methodical. Still clinging to the illusion of composure.

But the lie was thin.

His cock was already hard.

Heavy, flushed dark with need, slick already at the tip from nothing more than her scent and the memory of her voice. That voice—rich and cool and threaded with cruelty like velvet drawn over a blade—echoed in the chambers of his mind.

She hadn’t whispered his name.

But she would.

Gods, he would make her .

He wrapped a hand around himself—tight, practiced. A hiss slid between his teeth like pain turned pleasure.

In his other hand, the lace. Still warm from his palm. Still rich with the scent of her body, her magic, her defiance.

He stroked himself once, twice, slow. The pressure sharp and immediate. His breath stuttered.

He did not imagine her moaning.

He didn’t have to.

He remembered the way she moved, hips rolling like waves lapping over rock, bare feet across his stone floors—unhurried, unrushed. A queen of shadows striding through golden halls like she already owned them.

He remembered her lips—how they’d curled over the rim of the wineglass like a promise he hadn’t earned yet. How her tongue had darted out, just barely, to taste the edge.

He imagined those lips parting now.

For him.

The image hit him hard. His hand moved faster, thighs tensing. A drop of sweat slipped down the back of his neck, chased by shame he didn’t stop to acknowledge.

There had been others, over the years. Quiet encounters. Duty-bound alliances. Occasional indulgences chosen with care.

But none of them had ever unmade him.

None had lingered.

None had smelled like sin and spider silk and the kind of danger you didn't survive without being changed.

He angled his hips forward, chasing the rising heat in his belly. His strokes turned harsh now. Desperate. Like he was punishing himself for daring to want this, to need this. For breaking in the one place he swore he never would.

The lace brushed against his thigh with every shift— her lace.

And gods help him—

He wanted it wrapped around her wrists.

He wanted it clenched between her teeth.

He wanted to bury himself in her until the forest itself wept and the roots bent to listen.

And that image—

That truth —

Unmade him.

His climax came in a wave that dragged a guttural sound from his throat—low and feral, nothing like a king. His hips jerked forward once, then again, and he spilled over his hand, his belly, the edge of the desk.

Hot. Sudden. Shattering.

And still he did not let go of the lace.

It hung from his fingers like a holy relic. A curse he’d chosen. A memory he hadn’t earned.

He sat there for long minutes, chest heaving, head bowed—not in regret, but in reverence.

The scent of her still clung to him.

His body hummed with the aftershock. With the knowledge that this was not enough. Not nearly.

Not anymore.

Eventually, he cleaned his hand with a silk cloth. Redid the clasp of his robe. Smoothed back his hair, though the wildness had already bled through.

He wiped down the desk until it gleamed once more—pristine, as if it had never happened.

And then, at last, he folded the lace.

Precise. Gentle. Like it might wake.

He placed it in the lowest drawer of his desk. Alone.

He did not lock it.

He did not need to.

Let it stay there.

Let it live beside the maps and letters and treaties of a king still pretending he wasn’t beginning to unravel.

Let it whisper of what it would cost —to touch her again.

To claim her.

To keep her.

And what he would give, if only she asked.

---

In the morning, something in my wardrobe had changed.

No pale pastels. No moon-thread gowns that clung like whispers. No perfumes that choked like honey.

Instead, something darker awaited.

A gown of deep plum—spun shadow and crushed velvet. Heavy spider lace stretched across the bodice, black as pitch and kissed with iridescent threads that shimmered in violet hues under candlelight. The neckline was sharp, elegant. Dangerous. Drow in every stitch. It was the kind of dress that whispered threats in every sway, that made no apology for the way it gripped the waist or curved at the hip. It had weight to it. Purpose. As though it had been made not for walking halls, but for commanding them.

And folded beside it, a cloak lined with charred silver—the kind of fabric that moved like smoke and silence. A cloak meant to vanish behind shadows, or to step out from them.

I said nothing as I dressed. But the spores curled around my wrists like bracelets. Pleased. Aware. They pulsed in time with the new texture against my skin, a shiver of silk and magic, as if even they understood this was not simply a garment—it was a message.

He was learning.

He’d chosen this. Not one of his tailors. Not one of his advisors. This was too precise, too intentional. He had paid attention. To cut. To thread. To culture. To me.

The guards who escorted me didn’t speak, but I felt their gazes shift. Not away from me, no. Toward me. On me. As though they couldn’t decide if this new sharpness was permission—or provocation. As though the sight of me unsettled something in their well-trained decorum.

Their shoulders stiffened as I passed. Their posture straightened. One of them dared glance down, just briefly, where the velvet clung to my thigh before snapping his gaze forward again.

I smiled.

Let them wonder.
Let them try to guess if this was my doing—or his.
Let them guess what it meant.

Because even I didn’t know.
And perhaps that was what made it all the more dangerous.

Notes:

Don't mind me, I just need a long drink of some hella cold water. Good LORDt!

Chapter 6: Chapter Six – Whispers Beneath the Crown **NSFWISH**

Summary:

Ambrose’s presence in Mirkwood has begun to weave deeper into the court’s foundations, stirring old jealousies and awakening dormant power. Legolas, ever observant, notes the subtle shifts in his father's behavior—and in Ambrose herself. A new wardrobe. A change in her aura. A streak of white in her hair that shouldn’t be there. And whispers—so many whispers. The ladies of Mirkwood are watching. So is the King.

Tensions rise as the Spring Ball draws near, this season to be hosted under Thranduil’s watchful gaze. Missives are sent to the other elven lords, alliances are weighed, and a familiar face from Thranduil’s past—Eryndil—makes her disdain known. But Ambrose is not one to be trifled with.

Behind the scenes, she quietly cultivates her garden of poisons, spores, and spiders, spreading her influence through the halls, the forest, and the very roots of the mountain. The Fade spiders whisper. Her network grows.

A spark of desire ignites between her and Thranduil in the throne room—brief but charged—and when she boldly touches him, teasing him to the edge and walking away, she confirms what he already knows:

She holds power in her hands now.
And she’s only just begun to use it.

The forest wasn’t the only thing that changed.
Legolas noticed it first in the quiet—how the birds didn’t sing quite so early. How the moss underfoot clung tighter to stone. How the deeper paths of Mirkwood began to breathe again. But more than that, he noticed it in his father.
Thranduil didn’t speak of her often. But when he did, it was never carelessly.
He had not summoned the court to declare her station, nor made any public display—but he didn’t need to. The interest he afforded her spoke volumes. A narrowed glance during council. A thoughtful silence after a report that mentioned her. A softened look when she crossed the throne room floor. And more telling still—he had begun to write.
Letters. Scrolls. Sealed missives sent to the other elven lords.
She was being acknowledged.
And though no name was yet whispered aloud in alliance, the message was clear: Mirkwood would host this spring’s political season. Not Imladris. Not Lothlórien. Here. Under Thranduil’s gaze, and under the eyes of a court now sharpening their tongues in preparation.
Legolas kept his thoughts to himself. He always had. But he watched.
He watched Ambrose.
At first, he hadn’t known what to make of her. She was strange, yes—but not in the way humans were strange. Not in the way dwarves grated or wizards confused. She was something else entirely. Something darker.
And yet...
As the days passed, he saw the shift. Small things, easily missed.
She spent more time outdoors, drifting into the treeline as if she were listening. As if something called to her from beneath the roots. She stood longer at the garden edges, silent and barefoot, her fingers brushing bark and bramble like she was tasting the pulse beneath them. The spores she carried—once tight to her skin—seemed to dance now. Stretching.
She had changed.
And perhaps, in ways he could not quite admit, so had he.
He noticed her hair first.
Just a streak—white, like moonlight caught in a single lock. She tried to hide it the next day, wound up in an elaborate twist braided through with jet beads. But he had seen it. And though he said nothing, it stayed with him.
Then came the wardrobe.
Gone were the gowns she’d once worn—pale silks and soft thread spun to make her look delicate. Now, she wore velvet the color of bruises. Web-laced bodices. Cloaks that moved like smoke. It wasn’t vanity. It was armor.
And someone was helping her put it on.
The court had noticed too.
The ladies, once dismissive in their cruelty, had begun to whisper. They smiled at her too widely now. Their words too sweet. Their perfume too heavy in the halls. And always, always, their eyes went to the King.
And Legolas, prince of Mirkwood, heir to a legacy that had endured the rise and fall of kingdoms, felt something old stir beneath his ribs.
Curiosity.
And something sharper.
Because whatever Ambrose Veylthra was becoming—whatever her purpose in this tangled wood—he knew one thing:
She would not go unnoticed.
And she would not be easily forgotten.

He saw it more clearly that day in the throne room.
The moment lingered, strange and still. Ambrose stood near the dais, an effortless elegance in her stance, as if she were rooted to the floor itself, waiting for something. Or someone.
Legolas watched, his eyes tracing the way his father’s gaze lingered on her—a gaze that was not like the ones he offered others. It was a touch too soft, a little too drawn out.
Ambrose, ever the mystery, didn’t seem to notice. Or at least, she pretended not to. Her head was tilted just so, her hair falling over her shoulder like a silken curtain, but her sharp eyes flickered toward Thranduil’s posture, just for a second too long.
Legolas didn’t miss it.
And neither did his father.
When Ambrose finally left, the tension in the room seemed to fade, but not for Legolas. His father’s unspoken thoughts lingered, and Legolas couldn’t shake the feeling that something had shifted—something that had been there, but only now was becoming undeniable.
It was in the way Ambrose had stood. In the subtle, controlled sway of her hips. The way her fingers lingered just too long on the edges of the throne’s velvet cushion.
Something sharp sliced through Legolas’s chest—a feeling he couldn’t place, but knew had everything to do with her.
And his father.

Meanwhile, his father wrote another letter.
To Lord Elrond.
A message sealed not with formality—but with firewax and Thranduil’s own crest.
Mirkwood will host the spring ball.
And I believe you will find our guest... most enlightening.

---

It was becoming harder to ignore the spiders.
Their webs weren’t just in the corners anymore, but across the trees, stretching from one shadowed branch to the next. The larger ones had started to make their homes deeper in the roots, in the forgotten corners of the forest where light barely touched. And my spores... they thrummed, pulsed, and spread through the earth like a steady beat. They’d already reached the caves beneath the palace, deep within the heart of the mountain, latching onto every crevice, every vein of the wood.
It was a part of me now, just as much as the breath in my lungs or the blood in my veins.
The more I let them grow, the more I found myself seeking out the darkness. The quiet spaces. Places where I could listen to their whispers without interference.

The library was where I found peace. Thranduil’s collection of texts was endless—poems and songs, ornate and impossibly flowery, the words so tightly coiled together they nearly suffocated themselves. But there was something soothing in it, the way the letters curved, the beauty in the language that mirrored the polished formality of the court. It wasn’t knowledge that I sought there—not yet. At least, not in the way most would. I could stomach the flowery nonsense of their high elven verse, especially since it allowed me to examine something far more interesting: the herbology texts, the botany books, and most importantly, the plants.
Elves were obsessed with their gardens, their delicate blooms, and their carefully cultivated patches of life. What fascinated me wasn’t the flowers themselves, but the ones they’d cultivated that were so different from those in the Underdark—the ones my spores had never touched. I wondered what could be done with these plants, what life I could breathe into them.

But there was something else in the air today. The subtle rustle of movement behind me, too calculated to be accidental.
I didn’t need to turn to know who it was.
Eryndil.
Her footsteps were light, graceful, but they held a deliberate weight that didn’t belong in the space I had claimed. Eryndil had been a fixture in Mirkwood’s court for years—one of Thranduil’s past... amusements. She had known the King in ways that were both fleeting and familiar, once the object of his passing interest, and now, perhaps, something more.
Her sharp eyes narrowed in as she watched me, like a hawk eyeing its prey.

“Ambrose,” she said, her voice as smooth as it was cutting, “I see you’ve made yourself at home.”

I didn’t look up. My fingers lingered on the pages of the book in front of me, tracing the faint script. “I’m simply indulging in a bit of knowledge.”

Her soft laugh rang out, carrying that same venom I had come to expect. “Ah, knowledge. Or perhaps, power? A dangerous game, you know.”

I finally met her gaze, not bothering to hide the faintest curve of my lips. “I find power to be most useful when it’s understood.”

Her eyes flashed, a flicker of something far sharper than mere curiosity. “And what do you understand, Ambrose? How to catch the King’s eye, perhaps?”

Her question was delicate, posed as if it were nothing more than a passing thought. But the weight of it lingered, thick and heavy, like the scent of perfume she wore.

I stood then, slowly, deliberately, not offering her the satisfaction of a hasty retreat. “Perhaps you should ask the King if you’re concerned. I’m sure he’ll tell you exactly where his attention lies.”

I could feel the tension spark between us, a subtle undercurrent that crackled and buzzed in the air. But I didn’t flinch. I had no need to.

“You’re bold,” she said, voice softening, though her eyes betrayed the tension beneath. “But boldness can be dangerous, dear. There’s more at play here than you realize. Not every hand you extend is meant to be taken.”

I raised an eyebrow, then turned toward the door. “Perhaps it’s not a hand I intend to take.”

I stepped toward the courtyard, the cool air greeting me like a familiar embrace. The garden stretched out before me, its colors vibrant, the flowers carefully tended and perfectly arranged. But my thoughts were elsewhere, a thousand steps ahead of whatever this petty exchange had been.

Eryndil’s jealousy was transparent—no subtlety there. She had been a presence in Thranduil’s life, and now she found herself unable to relinquish that hold. Her interest in me wasn’t born out of curiosity, but of territoriality. A woman whose past with the King had left her craving a future that might never come.

As I walked through the gardens, the whispers of the forest—of my spores—guided me. It wasn’t just about Thranduil. It never had been. But the games that would unfold were only beginning. And I would be a player in them, whether they liked it or not.

The webs I had woven through the forest were more than just a means of connection. They were my ears, my eyes. Every whisper, every shift in the air, carried to me in the vibrations of the threads, the subtle tremors that danced through the strands of silk. I could hear the secrets of the court, the murmurs in the halls, the shifting allegiances of those who believed they were too clever to be caught.

The spiders, my silent companions, had grown accustomed to me. Their movements, once skittish, were now deliberate. Some perched in the rafters of the palace, others nestled deep in the roots beneath, but they all carried my presence with them. I could feel their eyes on the court, listening to every word that passed between the courtiers. Their whispers were like honeyed poison, sweet on the surface but laced with the sting of truth.

The plants I gathered, too, were more than they seemed. I had begun collecting them, carefully, vials of green liquid and crushed petals hidden in the folds of my cloak. They were small, delicate, the kind that Mirkwood's healers might use for soothing or charm. But I was no healer. I knew exactly what these plants could become.

At first, I had simply enjoyed their strange fragrance, the way they contrasted with the earth I had known. Some were rare, others ordinary—but together, they could brew something much more potent. A poison, perhaps, or a subtle balm to wear on the skin, to charm or to kill.

The idea of it fascinated me—the control, the subtlety, the art of letting someone drink deep from their own ruin, unaware of the poison creeping into their veins. I’d learned the art in the Underdark, where it was second nature. Here, it would be a game. A more dangerous one.

For now, I didn’t plan to use them. The court was still watching. The King was still... watching. And I had learned long ago that patience was just as important as precision. But it wouldn’t take long before my concoctions would find their use—whether in a whispered moment of too-close contact or a planned, quiet slip into an unguarded cup.

Every plant in my collection, every drop of liquid and powder, had its place in my grand design. I would take my time, enjoy the knowledge I had gathered, and bide my time. If Eryndil continued to interfere... well, I would have something far more satisfying than a sharp tongue to put an end to that.

For now, I continued to watch. To listen. To let the spiders do their work and my spores stretch deeper into the wood. The court could play their games. I would wait for the right moment.

The spiders had always been a part of me, long before they became my allies here. In the Underdark, we shared a bond forged through years of darkness, our fates intertwined in ways most could never understand. But here, in Mirkwood, the bond had grown deeper, and I had learned to bend it to my will.

The Fade spiders, creatures from my world, were an extension of that bond. I had brought them with me, hidden within the folds of my cloak, within the magic of the spores I carried. Now, they were beginning to do more than just scurry along the edges of the forest. They were beginning to build something.

In the quiet of my chamber, I watched as I gently placed the eggs in a small vial, a web of magic connecting each one. The eggs were fragile, but in the right hands, they could become deadly. The worker spiders, trained to obey my will, would carry these eggs through the network I had woven beneath the earth. It was a web of spies and watchers, waiting to link me to the world I had left behind.

Each spider that scuttled through Mirkwood’s underbrush, each faint whisper of silk that fluttered between the trees, carried a little piece of the Underdark. The spores I had released were like seeds—seeds that would take root here, spreading through the roots of the forest, the corridors of the palace, until they had woven a web of control.

I wasn’t just playing the political game here. I had my sights set on something greater. The court could whisper, the King could watch, but none of them truly understood the depths to which I could reach.

Through the spiders, I would send a message. The Underdark would hear me. My home would listen.

The eggs I carried weren’t just gifts. They were a promise. A promise to my people that the connection between us would never break. In time, Mirkwood would find itself under my watch, and when the time came, I would take what I needed to ensure that power stayed in my grasp.

For now, I continued to watch. To listen. To let the network grow. Eryndil and the court were nothing more than distractions, pieces on the board, and I had learned long ago how to play the game. If they stepped out of line, they would fall as easily as a thread in my web.

But patience was key. And for now, there were more eggs to place. More webs to weave. More plans to set in motion.

---

The weight of the day’s obligations pressed down on Thranduil like the slow, inevitable crush of the forest itself. Petitions to consider, allies to placate, rivals to remind of their place—they bled into one another, all becoming the same dull echo in his mind. A life he had learned to master, to perform without thinking. The demands of the court no longer fazed him. The politicking had become rote, like the turn of seasons. He had been doing this for centuries, and still, the dance of power never changed.

Yet, even amidst the hum of Mirkwood’s ancient halls, there was one thing he could not shake.

Her.

Ambrose Veylthra.

She had come from another world, a place foreign to him, and still, one he could not fully comprehend. At first, she had been little more than a curiosity—strange, dangerous, and unsettling in ways he hadn’t expected. But now? Now she had become a presence, slipping into the seams of his court, weaving herself into the whispers of the palace. She had found a way to burrow deep into his thoughts, despite every effort to remain detached. Her gaze, sharp and knowing, lingered behind his eyes, and that smile, enigmatic and maddening, refused to fade. He could still feel it.

But now, as he walked through the stone corridors of his palace, another distraction clawed at his mind, something he had nearly forgotten.

Eryndil.

Her presence was a ghost he had shoved aside, but it still lingered in the shadows. Pale beauty, quiet grace—reminders of a time he no longer wished to revisit. Once, she had been a fixture in his life, a passing flame that flickered briefly before being snuffed out. Now? She seemed out of place, like an object left on a shelf too long, gathering dust.

She moved toward him now, light steps, like a shadow stretching across his path. He could sense it in the way she approached, the urgency beneath her practiced elegance. But he felt no desire to indulge it.

“Thranduil,” she greeted, her voice a soft, silken thread. It was meant to pull at something in him he no longer recognized. “I thought perhaps we could speak. Of old times.”

He didn’t need to look at her to know the exact shape of her smile. He had seen it too many times before, too well. It no longer stirred anything in him. His gaze remained cool, calculating, detached, as he turned to face her.

“Eryndil,” he replied, his voice flat, betraying none of the indifference he felt. “Still lingering in my court, I see.”

Her smile faltered, but only for a moment. She stepped closer, her voice low, coaxing. “I thought we could speak of old times. Perhaps... things we once shared?”

“Old times?” Thranduil repeated, his voice sharp. “It seems you’ve forgotten your place here. You were never my consort, Eryndil. And you never will be.”

The words stung, and he saw the brief flicker of surprise in her eyes. She recovered quickly, but the tension in her face was impossible to ignore. Her voice dropped, soft, almost pleading. “You don’t mean that, Thranduil. I’ve been here for years. I know you. And you know me.”

The patience he had cultivated for so long began to fray, the weight of her presence pushing him to the edge. How long would this continue?

“I remember very little of our past interactions,” he said, his voice cold as stone. “I’ve forgotten more than you realize.”

Her lips parted in shock, but he didn’t wait for her to respond. Without a second glance, he turned, the distance between them widening with each step.

The court’s eyes followed him, whispers spreading like wildfire. Their curiosity filled the air, but it didn’t matter. None of it mattered.

Not when his mind was still caught on Ambrose. Not when she had already begun to play a game far more dangerous than Eryndil could ever dream of.

---

You were alone when he found you, an odd feeling of something wild bled in Thranduil’s gaze as he blocked the warmth from the sun. His silhouette stood in the doorway, tall and imposing, casting a shadow that stretched across the floor like an invitation.

"Yes, Kingy?" you drawled, your tone languid and mocking, but there was something else there, too—a challenge, a thread of something darker weaving through your words.

He didn’t flinch at your irreverence, his gaze sharpening with an unreadable edge. “I wish to speak.”

Your lips curled in amusement. “Oh? About what?” you asked, your fingers idly tracing the edge of the book you had been reading, though your attention was no longer on it. The subtle dance between you and him had begun—he could feel it, too. You both knew it was only a matter of time before the game would shift.

Thranduil stepped forward, his presence heavy in the air. “About the things you keep hidden behind that smile of yours,” he said, voice low, too smooth. “I find myself… curious, Ambrose.”

The shift in his voice made the hairs on the back of your neck stand at attention. There it was again—the wildness that had seeped into his gaze. It was a dangerous thing. And you, ever the strategist, couldn’t help but relish the intrigue.

“And what would you do with that curiosity?” you asked, still looking up at him with that wicked, teasing gleam in your eyes.

Thranduil’s lips twitched, but there was no smile. "I would know what lies beneath the surface," he replied, his voice a shade darker now, filled with intent. “I would know what you are really capable of.”

You let the silence stretch between you two, enjoying the tension, the sense that both of you were carefully measuring the other. But you couldn’t help the small laugh that bubbled up—something genuine, though it lacked warmth.

"How much more do you think you could learn, King Thranduil? Perhaps... not as much as you think."

Your eyes locked with his, and the words that hung unspoken between you felt almost like a promise. You would reveal only what you chose to, and Thranduil would have to wait for it.

“Is it sorcery you want to see? Want me to raise the dead?” you asked, voice dripping with a mix of mockery and something more dangerous beneath. “I’m from a different world, but I’m not some divine being or something from a myth. I bleed—I feel—I taste.”

That seemed to strike a chord in him, his eyes drawing down to the pout of your lips, where every word you spoke fell from them like a slow, deliberate poison. His gaze lingered, not just on the words but on the way your lips moved, on the subtle curve of them—part challenge, part invitation.

“You are no divine being,” Thranduil murmured, stepping closer now, the space between you narrowing like a tightening noose. “No, you are something much more… dangerous.”

You tilted your head slightly, amused by his words but feeling the shift in the air around him. There was no fear in him, only curiosity, a relentless need to understand. But there was something more lurking behind his eyes now—a faint flicker of desire, of intrigue, and something darker you couldn’t quite place.

“Dangerous?” you repeated with a soft laugh. “Perhaps. But I’m not the one who sent soldiers to watch me. I’m not the one whose court trembles when I enter a room.”

Thranduil’s brow furrowed for a split second, but the anger didn’t come. Instead, his lips curved into something that might have been a smile, though it didn’t reach his eyes.

“You seem to enjoy making things more difficult than they need to be.” His voice was smooth, but there was an undercurrent of something else—something far less regal, far less controlled.

“You misunderstand,” you said, stepping even closer, your breath barely a whisper away from his. “I enjoy making things interesting .”

For the first time since meeting him, you saw the faintest flicker of something in his eyes. Something raw, unguarded—desire, maybe. Or the thrill of the unknown.

And for just a heartbeat, you both lingered there, caught in the space between what was said and what would be. You could almost taste it.

"Where does your interest lie?" you asked, your voice soft yet sharp, like the blade of a dagger hidden beneath silk. Your lips barely brushed against his, a featherlight touch, yet the effect was far from subtle. The faintest taste of vanilla, of tea, clung to your breath, but even something as sweet as that seemed to promise poison. You could feel the tremor that passed through him, the weight of it pressing against both of you like an unspoken challenge.

For a moment, you allowed him to savor the silence. His breath hitched, ever so slightly, as his gaze never left yours. The air between you two crackled with the raw, unsaid things that hummed beneath your skin, just waiting to escape.

Then, you flicked your tongue against his bottom lip—teasing, playful, yet cutting all at once. It was a small, deliberate act, one that set his control into a tailspin. He froze, his chest rising and falling more rapidly, as if he had forgotten how to breathe. His eyes darkened, pupils dilating, and for a fraction of a second, something unguarded—raw desire—flashed across his face.

You moved closer, just a step, and felt the shift in him. His body stiffened, as though he was trying to resist some magnetic pull he didn’t understand. You could almost taste the war within him, between restraint and the primal need to give in. But that was your game, wasn’t it? Pushing him to the brink.

Your hands slid up to his shoulders, fingers grazing the fine fabric of his cloak, pulling it back gently like you were tidying something so carelessly undone. It was almost mockingly casual, the way you touched him—like you weren’t the one who had left him speechless, his breath caught between the thin thread of patience and the burning pull of attraction.

“Tell me, King Thranduil,” you murmured, your lips dangerously close to his ear, your voice low enough to be heard only by him. “How long do you plan to pretend you’re not as intrigued as I am?”

Your fingers danced along the fine silks at his shoulder, lingering just enough to remind him of your proximity. But there was more to it than that. You wanted to see how far you could push him, how long his perfect control could hold.

Thranduil’s chest rose sharply beneath the fabric of his cloak, a breath caught somewhere between control and instinct. His hands twitched at his sides as if he were fighting against the urge to reach for you. The tension was suffocating, thick with the promise of what could come next. And still, his silence lingered, only deepening the intensity of the moment.

You tilted your head ever so slightly, and your gaze softened, just for a second, enough to let him know you weren’t entirely the enigma you let him think you were. Your smile remained, though it was no longer playful, but a razor-sharp curve—a challenge.

“I’ve been patient,” you whispered, your breath ghosting across his skin. “But I’m not one to wait forever.”

Thranduil inhaled sharply, as if you had just set fire to the space between you. He didn’t speak, but his eyes betrayed everything he was trying to hide, burning with questions, with need. You could see it now—he was no longer the impenetrable king of Mirkwood, no longer the untouchable ruler who controlled everything. Right now, in this moment, he was a man caught between the rise of something he couldn’t control and the desperate need to suppress it.

Your voice was practically dripping with something primal as you let your body rest against his, a hand slipping down to cherish the needy outline of his cock through his robes.

Bold. Even for you.
But the sound he made—sharp, caught between restraint and need—was worth every risk.

He shuttered beneath your touch.

For a moment, his body pressed toward you, reflexively, like a man starved. But just as quickly, you pulled away with a loving, maddening squeeze, letting your fingers drag off him like smoke parting from fire.

You turned to go, steps deliberate, hips swaying like a quiet dare.

Over your shoulder, voice smooth as silk laced in venom, you called out,
“You should fix that, your Majesty.
Not very kingly in the eyes of the court… hm?”

You didn’t look back.

But you felt his stare as you left—hot and feral. Not the gaze of a ruler.
The gaze of a man who had just tasted something forbidden... and would hunger for more.

Chapter 7: Chapter Seven – Threads in Bloom

Summary:

-You’re mine, if I want you.
The touch burned hotter than any blow, not from force, but from the quiet knowledge of what it meant.-

It’s been about a week since I’ve seen the king.
Poor thing—buried under parchment and politics, preparing for his great, gilded spring ball like the forest itself depends on it.
Perhaps it does.
That’s fine.
It left me more time with his curious little prince.
This one… has been watching.
Not just in passing, no. He lingers. He listens. He mouths my words when I slip into Drowish under my breath, thinking I don’t see. He peers over my shoulder when I study a flower too long and hums like it’s just a coincidence when I catch him at it.
He must be close to my age, give or take a few centuries—still soft around the edges, still learning how to wield his silence like a weapon. But old enough to understand patterns. Eyes sharp enough to spot the ones I leave behind.
And I swear, I swear, the boy gets jealous.
Not when I touch him. Not when I speak.
But when I glance toward his father’s study—
When my gaze lingers, just long enough to mean something...
He bristles.
He masks it well, I’ll give him that. But his hands still go stiff when I walk too close. His jaw ticks when my smile curves a certain way. And once, just once, I caught him watching me from the arch above the garden—like a prince in some overripe bard’s tale, trying not to care and failing beautifully.
We haven’t spoken much.
Not properly. Not yet.
But the way he hovers in the library when I read aloud in Elven—his gaze caught between the curve of my mouth and the lines of the text—says more than words ever could. He pretends to study the book over my shoulder, but I can feel the weight of him watching, the way his breath changes when I slip into Drowish without warning.
Yesterday, his shoulder brushed mine in the corridor. Just a glancing touch, but held for a heartbeat too long to be dismissed as accident. He didn’t apologize. Neither did I. That, too, said plenty.
I haven’t decided yet if I’ll toy with him—if this is to ruffle feathers, to test the invisible boundaries that tether me here, or if there’s a genuine curiosity between us. The fun is in not knowing.
But I will admit—he’s a lovely distraction. His youth isn’t naïve, but it is soft. There’s something untouched about him, like snow no one’s stepped in yet, the kind that hides how deep the ice runs beneath. He’s careful, but not careful enough. He’s learned to wield silence like a blade, but I can see the untempered edges beneath.
And if he’s anything like his father…
Well.
I think I’d like to know where the similarities end.
Today, I dressed for intent.
My hair was tied high—sharp, elegant, practical—leaving my face bare so nothing could hide the precision of my focus. My clothing clung close, stitched for movement rather than modesty, every seam a line of purpose. The silk was spell-woven and spider-kissed, dyed in the stormy hues of a brewing sea, the kind that holds lightning just out of sight. The skirts flared subtly at my hips when I walked, not swaying like a court lady’s, but cutting—each step placed like a calculated strike.
I wanted him to see me this way.
Not as the quiet shadow in the library, not as the strange guest in his father’s halls—
but as something that could corner him if I wished.
Legolas didn’t see you coming.
One moment, he was strolling through the courtyard with the kind of princely poise that made court ladies swoon. The next?
You stepped right onto the toe of his boot.
Barefoot, no less. And still, you managed to loom—perching just enough on the ball of your foot, close enough that your glare tipped up into his face like a challenge hurled across a dueling circle.
“These elven men,” you muttered with narrowed eyes. “How dare you all be so tall.”
His brows lifted in stunned amusement. “Pardon—?”
“I want to train,” you declared, cutting him off before he could protest or politely decline. Your finger jabbed lightly into the center of his chest, more directive than accusatory. “You’re going to take me to where your soldiers spar. And you’re going to train with me.”
Then, with a grin that was far too satisfied for someone giving orders to royalty, you bounced back on your heels, clapping your fingers smartly against your palm like a ranger summoning a well-trained wolfhound.
“Come come, princeling. You look like you could use the exercise.”
He blinked. Once. Twice. Then exhaled something that might have been a laugh—short, disbelieving, and a little stunned.
“I... don’t think that’s quite how it works,” he said slowly, as if speaking to a dangerous creature. Which, in fairness, you were.
But you just arched a brow. “Then I suppose I’ll have to show you how it should work.”
And gods help him, he followed.

---

He didn’t even notice her until her weight was upon him—barefoot and brazen, stepping square onto the toe of his boot with enough force to tip him off-balance.
And suddenly, they were nose to nose.
His breath caught—not in fear, but in that particular shock that only came when something wild breached the stillness. Not a blade. Not a beast. Something worse.
Her.
She glared up at him like he had offended her by existing a few inches taller. Her eyes—violet, bottomless, and sharp with mischief—held him captive with no effort at all. Her scent was strange, earthy and wrong in the way twilight sometimes felt wrong. Like something ancient was watching through her smile.
"These elven men," she muttered, as though they’d been locked in a battle of height all morning. "How dare you all be so tall."
He should’ve said something. Should’ve stepped back. Reasserted control.
Instead, he just... stared.
She was not like any elf he had ever met. Not in Imladris. Not in Lórien. Not even among the strange wanderers of the north.
She was something else entirely.
Dark. Proud. Amused by her own danger.
And yet, not cruel. Not unkind.
There was laughter at the edge of her bite, like she enjoyed pressing herself into the world just hard enough to see where it gave. He’d seen cruelty before—in men, in orcs, in whispered stories about the Enemy when he still wore a beautiful face and walked among them as friend and firelight.
But Ambrose? No. She wasn’t like that.
She was honest in her danger.
“I want to train,” she demanded, stabbing a finger into his chest. “You’re going to take me to where your soldiers spar. And you’re going to train with me.”
And before he could so much as raise a brow, she was already bouncing back, clapping her hands like a handler calling for a particularly dense wolfhound.
“Come come, princeling. You look like you could use the exercise.”
It took every ounce of control not to laugh outright. Not to let her see how completely she’d taken the reins of the moment.
“I don’t think that’s quite how it works,” he said, too carefully.
But she was already turning away like it didn’t matter, like his answer was inevitable.
And gods help him, maybe it was.
This—this strange, smiling spider of a woman—had somehow slipped past every instinct he’d honed since boyhood. Past the quiet assessments he’d been taught to make of strangers. Past the walls that had kept so many others, even allies, at arm’s length.
She did not move like the women of the court. They were gentle in their steps, measured in their smiles, coy in their glances—layers upon layers of calculated softness meant to conceal their bite. Ambrose had no such mask. She didn’t bother with feigned fragility.
She was not gentle.
She was not slow.
She was not coy.
She moved like someone born to the blade—like a warrior who had never once doubted her own strength. Someone who knew precisely how to stand, where to place her weight, and how to cut a path through a room without brushing so much as a thread against another soul unless she chose to. And when her eyes found his, there was that glint—a look that made it impossible to tell if she was measuring him… or deciding where best to strike.
Now, with her bare feet silent against the stone, she was steering him toward the sparring circles as if he’d asked for this. As if she had heard a request from his lips that had never been spoken aloud.
He followed.
Not because he had to—he could have refused her. He could have reminded her of her place, or his.
He followed because he wanted to.
Because something in her pull was not the same as the court’s endless parade of painted masks and velvet words. It was sharper, more honest in its danger. Because beneath the flint and steel of her surface—beneath the barbs and the challenge—he could sense something else. Something still and coiled at her center, like a predator at rest.
Not darkness. Not exactly.
Depth.
The kind of depth that could swallow you whole before you realized you’d stepped too close. A depth that promised nothing soft, nothing safe—only the dizzying pull of falling with no hand offered to catch you.
And the strangest part?
He wasn’t certain he would want her to.
From across the training hall, a figure lingered just beyond the reach of the lamplight. Neither prince nor Drow spared him more than a glance—an unfamiliar elf, tall and gold-eyed, his features smoothed by the kind of beauty that belonged to older, darker ages. He leaned against a column as if he had every right to be there, half in shadow, watching.
His gaze never wavered from them.
Not from the way Ambrose’s hair shifted like spun shadow when she moved. Not from the way her fingers brushed a training spear, then dismissed it in favor of nothing at all.
He didn’t smile. Didn’t speak.
Just watched.
And if either of them had looked too closely, they might have seen it—the faintest glint of molten gold deep in his eyes, like fire caught in amber.
But they didn’t look.
And so the shadow stayed.

---

She knew where everything was.
That realization struck Legolas harder than it should have, as she led him—without hesitation—through winding halls and shadowed corridors, directly to the training grounds nestled between the old stone walls and the twisted roots of Mirkwood’s deeper keep. No wrong turns. No uncertain glances.
She’d only been here a few weeks, hadn’t she?
And yet... she moved like she belonged. Like the trees whispered their layout into her ear. Like the roots had grown around her footsteps and never let go.
Carefully embedded. Quietly woven.
Into his days. Into his father’s thoughts.
As strong and beautiful—and as invisible—as a spider’s threads.
He watched her now, mind drifting as she ran a bare hand along the rows of training weapons mounted along the wall. Her fingers didn’t linger, but they didn’t need to. She wasn’t selecting one. She was dismissing them.
He could already feel it in the tension of her frame—that glint of amusement curling at the corners of her mouth. She was going to choose her body over steel. Precision over brute strength. A dance instead of a duel.
His pulse skipped, just slightly.
And in the far distance, unseen to either of them, something old stirred.
Not in the trees. Not in the stone. But beneath.
A gaze—curious, ancient—watched from the far end of the outer chamber, obscured in the darker recesses where no torch was lit and no sound carried. Not a guard. Not a spy. Something else entirely.
The presence didn’t move. It didn’t breathe. It simply watched. Felt.
She passed through the space like a crack in the firmament, her magic brushing the edges of that hidden thing—brief, unknowing.
And it remembered.
Not her. But what she was.
Darkness recognizing darkness.
Just a flicker, and then it was gone. No name. No voice. No form.
But a shadow had taken root.
And it would wait.

---

She didn’t reach for a weapon.
Of all the polished steel, the bowstaves cured smooth as bone, the elegant Mirkwood blades mounted like art along the wall—her hand passed them as though they were toys for children. Worthless.
Instead, she stepped into the sparring ring barefoot, the faint dust clinging to her toes, her cloak sliding from her shoulders without ceremony. The silk whispered as it hit the rail. Sleeves rolled high, revealing forearms latticed with faint scars that didn’t belong to someone who’d only ever fought for sport.
And then… she waited.
It was wrong.
Not wrong in the way that made you think she might lose. Wrong in the way that made you think no one had ever taught her the same rules the rest of us obeyed.
Her stance was nothing his father’s guards had drilled into him. No centered grace. No squared shoulders or balanced guard. Her weight was set back in a way that would have earned him a sharp crack across the knuckles from his instructors. She moved like she didn’t need the rules—like she’d been born outside them and had learned something sharper in their absence.
Legolas began to circle, feet silent on the packed earth. She didn’t mirror him. Didn’t even pretend to.
Her gaze tracked him with an unblinking focus he’d only ever seen in hunting spiders—the kind that sit motionless in their web because they already know the web will do the work for them.
His first step in was a test. A feint.
Her answer was… nothing. Not a parry. Not a shift in guard. Just the barest sway of her hips, letting his blade’s reach and his own momentum carry him straight into air.
And then she was inside his guard.
It happened too fast to track. One moment his weight was forward, the next her palm brushed the inside of his forearm—light, almost careless—fingers curling with the precision of a snare tightening. Not a blow. A claim.
The next heartbeat, his balance was gone, his boot skidding against the earth. Only instinct, years of drilled reflex, kept him from hitting the ground outright.
This was not elven sparring.
This was not the dance of steel and air and practiced grace.
This was something older. Hungrier.
The kind of fighting born in places where losing meant you did not rise again.
From his place at the shadowed edge of the gallery, the gold-eyed stranger leaned fractionally forward, his hands clasped behind his back. A faint, knowing curve touched his mouth. There was no surprise in his gaze—only recognition.
As if he’d seen this before.
As if he knew exactly what she was.

He had not meant to linger.
The spar was nothing special at first glance—another Mirkwood prince humoring the strange guest his father could not seem to stop watching. Yet from the moment she moved, he knew.
Not Mirkwood.
Not Imladris.
Not Lórien.
Her stance bore none of the clean lines or ornamental flourishes of the Firstborn. No archer’s lift to the spine, no dancer’s symmetry in her guard. There was weight to her stillness, a gravity that drew the eye even when she seemed idle. The air between each breath was deliberate—measured in the same way a predator measures the space between itself and the throat of its prey.
He had seen this before. Centuries ago. In deeper places.
This was the economy of motion that came from a world where light was rare, where wasted steps could mean the difference between eating and being eaten. It was patience honed to a weapon, sudden violence wrapped in quiet, coiled stillness. The Eldar liked to think they had perfected grace; what she carried was precision.
Legolas lunged again, faster this time. She did not yield. She invaded.
Her shoulder cut across his chest in a collision that was more possession than force, her bare foot hooking cleanly behind his heel in a sweep so effortless it could have been mistaken for a casual step. The boy recovered—barely—but his breath had shifted. Shallower. Faster.
She was in his head now.
That had his gaze narrowed.
Even without steel in her hands, she was armed.
Not with the songs and ceremonial strikes of the woodland kin, but with the cold, pragmatic violence of a culture that had never known sunlight—and never mourned its absence.
It was artistry without ornament, meant only to end things.
In another life, she might have worn his colors.
Perhaps… she still could.

---

He needed to reassert control.
Her strange, low stance and flicker-fast advances had rattled him, but the ring was still his. This was Mirkwood soil, his ground, his tempo. His tutors had drilled precision into every bone in his body—measured rhythm, calculated arcs, the geometry of a fight drawn before the first blow was thrown. He only needed to pull her into that rhythm.
He slowed his breathing, shoulders rolling loose.
A slow sidestep.
A faint lowering of his guard to invite a mistake.
Then the pivot—fluid, deliberate—letting the sun spill over his right arm like molten gold. His boot scraped the packed dirt with a crisp, cutting sound, a hunter’s distraction designed to make her eyes flick where he wanted them.
Her gaze didn’t shift.
She tracked him the way spiders track—patient, unblinking, as if the noise was nothing but another quiver in her web. There was no rush in her, no anticipation he could exploit. Only stillness.
He lunged, driving the heel of his palm straight for the center of her chest, a blow meant to stagger and give him the space to retake the rhythm.
For a heartbeat, he thought he’d caught her.
She folded away from him—not by retreating, but by bending. Her entire spine curved out of his path with a liquid grace that felt wrong to his trained eye, wrong in the way shadows stretch at the edges of torchlight. The motion carried her just enough to let his strike carve through empty air.
Then her hand caught his wrist.
Not with the iron lock of a soldier’s grip, but with the casual inevitability of a snare closing around something small. She didn’t stop his hand—she guided it, pulling his momentum further than he intended, making him stumble into the space she left bare.
The other hand came next, light as breath against the base of his neck.
Not a strike.
Not a shove.
A reminder.
You’re mine, if I want you.
The touch burned hotter than any blow, not from force, but from the quiet knowledge of what it meant.

From the shadows, he smiled.
Legolas was skilled — there was no denying it. Agile, quick-eyed, schooled in the flowing precision of his father’s warriors. The boy’s movements had the elegance of long centuries of training, each step cut from the same graceful cloth as the rest of Mirkwood’s soldiers. But skill was not the same as cunning.
The prince was still young enough to believe every fight was a conversation.
That each bout was a shared dance.
That if he set the rhythm, the other would follow.
She didn’t dance.
She hunted.
He watched her move across the ring barefoot, every step soundless against the packed earth. No excess motion, no flourish — only what was necessary. Her eyes never wavered from her opponent, tracking him with the same patient, venomous attention a spider gives to something trembling on its web.
Every time the boy adjusted his stance, she was already there.
Every shift in his weight, every twitch of his shoulder, she turned against him — not with brute force, but with disruption. A sudden sweep of her foot to steal his balance. A twist of the wrist to send his arm just off its mark. A calculated step into his personal space so close that his body had to react.
She never struck to harm. She didn’t need to. Each small, precise incursion frayed the fight apart, cutting at the structure of his rhythm until there was nothing left to lead with.
Legolas was still trying to command the tempo.
She was quietly taking the ground out from under him.
Sauron leaned back into the shadowed post, arms folded, letting the curve of his smile deepen. He had seen countless warriors — gilded generals, battle-scarred captains, assassins who moved like whispers — but few carried the kind of distilled efficiency she wielded. This was not training for honor or spectacle. This was movement born of necessity, honed in places where light was scarce and mercy was unknown.
There was no wasted gesture. No ornamental flourish.
It was survival, sharpened to an art.
The sort of craft one could never learn in the softness of a court, or the endless games of elven politics. No — this was bred in darkness. Perfected in it. The kind of darkness that carved itself into bone.
Yes.
He would remember this one.
Test her edges.
See how far she would bend before she broke — if she broke at all.
And perhaps, just perhaps, twisting her would not even be necessary.

By the third exchange, frustration had bled into his grip.
It wasn’t just the way she moved — it was the fact that she wasn’t moving the way he expected her to. Every time he reached, she was gone. Every time he pressed, she absorbed and redirected. It was like trying to snare water in his hands.
So when she cut in for another feint, he seized his chance. His hand clamped around her forearm, twisting hard to force her into a break in rhythm — only for her to roll with it.
The twist didn’t trap her; it turned her.
She spun under his hold like smoke slipping through fingers, the faint rasp of spider-silk brushing his knuckles as she vanished from his front to his back in a heartbeat. Her elbow ghosted past his ribs — close enough that the wind of it brushed him. Had she wanted, bone would have snapped clean.
He pivoted hard, chest heaving, to face her.
She was smiling now. Not in mockery — not entirely — but with the kind of wicked, unhurried amusement that said she’d been toying with him from the very first heartbeat. The kind of smile that suggested she had at least four more ways to end this match and hadn’t bothered to use any of them yet.
“Again,” she said simply.
Only then did he notice the steady, unbroken rhythm of her breathing. No sweat along her temple. No hitch in her chest. She was untouched. Untired. And unimpressed.
Before he could set himself, her grin widened — a fraction, but enough to make something primal in his spine tighten — and then she moved.
No warning. No flourish. Just a blur of motion that cut through his guard like it was never there. Her palm struck his shoulder, her hip slid into his, and the ground tipped away beneath him before he could blink.
The next thing he knew, his back was slamming against the packed dirt of the sparring ring, the air ripped from his lungs in a rough, startled gasp.
Before his body could remember how to rise, she was there.
Knees braced against the ground beside his hips, one forearm pressing lightly — almost lazily — across his collarbone. Not enough to hurt. Not enough to threaten. Just enough to remind him, without question, that he was not getting up unless she decided he could.
And then she leaned down.
Her hair fell forward, a curtain of silken shadow, closing them off from the rest of the ring. The sudden intimacy of it — the quiet, the closeness, the faint scent of whatever wild, poisonous blooms clung to her skin — made the moment heavier than any blow.
Her voice was low, velvet-soft, threaded with heat and amusement.
“Careful, little prince,” she murmured, close enough that he could feel the words ghost along his jaw. “Keep letting me in like this, and one day…” Her lips curved into something wicked, almost fond, “…you’ll forget which side you’re fighting for.”
She held his gaze for the space of a single, long heartbeat — an unspoken you already might.
And then it was gone.
Her hand slipped away as quickly as it had pinned him. She rose with the same unhurried grace she’d carried all match, dusting her palms as though she’d merely brushed away a leaf. Her head tilted toward the racks of training weapons — a silent, almost playful acknowledgment of the bout — before she turned.
Without another glance back, she walked from the ring. Bare feet whispering over the dirt. Hips swaying with the same calculated balance she fought with. Every line of her body humming with quiet victory — the kind meant to be savored, not declared.

---

In the shadowed alcove, he lingered.
Legolas stayed on the ground a moment too long — not winded, not truly beaten, but unwilling to rise until he could do so without looking like he’d been dismissed. Pride kept the boy silent, though the hard set of his jaw and the sharp breath he drew when he finally stood betrayed him.
Good.
Let him simmer. Let that sting burn under his skin until it grew teeth. Let the heat ferment into something sharper — ambition, perhaps. Or hunger. Or the reckless kind of desire that made princes step into webs with their eyes open.
Either would serve him.
The corner of his mouth curved, the barest shift in an otherwise still face. The hooded shade he wore seemed to drink in the air around it, swallowing the torchlight until it dulled against him. When he moved, it was only a breath — just enough for a sliver of gold to catch the light.
Not the gold of a woodland crown.
Not the sunlit blond of Mirkwood’s hair.
Not the warm gleam of firelight reflected in an eye.
Something deeper.
Something older.
Something wrong.
A metal that remembered the heat of its own forging. The color of a god’s will beaten into shape and quenched in blood.
And then it was gone.
Drawn back into the dark as if it had never been there at all, leaving only the quiet and the faint scent of steel.

Notes:

14 pages Ny'all!! ╰(*°▽°*)╯
I'll be adding more to my Dragon Age story as well if you want more in this category- I'm also open for suggestions.

Chapter 8: Chapter Eight- The Lick Of Flames **NSFW**

Summary:

Fresh from besting Legolas in the sparring ring, Ambrose intends only to prepare for the evening’s ball — until Thranduil arrives at her chambers, driven by a jealousy older and sharper than words. What begins as confrontation quickly unravels into something far more dangerous: a slow, deliberate game of denial and possession, each testing the other’s limits without ever crossing the final line.

But the night has other players. When Ambrose makes her entrance at the feast, every thread of her gown and every step declares her heritage — a daughter of darkness, unashamed. Elrond takes notice. So does a guest wearing the name Maegor… and the golden eyes of something far older. In the candlelit tangle of courtly politics, veiled power, and unspoken claim, the game changes — and Ambrose stands at the center of a web even Thranduil cannot control.

You’d had your fun.

Leaving the little prince flat in the dirt, pride scuffed and temper simmering, had been almost too easy. The look on his face as you pranced away — unbothered, barefoot, victorious — was enough to keep you smiling all the way back through the winding halls.

Let him stew in it.

The ball’s guests would begin to arrive soon, and there were far better ways to spend your evening than explaining yourself to an irritable young elf with a bruised ego.

A bath first — yes. Steam and scented oils to wash away the grit of the sparring ring. Then something darker, sharper, for the evening’s welcome. The kind of gown that would make polite elves murmur into their wine and avert their eyes while still watching you from the corners of the room.

Too bad those irritating white streaks in your hair were cropping up again, stubborn as spider silk. A constant reminder of… something. Of home. Of change. They took far more effort to hide than they were worth, but you weren’t in the mood to be questioned about them tonight.

The spores along your skin hummed faintly as you stripped off your sparring clothes. They liked the heat, liked the way your pulse was still quick from the fight. You wondered, idly, if the prince had told his father yet.

If the king was thinking about you now.

A slow smile curved your lips.

Let him be.

---

He’d heard about the spar before he’d even returned to his study.

Not from Legolas — the boy’s pride was too tender for that — but from a passing guard whose tongue ran a touch too loose when speaking to his fellows. A crowd had gathered. You’d gone barefoot into the ring. You’d flattened his son without so much as a blade in hand.

The image lodged in his mind like a thorn.

Not the defeat — Legolas could stand to be unseated — but the idea of you choosing him as your opponent. Touching him. Pressing him down into the dirt until you decided to let him up.

By the time he reached his chambers, the thought had sharpened into something he couldn’t quite name.

It burned in his chest — a slow, choking heat that refused to ease no matter how he tried to reason with it. It had been there since the sparring ring, since he’d heard the reports, since the sight of you walking away from his son with that little smile that wasn’t for him.

It drove him to pacing — long, measured strides across the expanse of his ornate rug, the sound of his boots grinding against the weave as if they could stamp the feeling out. They couldn’t. Every turn only fed it, every breath only stoked it until the thought of not confronting you became unbearable.

He left in a flutter — the kind that wasn’t grace so much as barely contained impatience. His cape followed like a shadow, flaring in his wake as he crossed the halls with a king’s speed, scattering servants who knew better than to meet his gaze.

The door to your personal quarters loomed, but he didn’t slow.

Not for courtesy. Not for propriety.

“You!” His voice cracked like a whip as he swept inside. “What is this spe—”

The words died on his tongue.

Cracked at the edges.

Because there you were — fully in view, fresh from your bath, gleaming like a sin given shape.

And all that righteous demand turned to something far more dangerous in the space between one heartbeat and the next.

Fresh from her bath, framed in the arch of her chamber doorway, she looked like a vision dragged out of some forbidden temple — the kind that demanded both worship and ruin. The lamplight gilded her in shades of gold and shadow, turning the slow shift of her hips into something ceremonial. Skin gleaming like polished granite, still kissed with the last errant droplets tracing slow, sinful paths down the ridge of her spine before disappearing into the thin silk that clung, damp and delicate, to the curve of her hips.

Her hair — gods, her hair — was unbound, streaked now with threads of pale, otherworldly white that slipped like starlight through the deeper darkness. It tumbled down her back in a cascade that dared him to follow each strand to its end with his hands, his mouth, his will.

Then the scent hit him. Steam. Spice. And that other note — the one that had no name in his tongue, older than any courtly perfume, something wild and ungoverned that curled in the back of his throat. He’d carried it away with him the last time she stood close enough to speak into his ear. He had tried to shake it from his memory. Failed.

She didn’t speak.

Didn’t bow.

Didn’t curtsy.

She simply crossed the room, bare feet whispering over the floorboards, each step a slow, deliberate pull in the thread between them. She moved like a creature utterly certain she was being watched — and certain she liked it.

Her eyes flicked up to his, just for a breath. Not enough to be a challenge, not enough to be an invitation — but something balanced on the edge between. Then they slid away again, dismissing him as if she hadn’t just lit his blood.

The knot in his chest pulled tight enough to ache. Jealousy wasn’t the word for it — too small, too human. This was older. A possessive, coiling heat with teeth, whispering in the dark places of his mind. It wasn’t just that she had touched another. It was that she had done it where he could not see. That she had chosen to leave him outside the web while she spun it.

He should have turned away. Should have let her close the door, let her have her secrets, let this game breathe.

Instead, he stepped forward.

Once.

Twice.

The door closed behind him with a soft click, sealing them in. The air between them seemed to shrink with every breath, until it was just heat, and her scent, and the sound of his pulse in his ears.

Now, with the lamplight catching every stray bead of water as it slid from her shoulders, with her hair trailing like a map to the silken scrap guarding the last distance between his hands and her skin… his patience didn’t just fray.

It came undone entirely.

---

It should have been me closing the door.

It should have been me setting the pace.

But then his hand was in my hair — not tugging hard enough to hurt, just enough to make my breath catch and tilt my head back for him. The sound that left him was low, dangerous, and I could feel it reverberate in the space between us before his mouth crashed into mine.

It wasn’t gentle. It wasn’t meant to be.

Teeth. Breath. That sharp taste of him after too many nights left to imagine it.

I answered in kind, curling my fingers into the collar of his robe and dragging him closer until there was nothing between us but heat and the faint rasp of silk on skin. His hands left my hair only to find my breasts, cupping the weight of them like they were his to measure, to claim. Calloused thumbs teased over the curve until they found my piercings, the sudden pull of them sending a bolt of heat straight through me.

This — this was so new to him. I could feel the slight pause in his hands, that moment of registering something unfamiliar. But it didn’t linger long; the king was not a man to be stalled by novelty. His grip only tightened, thumbs circling lazily before dragging over the metal again, drawing a sharper gasp from my throat.

“So different,” he murmured, almost to himself — reverent and wicked in equal measure. His voice dropped, velvet over steel. “Such a decorative little thing you are.”

The words slithered under my skin like silk and poison, stoking something low in my belly. His mouth dipped to catch the sharp line of my jaw, teeth grazing before he sealed his lips there, tasting me. And when he rolled his thumbs over those piercings again, slower this time, it wasn’t just a touch — it was a promise that he would learn every way they made me move beneath him.

He groaned into my mouth — a sound so deep and raw I decided I’d find ways to pull it from him again, and again, until it broke him. The kiss burned hotter for it, his hands flexing in my hair before one slid down, over my jaw, my throat, my shoulder. A steady push followed — firm, unyielding — until my spine met the cool floor and silk pooled uselessly at my hips.

His weight followed, a wall of heat pressing me into the stone. Not crushing, but claiming. His knees bracketed my thighs, spreading them just enough to make my pulse hammer in my ears. Every breath I drew filled with him. Every angle was his.

His mouth ghosted along the curve of my ear, warm breath and the faint scrape of teeth making my back arch despite myself. The press of his knee shifted just so — angled perfectly — and a shiver rolled through me, sharp enough to steal my breath.

Then his teeth found me, a dull nip at the delicate skin just below my ear.

I didn’t gasp.

I didn’t moan.

I squeaked — an undignified, startled sound I had never made for anyone before.

The reaction only encouraged him. I felt him smile against my skin, felt the subtle increase of pressure from his knee until I couldn’t stop the way my hips shifted against it.

“Lay down for me. Now.”

The words were an order, cut with steel, and they should have sparked rebellion in me.

But watching him loosen the ties at his waist, his gaze fixed on me like I was prey already caught in his snare…

I obeyed.

Quickly.

Your hair fanned around you like a spill of shadow and starlight, each strand catching the lamplight as you stretched against the floor. Your legs stayed crossed at the ankle — playful, defiant — even as the king shrugged off his cloak in one smooth motion and tugged at the collar of his tunic until it hung open at his throat.

There was hunger in him now. No courtly reserve. No measured mask.

Just a man who had decided he would have you.

He knelt, slotting his hips between your thighs with a slow inevitability that made your stomach tighten. His fingers worked the ties of his trousers until they hung low enough to free him, and—oh.

You had expected him to be impressive. You had not expected this.

Thick. Heavy. Flushed dark at the tip and already beginning to harden fully in the space between one heartbeat and the next. He twitched once, then sagged forward under his own weight, the velvety length of him coming to rest against your lower belly.

No wonder the king had a son already.

The sight of him like this — the reality of him, unhidden and so close — made your mouth water. Heat pooled low in your belly, and you knew he could see the way your breathing changed. He leaned back just enough to look down between you, and the slow, knowing curl of his mouth made your skin prickle.

One elegant, ringed hand wrapped around himself, guiding his cock to you. The broad head pressed against your slick folds, sliding slowly from your entrance to your clit, parting you just enough to make the wet sound of it fill the air between you.

Then he ground himself between them — slow, deliberate — the thick length of him dragging over every swollen nerve until your back arched without permission.

Your reaction was too telling. Too raw.

A sharp inhale. A twitch of your thighs. The way your lips parted like you might say his name, but didn’t.

It had him curious.

He pulled back, just enough to see all of you again. His free hand slid lower, his thumb parting your slick folds so the firelight could catch the glisten of you.

“So sensitive,” he murmured, his thumb holding you open as his cock head slid slowly over your entrance again.

But then… he stilled.

It wasn’t hesitation. It wasn’t mercy. It was that sharp, narrowing focus he wore in the throne room when someone had dared speak out of turn. His gaze locked on where he touched you — on the way your body yielded beneath his hand, slick and warm, but still… unentered.

The muscles in his jaw flexed.
And then you saw it — the shift. Not triumph, not exactly, but realization.

For all your sharpness, all your teeth and steel, all the danger you carried like perfume… you were untouched.
Unbroken.

His eyes rose to yours slowly, as if confirming it in your expression. You didn’t look away. You let him see you — the faint curve of your mouth not quite a smile, but the closest thing to an invitation he’d had from you yet.

“Well,” you murmured, your voice low and threaded with challenge, “that explains the look.”

The sound he made in response was low and dangerous, not unlike the groan you’d coaxed from him earlier — but this one was heavier. Possessive. It rolled through his chest as his hand tightened, not in cruelty, but in claim.

You felt the weight of it in your pulse.
You felt it in the way he shifted forward, his cock dragging against you again, slower this time, like he was committing the feel of you to memory before he took anything more.

The head pressed in, and the breath left you in a sharp, startled gasp. Your spine arched on instinct, hips chasing him for more, but his hands were already there — iron-strong, bracketing your hips, keeping you exactly where he wanted you.

That grip didn’t waver, didn’t soften. It pinned you as surely as his weight did, and when he eased his hips back, it wasn’t to give you relief — it was to deny you. The pressure lessened just enough to make you feel the absence, to leave the threat of being split open hanging there like a blade just above your skin.

His mouth found you again, lips closing around the dark peak of one nipple, tongue circling once before his teeth grazed lightly — teasing, testing — and the sound that caught in your throat was half warning, half plea.

You didn’t know it yet, but he wasn’t going to take you.
Not yet.
Not like this.

The king wanted to work you up to it — to take that coiled, careful control you always wore like armor and strip it from you piece by piece. He wanted to wind you so tight that when he finally took you, you wouldn’t just yield — you’d break for him.

And gods, he was going to relish it.

There it was again — that slow, punishing pressure as he pushed in just enough to breach, to stretch you around the head of him, before retreating with a slick, obscene sound that made both of you groan.

You could feel him watching you even as his mouth left your breast, his breath hot against your skin. Every shallow thrust forward was deliberate, an unspoken reminder: I could. I’m choosing not to.

The worst part?
You were already trembling for him.

He set the pace with surgical cruelty.
Slow… in.
A pause.
Out, leaving you empty enough to whimper.

Again.
Again.
Never more than a shallow breach — just the hot, maddening stretch of his crown pushing past your lips before dragging away, slick and heavy, to grind along your folds. Every pull back smeared your wetness across the length of him, every glide forward made your body tighten in anticipation only to be denied.

It was unbearable. Deliciously, exquisitely unbearable.

You shifted beneath him, testing the strength of his grip on your hips, but it was like trying to move the roots of an oak. His fingers only dug deeper, holding you still while his eyes roamed your face, catching every flicker of frustration, every twitch of need.

“Look at you,” he murmured, voice low and rich with self-satisfaction. “So eager. So wet for me already… and I’ve barely touched you.”

One hand left your hip, sliding between your thighs, thumb circling lazily over your clit — just enough pressure to make your toes curl, but nowhere near enough to tip you over. His cock kept its maddening rhythm, gliding against you, teasing your entrance without giving in.

Your breath hitched. Your nails bit into the muscle of his shoulders.
He smirked, leaning down to let his lips ghost the edge of your ear.

“Say it,” he breathed. “Say you want me to take you.”

You refused, jaw tightening — but the next thrust was deeper, thicker, making your eyes fly open and your lips part in a soundless gasp before he pulled away again.

The denial was molten in your veins now, pooling hot and heavy low in your belly. Your hips twitched despite yourself, chasing him, and his chuckle rumbled through his chest like distant thunder.

“You’ll beg before I’m finished with you,” he promised. “And when you do… I’ll give you exactly what you’re asking for.”

He dragged himself over your clit, slow enough to make you tremble, then pressed just far enough to make your breath catch — and stopped. Again. Again. Each half-thrust was a blade sharpening your need until it hurt.

By the time his thumb pressed harder against you, circles tightening, you were gasping his name like a confession.

Only then did his smile turn dangerous.
Only then did he sink just a fraction deeper — a promise of what waited when you finally broke.

It broke somewhere between the next thrust and the one after.
That tight, devastating rhythm — the crown of him driving in with just enough force to make your breath catch, only to retreat before you could even think about release — became unbearable.

Your hands shot to his forearms, nails biting through fabric and skin.
“Please,” you gasped, the word spilling out before you could stop it. “I need you—”

The sound he made was nothing short of feral, but it wasn’t surrender.
It was satisfaction.

“I told you you’d beg,” he murmured, his lips brushing the shell of your ear as his hips rolled forward again, rougher now, each thrust snapping your body against the floor. The blunt head of his cock stretched you just enough to keep your toes curling, the drag of him along your slick folds leaving you a wet, shivering mess.

You arched up against him, desperate to take more, but his grip on your hips was iron. Each plunge was measured — controlled — slamming the heat of him against you without ever breaching that last, devastating inch.

It was maddening.
Perfect.
Awful.

Your pleas turned ragged, tumbling out between gasps. “Thranduil—please, I can’t—”

He cut you off with a sharp thrust that made your back bow and your mouth fall open in a choked moan.
“Yes,” he breathed, eyes locked on the way you writhed beneath him. “You can. And you will.”

His pace shifted, the tip of him grinding over your clit with every pass, dragging your slick up the length of him until it gleamed in the low lamplight. You felt him throb against you, the strain in his jaw betraying that his control was as frayed as yours — but still, he didn’t give in.

Then he pulled back entirely.
Your protest was swallowed by the sight of him fisting his cock, dragging it through your wetness before pressing the head back against your mound. His strokes were slow at first, smearing you over himself, then faster, harder, his breathing breaking into low, guttural sounds as his free hand splayed across your belly.

You were trembling under him, every nerve screaming for the final plunge — and then he came.
A hot, sudden flood spattered across your stomach, painting your skin in thick ropes as he groaned through gritted teeth, the hand on your belly flexing as if to hold you still for it.

For a moment, the only sound in the room was the both of you breathing — ragged, uneven, charged.

He didn’t apologize. Didn’t explain.
Just let his hand slide, slow and possessive, up your ribcage before dragging his thumb through the mess he’d left.
“Not yet,” he said, voice low and certain. “When I finally take you… you’ll feel it for days.”

---

Your body was still singing, thrumming in the low hum of overstimulated nerves and denied pleasure. The door had closed behind him long ago, but the echo of his presence lingered like heat in the stone. Every breath felt heavy—sharp with the memory of his weight pressed to yours, the way he’d kept you open with nothing but the thick, unrelenting drag of his cock… and never once given you the relief you begged for.

Your thighs slid against one another, slow and indulgent, savoring the aftershock like a bruise you pressed just to feel again. Slick still clung between your folds, a mess that clung to the silk of your inner thighs, to the sheets beneath you, to the ache that throbbed in your core with the most delicious cruelty.

He hadn’t taken you. Not really.

He’d ruined you with less.

And he knew it.

Gods, you didn’t even know what possessed him. What tipped him from measured distance to that teeth-bared claim. One minute he was marching in like a storm of silk and jealousy, and the next—his mouth was on yours, his hands in your hair, his cock… taunting.

Your fingers curled in the sheets.

Where had that possessive streak come from?

It hadn’t been there before. Not fully. Yes, there were glimmers—his gaze holding too long, his temper flickering when you teased. But this? This was not the king you’d slipped past in court or challenged in passing.

This was someone else entirely.

Was this how surface elves loved? Was this what the gilded restraint of the high fae cracked open into, once the mask slipped? You’d grown up among predators—creatures who used poison and pleasure like twin blades—but this was different. Thranduil didn’t stalk like a beast in the dark.

He devoured like a man who believed he had every right to.

And the most dangerous part?

He hadn’t even fucked you properly.

Your legs shifted again. Heat curled low in your belly. The soreness between your thighs pulsed with each movement, the reminder making you bite down a sigh that sounded dangerously close to a whimper. This wasn’t done. This game between you hadn’t ended with the last thrust of his cock against your belly or the warmth of his release painting your skin.

This was only the beginning.

You smiled, lazy and slow.

So this was how it felt to be wanted.

Not owned, not bartered, not tested or weighed.

Wanted.

He’d have to work harder if he meant to keep up with you.

But oh, you were going to enjoy making him try.

---

Thranduil didn’t look back when he left her chambers.

He didn’t need to.

The door clicked shut behind him with finality — soft, but resolute — sealing in the scent of her skin, the taste of her breath, the sight of her sprawled and trembling in the wake of what they almost did. What he’d nearly surrendered to.

His cloak still lay draped across the low seat beside her bath, half-fallen, half-forgotten in the heat of his need. He could have retrieved it.

He chose not to.

Let her see it when she rose. Let her touch the weight of it, still warm, still steeped in his scent — a mark of claim, subtle as spider thread and twice as binding. He hadn’t taken her fully. Not yet. But she was his now, if only in spirit. That would be enough to carry him through what came next.

His stride through the corridors was smooth, composed. Every guard who bowed as he passed saw only the king — tall, straight-backed, every inch carved in elegance and age-earned authority.

But Legolas… Legolas knew better.

The boy waited at the foot of the eastern stair, posture still too stiff to be casual. Eyes a shade too sharp.

“Your guests are arriving,” the prince said, voice even. “They expected you at the gates.”

Thranduil nodded, not slowing.

“And you greeted them in my place?”

“I did.”

Another nod. Approval, cool and distant.

But Legolas didn’t move aside.

He narrowed his gaze instead — not in challenge, not quite. But in that quietly probing way only a son could afford to risk.

“You’re missing your outer cloak,” Legolas said, like an afterthought. Too light to be genuine. “And… your circlet.”

Thranduil glanced down, then touched his hair. Hm.

“Are you implying I look unfit to receive our esteemed guests?” he murmured.

“Only implying,” Legolas returned. But his eyes flicked to the fine creases at the collar of Thranduil’s tunic — the faint, near-invisible rumple no valet would have allowed. His jaw ticked. “Should I have someone retrieve it for you? Or… shall I send someone to where you left it?”

A beat passed between them. Not ice. Not fire. Just silence that spoke volumes.

Thranduil’s lips curved in a slow, unreadable smile.

“That won’t be necessary.”

Legolas gave the faintest incline of his head. Obedient. Tense.

Good, Thranduil thought. Let him wonder. Let him think. There were worse things than jealousy — like the fool notion that she could be approached without consequence.

He adjusted the collar of his tunic with a practiced flick of his fingers and turned into the great hall where his guests awaited.

Elrond stood with the air of composed grace only Imladris ever seemed to breed — dark-haired and unreadable, his eyes already sweeping the room with soft calculation.

And beside him, half-shadowed by the tall columns framing the entry, stood a stranger.

Not unknown.

Not truly.

Thranduil’s steps slowed the faintest measure as his gaze slid across the man’s face — too elegant for a common emissary, too quiet for a proper lord. He bore the markings of high status without any effort to claim it. His garb was fine, but not ostentatious. His bearing was stillness, distilled.

And his eyes… gold.

Unnatural.

Not Elven, not quite. Not now.

The man bowed his head in greeting — shallow, precise. The name he gave was not one Thranduil recognized.

But something old stirred beneath the skin of the world, just for a moment. A whisper of heat that had nothing to do with fire.

I see you, it seemed to say.

And Thranduil, for all his silence, bowed just a fraction deeper than he needed to — acknowledging something.

The game was changing.

And the spider he’d marked upstairs?

She was tangled in the web already.

Elrond was already watching Thranduil too closely.

There was no accusation in his eyes — there never was — only a quiet parsing of details, the sort that stripped down the layers of diplomacy with surgical precision. He took in the lack of a circlet. The tension around Thranduil’s mouth. The faint rumple in his sleeves.

His brow lifted. Barely.

“Busy morning, my friend?” Elrond offered, voice laced with amusement too dry to be wine-sweet.

Thranduil didn’t answer with words.

Instead, he turned his gaze toward the third figure lingering at the edges of the hearthlight.

This one hadn’t spoken since introductions.

He had no official title, just a letter of recommendation from a long-dead coastal lord whose seal bore marks far older than the envelope itself. No known house. No clear allegiances. And yet, Elrond had not protested his inclusion.

That alone unsettled Thranduil more than the man’s gold-flecked eyes.

He was too still. Too poised. A coil of power hidden under silk and civility. He wore the name Maegor, a name borrowed or repurposed from some ancient lineage, and yet it felt… hollow in his mouth.

Thranduil’s instinct prickled like frost along his collar.

Still, he played the part.

“Welcome,” the Elvenking said smoothly. “Mirkwood is honored by your presence.”

The man — Maegor — inclined his head just enough to signal respect, but not deference.

“The honor is mutual,” he replied, voice a low velvet curl. “I’ve long admired your kingdom from afar.”

Too far, Thranduil thought. Or too long.

Elrond cleared his throat lightly.

“I believe our hostess will arrive shortly. Prince Legolas sent word she would be joining us for the evening.”

Maegor’s expression didn’t shift. But Thranduil noted the way his fingers lightly tapped the edge of the wineglass he had yet to drink from.

Watching. Waiting.

And then—she entered.

Not announced. Not escorted.

She didn’t need either.

The chamber changed around her like a forest bowing under sudden snow.

Wine-red silk poured down her frame in a gown carved to her like blood and breath — so dark it nearly blended into shadow, save for where the candlelight caught the silver threadwork at her hems. Fine webs glimmered as she walked, threading up from her ankles like whispered danger, just visible when the fabric shifted with her stride.

The back of the dress dipped scandalously low, the open curve of her spine ornamented only with a line of silver and black pearls — a delicate leash that ended in a ruby-jeweled spider nestled between her shoulder blades.

Even her earrings gleamed with tiny legs and fangs — ornamental arachnids that swung gently when she turned her head, catching torchlight like blades.

And her hair—

It was piled high in a messy crown of twisted dark strands streaked with white, the pale threads no longer hidden. No longer disguised. Pearls laced through the bun, spilling like starlight into the few coils left to tumble along her jaw and shoulders.

Even her legs — visible when the gown swayed — ended in delicate spiderweb anklets, each chain hooking around her middle toes like some sacred rite of her House.

She didn’t smile.

She didn’t need to.

This was her declaration.

A daughter of darkness. A creature of power. Unashamed.

Thranduil’s breath caught — just for a moment — and when he turned slightly, he saw Elrond’s jaw had gone still, eyes narrowed in silent calculation.

But it was Maegor — Sauron, in truth — whose lips parted in something like wonder.

Not lust. Not yet.

Recognition.

Power calls to power, and in her he saw something ancient made flesh — a bloodline shaped in the deep, dark places of the world where the stars did not shine. Not corrupted. Not twisted.

Chosen.

Thranduil stepped forward, barely a pace, and offered his hand.

“Ambrose Veylthra,” he said, voice steady but low. “May I present our guests.”

She paused. The light clung to her like silk.

And then she stepped forward to take his hand — every line of her radiant with poise and predation.

“I do hope,” she said, purring like a spider just before the strike, “I haven’t kept you waiting long.”

“Grey,” Elrond murmured, more to himself than anyone else. “I’ve never seen a grey elf.”

Ambrose tilted her head, the gleam of her spider-kissed earrings catching the firelight like fangs bared in amusement.

“I’m not,” she said smoothly. “An elf.”

He blinked once. Slowly. Something in her tone wasn’t correction—it was invitation. An opening in the web, if one dared test it.

“I don’t think I’ve seen any creature quite like you,” Elrond added, stepping closer. The silk of his robes rustled as he moved, elegant as ever, but with a subtle, focused intent. A scholar now. A healer. A blade behind the eyes, honed by millennia.

She didn’t retreat.

Instead, she extended one hand toward him—fingers graceful and outstretched, her blackened nails catching the light as they shimmered faintly, iridescent against the grey-violet hue of her skin. A quiet jingle followed as her rings shifted, the jewelry on her wrist chiming like tiny bells made for warning, not beauty.

Wicked little things, Thranduil thought, eyes narrowing from where he stood. Of course she would let him touch her first. Of course.

Elrond hesitated.

Then, unable to resist, he took her hand gently, palm up, and brushed his thumb across her skin.

A visible shimmer bloomed under his touch—not pigment, but something more primal. Her spores.

They danced where his finger passed, stirring in invisible currents, a shimmer like light caught in oil. Not disturbed—responding.

Thranduil stepped forward half a pace, unthinking.

Elrond didn’t notice. He was too entranced, eyebrows drawing together as he tried to process the sensation, the warmth beneath her skin, the impossibility of it.

“Fascinating,” he murmured, his voice dipped into awe. “They respond to touch.”

“I respond to touch,” she replied, voice sultry, a flicker of teeth behind her smile. “Though not always kindly.”

Thranduil’s jaw flexed. He did not interrupt. Not yet.

But Maegor’s eyes flicked between them—between the black gleam of her nails and the subtle ripple of tension in the air around her. And when Elrond finally released her hand, Thranduil’s voice cut in like a blade between ribs.

“She is not to be studied,” he said, quiet and cold.

Elrond turned to him, surprise flickering behind his composed features. “I meant no offense. She is simply—”

“Mine.” The word slipped out before Thranduil could catch it. A single syllable, heavy with implication.

Ambrose’s brows arched in surprise—but she said nothing.

Instead, she simply shifted her weight, stepped beside him, and stayed there.

Not in submission. Not in agreement.

In possession.

She had drawn them in. And she kept him now, not the other way around.

Across the room, Maegor watched them all.

And smiled—thin, knowing, and quiet.

Not for the tension.

But for the fact that he, too, had seen what stirred beneath her skin.

Notes:

I'm innocent, I swear!

Chapter 9: Chapter Nine- The Web Between Thrones

Summary:

Ambrose finally breaks her silence at Thranduil’s court, revealing the shadowed origins of her people, the Drow, and her devotion to the goddess Lolth. Her power—ancient, alien, unflinching—shakes the foundation of the elven gathering. Tensions rise as old alliances are tested and new ones begin to smolder. Thranduil’s control fractures. Elrond watches. Maegor plots. And Ambrose? She smiles, drinks deep, and spins a web none of them are ready for.

The wine in Mirkwood was always rich—honeyed, golden, deceptively smooth. But tonight, it tasted darker. Heavier. As though it had absorbed something from her presence. She sat at Thranduil’s right, posture loose but unyielding. Her goblet balanced between two fingers, the stem barely kissed by her grip. 

Her gown shimmered like old blood, deep and decadent, its open back and jeweled spider-chain inviting a dozen unspoken questions. The silver-threaded webs at her hem only revealed themselves when the gown shifted in candlelight, fine as breath and twice as dangerous. Pearls traced her spine. A ruby spider nestled at the base of her back, glinting like a warning. Her earrings—more spiders—glinted faintly as she tilted her head to better listen. 

She had dressed not as a guest of the court, but as a message from another world.' And until now, she had offered no answers. 

The others had danced around her origins all evening. 

Thranduil had deflected with grace sharpened by centuries. Elrond had watched with quiet calculation, ancient intelligence flickering behind his gaze. 

Maegor—if that was even his true name—had loitered at the edge of the hall, shadows moving strangely at his heels. 

But now, as her second glass was poured, Ambrose finally set her cup down. “I suppose it’s time I explain,” she said, the words smooth as silk spun on fangs. “You’ve all been so polite about not asking directly. That can’t have been easy.” A brief smirk followed. One of challenge. Of play. 

Thranduil’s fingers tensed around his goblet, but he said nothing. 

Elrond inclined his head, tone carefully neutral. “We’re curious. But not unkind.” Her eyes glimmered with amusement. 

“How noble of you.” Then, with a measured inhale, she began. 

“We were elves, once,” she said, swirling the wine in her cup. 

“Long before your realms took shape. Before your trees were tall enough to shade the earth.” The room stilled. “Not like you,” she went on. “Not so… tame. Our ancestors were ambitious. Brilliant. Hungry in ways the surface could not satisfy. They descended into the world below to find freedom—to carve their own dominion. They were not driven out. They chose exile.” 

She let the silence stretch, sipping slowly. “In the dark, we learned a new language. Not just of words, but of survival. Power is different when no one is watching. Laws are different when light can’t reach you. We adapted. Shed the weakness of civility. Learned to kill quickly and speak carefully. And in time, we were no longer elves.” 

Her voice lowered—almost intimate. “We became Drow.” 

The tension in the room deepened. Legolas glanced toward his father, his hand tightening subtly on his goblet. 

Elrond looked… pained. Like some deep instinct stirred and did not like what it found. “There are whispers in the oldest texts,” Elrond said, voice quiet. 

“Of a schism. A fracture in the Elven soul.” 

“You still think of it as a fall,” she said with a laugh too soft to be kind. “That’s what I’ve always found amusing. You believe descent is corruption. But down there?” She tapped the base of her goblet on the table, once, gently. “Descent is liberation.” 

Thranduil watched her like a man haunted by beauty. There was no fear in his expression, no disdain—but something flickered behind the surface. Something primal. Something drawn. 

“And the goddess?” Elrond asked cautiously. Ambrose’s lips curved. Not in mockery. Not quite fondness either. It was the kind of smile worn by someone remembering an old lover — one whose touch still lingered beneath the skin, long after the bruises had faded. 

“Ah,” she said softly, almost reverently, 

“you mean Lolth.” The name landed like a blade against silk. 

Even Maegor — silent and unreadable until now — straightened at the sound of it. 

His expression didn’t change, but the way his fingers tightened around his goblet spoke volumes. Ancient names had weight. This one carried chains. 

Elrond’s brow creased. “So she is real.” 

Ambrose turned her head, that spider-chain along her spine catching the candlelight. “Real enough to remake you. Real enough to take everything soft and sacred and burn it away until only strength remains.” There was no bitterness in her voice. Only memory. Power. A dark pride that did not seek approval. 

“She does not coddle,” she continued, gaze far away now. “She does not ask. Lolth is not a goddess of songs or harvest. She is the web, and the hunger behind it. She devours the unworthy — and calls it love.” Then she smiled again, this time with her eyes locked on Elrond’s. 

“She taught us how to survive. And we listened well.” 

“Lolth… was it you who cast her aside into this strange world?” The question wasn’t spoken aloud, but it was there — naked in the pause between goblets. 

Unfolding in the glint of candlelight reflected in Elrond’s thoughtful gaze. In the weight of Thranduil’s silence beside her. “I don’t mean to pry,” Elrond said gently, his voice carefully neutral, “but… how did you come to be here?” 

Ambrose hummed, lips pursed as if weighing the value of truth. 

“Ah,” she drawled, swirling the dark wine in her cup before tipping her head toward him. “Can I really part with that information so easily?” 

The smirk that followed was positively wicked. She sighed dramatically and glanced down at her glass, watching the liquid catch the flicker of the torches — garnet and gold bleeding through one another like memory and blood. 

“One more drink,” she said at last, raising her goblet high with theatrical flair, “and I’ll do it.” 

Thranduil raised a brow, his lips twitching with something dangerously close to amusement. 

Elrond chuckled under his breath. “A fair trade.” 

Maegor merely gestured to a nearby attendant, who moved swiftly to refill her glass with reverent hands — as though the wine itself were a sacrament. 

Ambrose leaned back in her chair, the silver strands of her gown catching the torchlight like spiderwebs spun from stars. She took one long sip — slow enough to make the king’s jaw tense — then set the goblet down with a delicate clink. 

“I fell,” she said simply. The table stilled. 

“Not from grace,” she clarified, “not like your stories tell it. I fell… through.” Her eyes glittered, voice lowering until they had to lean in to hear it. “Through stone. Through magic. Through the cracks between worlds that your scholars pretend don’t exist.” Her fingers traced the stem of the glass idly, as though recounting a recipe rather than her own unmaking.

 “There was a fight,” she murmured. “A betrayal. A spell gone beautifully wrong.” She smiled — a smile that didn’t reach her eyes. “And when I woke, I was here. The air was wrong. The trees whispered in a tongue I didn’t know. And not a single spider sang back when I called.”

 A pause. A breath. 

“Do you know what it feels like to be severed from your god?” she asked softly, though the question wasn’t for any of them in particular. “To have your power sing through you — but no voice above to answer? No web to catch you?” The silence that followed was thick enough to cut.
“I should have gone mad,” she said, almost cheerfully. “Maybe I did.” 

Then she smiled again, tilting her head toward the king, her tone returning to velvet and amusement.
“But I’m quite good at surviving, aren’t I?”
“The Weave,” she said after a beat, as if the thought had wandered in on its own, “is very different down there.” Ambrose sat back, her gaze sliding toward the torchlit air above them — not dreamily, but like someone measuring invisible thread. 

“Up here, it’s like mist. You breathe it in without thinking. It clings to everything — light, leaves, even your wine. Gentle. Soft. Almost forgiving.” Her black-nailed fingers tapped the side of her goblet once. “But in the Underdark? Magic is tension. It’s a wire drawn taut, strung between two blades. It sings when you pluck it. The Weave there is alive — humming, pulsing, always hungry. You don’t use it. You strike bargains with it.” 

Thranduil’s knuckles whitened on his goblet, but he said nothing. 

Elrond’s brow furrowed with curiosity. Maegor leaned forward slightly, lips parted. “And you can feel it now?” Elrond asked.

 Ambrose’s smile turned knowing. “Always. Though here, it’s… quiet.”
Then — without rising, without flinching — she extended her hand over the center of the table, palm facing downward. Her fingers flexed, and the air changed. No chant. No flourish. Just a hum — so low it was almost inaudible, a whisper of vibration deep in the bones. The torches flickered once, and the goblets on the table vibrated in place with a faint ting.
And then, from the center of her palm, a silken thread began to unspool — fine and silver, like starlight spun into a single strand. It hovered in the air, curling like a living thing, winding upward before hardening into a delicate, web-like shape suspended in nothing.

 A spider formed next — impossibly tiny — its legs folding together as it settled into the web she had conjured. Not real. Not quite illusion. Something between.
The light caught it just right. Its body shimmered with faint echoes of the ruby on her spine.

 Elrond exhaled softly. “That’s… incredible.”

“A trifle,” she said, closing her fingers. The spell unraveled — not with a flash, but like a memory dissolving.
“Something to pass the time.” 

The wine in Thranduil’s cup rippled once more. He hadn’t looked away from her. But it was Maegor — still cloaked in shadow — who blinked, slowly, and truly saw her. 

That had not been Elven magic. That was something older. Wilder. And she had conjured it like it was nothing.
A flicker of gold caught the edge of his vision — not light, not fire. Just a glint. His fingers tightened around the stem of his cup. Interesting, he thought. 

Very interesting. 

She tipped back her goblet, and the wine caught the light like blood. Not red — deeper than that. Old. Like it had remembered every throat it passed down through the ages and added their secrets to its flavor. He watched her drink. Watched the curve of her throat move. Watched the way her lips parted as she sighed — satisfied, amused, unbothered.

 She thrived under attention, but not for the reason most did. It wasn’t vanity. 

It was control. 

Even now, with her hair coiled high and jeweled, her shoulders gleaming in the firelight, her ankles webbed in silver — she wasn’t performing.
No, this was ritual.
This was declaration.
He had seen many things take shape over the ages. But her? 

She was becoming. 

Magic like hers was never learned. Not truly. 

It wasn’t taught in scrolls or refined through years of mentorship under robes and candles. It was inherited. Twisted. Bled into the bones by gods who demanded teeth and obedience. 

And yet… she smiled like she’d won something they hadn’t realized was a game. Her laughter — loose now, tinged with tipsy warmth — did not make her less dangerous.

It made her more.

He knew a weapon when he saw one.

But he didn’t yet know who forged her.

Or if she was forging herself into something more.

So Maegor—no, Annatar—leaned forward slightly, sipping his wine.

Yes.

He would stay for the ball.

And if the king wasn’t careful...

He might not be the only one caught in her web.

---

Elrond should have felt at ease.

The wine was fine. The music soft. The company storied, if not serene.

And yet the air around her pulsed with a subtle dissonance. Like walking too close to an ancient ruin and realizing it might be awake.

Ambrose was a guest. A diplomat. A mystery.

But the weight she carried—that strange quiet tension—spoke of deeper things. Older things. She didn’t simply speak of the Underdark. She embodied it.

Elrond recognized trauma behind her elegance. Pride forged in hardship. Grace tempered by necessity.

She wasn’t like Thranduil’s kin. Nor Galadriel’s. Nor his.

She came from another branch of their broken lineage—cut by choice, not by fate.

And now she laughed.

Teasing Maegor about silver threading. Wine in hand. Smile lazy. Fingers gesturing as though even they knew they held power.

Magnetic.

Elrond found himself wondering: how much of her presence was design, and how much was simply truth?

He glanced toward Thranduil.

The king was too quiet. Which, for him, was louder than words.

Ambrose reached for another pour, earrings swinging as she turned to Legolas next.

Getting to know them indeed.

Elrond sipped his wine.

This is going to be a very long season.

He should have been immune to this.

He had survived centuries. Outlived kings and lovers. Tasted every shade of beauty. And forgotten most.

But not her.

Not tonight.

Not when she laughed at something Maegor said, lips curling around his false name like it belonged to her. Not when she moved with the ease of a woman who had already claimed a place and dared the world to say otherwise.

Elrond looked at Thranduil again. Saw the twitch of tension. The silent fury.

And he knew.

This wasn’t just desire.

This was undoing.

She hadn’t even tried to claim attention.

And yet all of it bent toward her like gravity.

Elrond set his cup down with care.

He had a feeling that the game had already begun.

And Ambrose? She was playing to win.

---

Thranduil didn’t remember rising from his seat—only the burn in his spine as he saw her lean into his son.

Her fingers rested at Legolas’s side with careless intimacy. Her laughter floated like it had never once whispered in his ear. And the ruby spider at her back caught the light just enough to make him think of her skin beneath his hands.

He moved. Not rushed. Not loud. But the room noticed.

The shift in power. The change in temperature.

“Prince,” Thranduil said, voice cool, deliberate.

Legolas straightened too fast. “Father—”

“And my lady,” Thranduil added, gaze landing on her.

She still hadn’t looked at him.

“You’ve certainly made yourself at home.”

Finally, she turned. That damnable smile already rising.

“Oh, hello, my dear king—”

My king.

The words sliced through him. Not in pain. In possession.

He reached out, slow and sure, and took the goblet from her hand before she could lift it again.

His other hand found her waist.

Her lips parted. Not in protest. In invitation.

They didn’t speak as he led her from the room, the weight of stares clinging to their backs. Music softened behind them, swallowed by the stone corridor.

Only once they were alone did he stop.

“Have you any idea,” he said, voice like gravel over silk, “what you look like when you say things like that in front of them?”

She tilted her head, feigning innocence.

“Beautiful?”

“Dangerous.”

“You didn’t deny the first part.”

He stepped closer. She didn’t back away.

“You’re not mine,” he said low, “not yet. But don’t let them think otherwise before you decide.”

She smirked. “Then perhaps you shouldn’t follow me into dark halls like a jealous lover.”

His hand flexed at her side. “Perhaps I should mark what’s already halfway mine.”

She leaned in. “Then do it.”

And when their lips met, it wasn’t soft.

It was war.

The kiss had heat. Friction. Years of restraint burned down to nothing. Her fingers fisted in the front of his tunic, dragging him close. His hand slid to the small of her back, pulling her against him like he meant to brand the moment into memory.

She gasped against his mouth, wine-slick and breathless. He swallowed the sound.

Then she laughed—quietly, into his kiss—and it nearly undid him.

He broke the kiss first. Just barely. Breathing heavy. Eyes locked on hers.

She looked up, flushed and unrepentant.

“You’re still angry,” she whispered, teasing.

“I am furious,” he growled.

“Mm. Good.”

He exhaled, steadying himself with a hand braced on the wall beside her. “You don’t get to toy with Legolas. Not like that. Not here. Not when you know what it does to me.”

“I didn’t do anything,” she said, all innocence. “He offered me wine. I laughed. I listened.”

“You touched him.”

She leaned in, voice low and wicked. “Would it make you feel better if I touched you instead?”

He snarled under his breath.

Without another word, he swept her up into his arms. She yelped, laughing as her legs curled slightly, caught off-guard.

“Thranduil—!”

“Enough games.”

He carried her through the halls, swift and sure, his jaw set like stone.

She curled into him, warm and weightless. Her head rested against his shoulder, her breath teasing his collarbone. Her fingers traced the edge of his collar lazily, as though she were trying to memorize the shape of him.

“You could’ve at least let me pretend I had some dignity,” she murmured, her words slurred just enough to betray the wine still humming in her blood. Thranduil chuckled lowly, the sound a quiet thread of heat in the dark.

 “I think you surrendered that with your second cup, little spider.” She huffed as he set her carefully on the edge of the bed — more silk, more softness — a stark contrast to the bare tension coiled in his shoulders. He should’ve walked away. But she was looking up at him now with wine-glossed lips, hair tousled and gleaming, the jewels on her skin catching the lamplight like constellations. 

She looked… unearthly. Unarmed.

 And somehow, all the more dangerous for it. 

His fingers moved before he could stop them — starting with the necklace draped down her spine. He unhooked it carefully, letting the jeweled spider fall into his palm before placing it on the nightstand. Then came the earrings. Tiny silver spiders kissed the tips of his fingers as he plucked them from her ears, her breath catching when his knuckles brushed her jaw.

She said nothing.

Did nothing.

Just watched him with those smoldering eyes — heat and invitation and something softer, sleepier, curling in the depths. 

Thranduil reached for the clasps of her gown. 

“I’m only making you comfortable,” he murmured, mostly to himself. The fabric fell like water, baring one shoulder, then the other. 

“Comfortable,” he said again, even as his hands ghosted down the curve of her waist, the swell of her hip. Her body arched into it — not lewdly, not intentionally. Just instinct. 

Trust. A creature letting itself be undressed by something it did not fear. 

That nearly broke him. He unfastened the anklets next — thin silver webs that looped around her delicate toes. Then the last of her silks slipped away, leaving only skin and shadow. He covered her with the softest sheet he could find. Brushed a strand of silver-dark hair from her cheek. 

Her voice was a whisper. “You’re not staying?” 

He leaned down, brushing a kiss — featherlight — to her temple. “Not tonight.” 

“But soon?” she asked, half-asleep already. 

He smiled against her skin. “Soon.” Then he turned, stepped into the dark, and closed the door behind him.

Unseen in the shadows beyond the corridor, another pair of eyes lingered.

And jealousy curled in the dark like smoke.

Maegor watched them.

He had followed the shift in energy through the corridor like a bloodhound. Not through sound—there had been none—but through instinct. Through that subtle tension in the Weave when something important begins to change shape.

And what he saw?

It confirmed everything.

Thranduil carried her like a man reclaiming something stolen. Like a king who’d finally been forced to admit he could bleed.

Ambrose… let him.

That alone said everything.

She was a queen in her own right, born of shadow and silk and old magic. And yet she allowed herself to be carried—just once—by a man who had earned neither her trust nor her surrender.

It intrigued him.

More than that, it challenged him.

She should have seen him watching. Should have sensed him. But she hadn’t. Not tonight.

Because her attention had been elsewhere.

Maegor turned from the corridor, steps soundless as they carried him into deeper shadow.

He had no intention of playing second to Thranduil.

And she?

She had already seen through his disguise.

The next move would have to be his.

Not a confrontation.

A seduction of a different kind.

He would draw her curiosity.

Then her mind.

Then, if he was lucky, her allegiance.

Or—if she was as dangerous as he suspected—he would end up caught in her web like the rest.

Either way, the game had changed.

And he was done playing nice.

Notes:

There are eyes in the darknes little spider-

Chapter 10: Chapter Ten- What the Spiders Know

Summary:

Ambrose wakes with more than a hangover—she wakes with a kingdom shifting beneath her fingertips. As she reclaims her presence in court, a visit to Thranduil turns into a dangerous dance, and a quiet tea with Elrond becomes a political seduction. But someone else is watching. The web is spinning tighter, and every thread hums with tension.

When you awoke, the first thing you noticed was the sunlight — warm, golden, offensive . Mirkwood had a way of letting the day in whether you asked for it or not, and the way it spilled across your bed made your temples throb.

You groaned, arm flung across your face as birds chirped far too enthusiastically outside the open windows. The forest was alive and bright and unbothered by your hangover.

Bastards.

You shifted beneath the covers, and the second thing you noticed was that you were bare. Skin kissed only by sheets and the lingering ghost of perfume. Your hair — undone. Your jewelry — gone. The gown you’d worn last night had been laid across the chair near your vanity, every clasp unfastened with careful precision. No rush. No greed.

Just… reverence.

He had done this.

Handled you. Undressed you. Tucked you in as though the act itself meant something.

A lesser man would’ve taken advantage of the moment. But Thranduil? He’d only claimed the right to be the last thing on your skin before sleep — as if your body were a kingdom he intended to conquer, but not without ceremony.

The memory curled warm in your stomach like wine.

Still, the ball was only days away, and appearances needed tending. You swung your legs over the edge of the bed, bare toes pressing to the cool stone as the morning air ghosted across your skin. For a heartbeat, you considered staying there — letting them stew in your absence, whispering and wondering where the king’s little spider had gone.

But no.

The web did not weave itself.

You rose slowly, joints crackling in protest, and made your way to the vanity. Your reflection met you with a kind of amused defiance: cheeks flushed, eyes bright, lips still a little swollen from too much wine and too many secrets.

You gathered your hair into your hands, fingers weaving through the pale and dark strands. The white streaks were more stubborn now — harder to hide, harder to ignore. So you didn’t.

Let them whisper.

Let them wonder .

Your hair was drawn high, pleated back with precision and power, not a single strand left to mar the line of your cheekbones. Along your widow’s peak, small navy gems caught the light like stars above a black sea. Silver chains, delicate and web-like, wrapped down the braid, which fell nearly to the upper backs of your thighs — tied off in a jeweled spider whose legs curled around the braid like it was silk spun just for it.

From a lacquered box, you drew a vial of deep violet liquid — a Drow tincture, half perfume, half ward. Distilled from cave blossoms that only bloomed once every decade, it was rare, bitter, beautiful. You dabbed it at the hollow of your throat, behind your knees, the curve of your hip.

The scent struck like danger first. Then softened into something sultry. Smoky. Yours.

Finally, you traced a sigil against your sternum with two fingers — an old Underdark instinct. Not a prayer. A promise .

The gown came last — It layered over your body like shadow made silk, cinched high at the waist and flaring down the hips in perfectly pleated folds that whispered with every step. Its shoulders were shaped with deliberate strength, but the back?

The back was bare .

A field of smooth skin framed by silver-threaded necklaces that mimicked spiderwebs across your spine — one of which featured a line of black pearls ending in that same ruby spider nestled just above the base of your back.

For once you bore heeled boots with metal tinned heels that clattered as you walked.
You stared at yourself in the mirror a moment longer.

This was not the woman who’d woken hungover in tangled sheets.

This was a Drow matron dressed for court, for conquest, for quiet war. And if the king caught sight of you in this?

Let him stew .

Let him remember every inch of you that had trembled under his hands the night before.

Let him wonder how many others you would smile for.

You turned from the mirror, fingers brushing along the outer pleats of your gown, when you caught it — the faintest shimmer of silk glinting in the high corner of the room.

A spider's web.

Perfect. Circular. Intricately spun.

It hadn’t been there the night before.

Another threadline pulsed along the far wall, near the ventilation slit, catching morning light like a drawn rune. Your eyes tracked the spiral—familiar, you realized. One of your sigils. Loosely. Faintly. But unmistakable.

You didn’t disturb it.

Outside, beyond the stone ledge, more shimmered between branches. Small, delicate constructs woven in shapes far more elegant than the forest’s natural chaos. Some of the palace spiders had changed their designs lately, their placements. Not loud. Not alarming. Just… organized.

The servants likely hadn’t noticed yet. But the guards? The patrols? They were whispering, no doubt. Wondering why the spiders no longer recoiled from light. Why they moved slower now. Why they watched.

They didn’t obey you.

Not directly.

They simply… listened .

And in listening, they built.

You turned from the web with the smallest smile — not malicious, not even pleased. Just knowing. Let the forest wonder. Let the king stew.

You had a ball to prepare for. And the world?
The world was beginning to turn in your direction.

---

The sound of her heels struck first.

A sharp, metallic clatter against the polished stone that echoed down the corridor outside his study — deliberate, commanding. Even Legolas turned back from the door, drawn by the noise. His smile was small, involuntary.

She always had a way of arriving just as things threatened to become too quiet.

Ambrose returned his son’s smile with a brush of her shoulder as she passed — not firm, not obvious, but enough to catch. Just enough silk, just enough perfume. She moved like a secret made flesh.

Then she was inside.

The doors shut quietly behind her as she entered the king’s study, posture straight and hands folded with delicate precision. The early light streamed in behind her, casting soft shadows that fanned across the outer pleats of her gown — whispering fabric that moved like something alive.

Heels clicked once more as she stepped forward. Not dainty, not shy. These were high, heeled boots with metal-tinned ends — a sound made to be heard.

And he did hear it.

The sight of her — gods, it was something. Her hair was no longer hidden. Carefully pleated and coiled high on her head, it gleamed with streaks of pale Drow-white among the darker locks, framed by navy gems that sat like stars at her widow’s peak. Silver chains mimicking spiderwebs ran along the braid, ending at the upper thigh where a jeweled spider clasped the length shut. The contrast between the darkness of her hair and the glimmer of silver felt ancient. Unapologetic.

Her back was bare — smooth, cool-toned skin framed by spiderweb-threaded necklaces that glimmered like spun moonlight across her spine. One strand in particular trailed black pearls in a deliberate descent, ending in a ruby spider nestled just above the swell of her backside.

Everything about her was calculated.

She didn’t speak at first. Let the silence grow. Let it stretch taut across his study like a web, until every breath in the room pulled tight against it.

And then—

"I'm thinking about having my morning tea with Lord Elrond,” she said, as if the words hadn’t been sharpened beforehand. “I know you're busy, but… I wanted to see if you'd like anything brought back?"

It was the kind of line that sounded polite.

Until you tasted the afterburn.

She said “Elrond” like a knife pressed against the inner thigh of his control. Her expression? Poised. Her tone? Silken. Her body? Still lined with the memory of how it had trembled under his touch the night before.

His fingers curled faintly where they rested against the carved edge of the desk.

She was baiting him again.

And the worst part?

He loved it.

She shifted weight from one heel to the other. The motion fanned the pleats of her gown ever so slightly, revealing the hint of fine silver embroidery near the hem — a spiderweb motif so subtle it could have been missed by anyone not looking. But Thranduil was looking. He always was, when it came to her.

She wasn’t hiding anymore. Not the white in her hair. Not the sharpness in her smile. Not the threat behind her beauty.

Not the web she was weaving through his court.

And standing there — as she waited, silent, so poised and calm and composed…

He felt it again, that slow, burning hunger curling in the hollow of his chest.

She wanted him to burn for her.

And burn, he would.

But not here.

Not yet.

Not when she leaned in.

Not when her silhouette cut through the morning light like a blade wrapped in silk.

Not when her hands — his jewels glittering on her fingers from the night before — pressed delicately against the carved surface of his desk. One tilt of her body forward and the soft clatter of her metal-tinned heels echoed again, this time like punctuation.

And then—
Her lips pressed to his.

Soft.
Controlled.
Calculated.

It would’ve been tender, almost, if it hadn’t been laced with that familiar taste of danger. That edge of unspoken promise. Of warning.

Her fingertips just barely grazed the underside of his chin, lifting it with mock affection before falling away again — a gesture that danced at the edge of dominance.

Poison.

That’s what she was.
And he was growing addicted to the burn.

She pulled back only enough to let her breath linger between them, eyes half-lidded, a smile curling slowly into place like a secret.

“No answer, kingy?”

The nickname hit like a lash veiled in lace.
Too casual. Too knowing.
And he hated how much he wanted to hear it again.

His mouth parted, but the words refused to surface — caught somewhere between fury, arousal, and the sharp thrill of her audacity. She could taste it, too — that hesitation, that thrum of tension pulsing in his throat where her touch had just been.

She’d stolen the upper hand. Again.

And what’s worse: he’d let her.
She didn’t wait for his answer.

Didn’t need it.

Ambrose offered him one last look — not over her shoulder like some bashful court flower, but full in the face, chin tilted just enough to dare him to follow. The faintest smile curved at the corner of her lips, knowing, regal, dangerous.

Then she turned, heels clicking with finality against the polished stone as she made her exit, gown trailing like the tail of a comet freshly loosed from orbit.

The door shut behind her with a sound softer than it should’ve been.
But gods, the silence left in her wake?

It roared.

Thranduil’s hands had tightened on the arms of his chair. The carved wood creaked beneath his grip.

He didn’t move.

Didn’t chase.

He simply stared at the closed door — and burned .

By contrast, the air around Elrond was calm.Warm golden light filtered through gauzy drapes that billowed with the occasional breeze. The High Lord’s private solarium was a space of stillness and thought, filled with herbs, scrolls, and quiet fountains that trickled in soft, soothing tones.

Ambrose’s entrance broke none of that.

She fit into the space like poured wine into crystal.

“Elrond,” she greeted smoothly, inclining her head just enough to be respectful without bowing. “I hope I’m not intruding.”

“You are not,” he said without hesitation, gesturing to the small seating area already arranged for two. “In fact, I was hoping I might get a moment with you outside the noise of court.”

“How fortunate,” she purred, settling gracefully across from him.

Tea was already steeping — a rich, herbal blend laced with dried citrus and rosemary. Ambrose inhaled lightly, nodding once in approval.

“You make a very good host,” she said, watching him pour.

“I try.”

“And now you want something.”

Elrond chuckled softly, not denying it. “Only understanding.”

“Oh?”

“You’ve been… generous in your honesty. But I suspect that’s only part of the story.” He handed her a cup. “I’ve seen many strange magics in my time, but yours feels… older. Not unnatural. But unfamiliar.”

The eastern balcony was quieter than the rest of Mirkwood that morning, the hum of preparations for the spring ball dulled to a distant murmur. Here, the light was softened by carved latticework, breaking into ribbons over the low stone table where two cups steamed.

Ambrose sat across from Elrond, gown pooling like poured shadow around her legs, its outer pleats shifting as the breeze threaded through them. The silver-threaded webs at her back glimmered in the softened light. The scent of her violet tincture clung to the air, undercutting the tea’s own fragrant steam.

Elrond regarded her the way a man might study a map of unfamiliar territory — careful, patient, unwilling to miss a single contour.
“You carry yourself as one long acquainted with court,” he said at last. “But your… mannerisms are not of any court I’ve known.”

Her lips curved faintly. “That’s because your courts live under the sun.”

He inclined his head, amused despite himself. “And yours?”

“My courts,” she said, cradling her cup between both hands, “live in the dark. There, power is not assumed by birth alone. Trust is a rarer coin, and light is not something you follow — it’s something you keep for yourself. We learned long ago that the only law worth following is the one you can enforce with your own hands.”

“And yet,” Elrond said, leaning forward slightly, “you work magic.”

“I am magic,” she corrected softly.

It drew the smallest pause from him. She reached toward the air between them, her movements languid — deliberate — as though plucking at something unseen. A shimmer appeared in her palm, gossamer-thin and web-like, bending the light before folding into a small, perfect spider. It stepped from her skin, crossed halfway to Elrond’s cup, and dissolved like dew in the sun.

From the far end of the balcony, Maegor — silent, unreadable — stilled in the shadow of one carved pillar. He had seen magic twisted in every shade of cruelty and brilliance, but the feel of this was different. Older. Familiar in a way he could not name, like catching the echo of a voice long gone. The Weave had rippled when she shaped it, brushing him as though to see if he still remembered.

Elrond’s voice brought the moment back into focus. “That is not the Art as we know it.”

“It’s older,” she said, tilting her head. “Not learned from books. Born in the blood. I am not a scholar, Lord Elrond — I am a conduit. The Weave moves through me not because I demand it, but because I am of it.”

He studied her in silence, and it was not the stillness of politics. It was the stillness of recognition — the unsettling sensation that he was sitting with an old friend he had never met before.

She leaned in across the table, letting the outer pleats of her gown whisper against the stone, and rested her fingertips lightly against the back of his hand. The touch was unhurried, warm, laced with quiet amusement.

“You ask good questions,” she said, smiling like she’d just let him in on a secret. “Careful, or I might answer one too directly.”

Elrond chuckled — a genuine sound, not the measured one he wore for council halls. The moment was deceptively intimate, as though they were sharing wine at the end of a long campaign, not sitting in the heart of another king’s stronghold.

From the shadows, Maegor did not move. Did not speak. But in his silence, the truth was clear — he was not just watching her now. He was marking her.

And Ambrose?

She sipped her tea as though she hadn’t just sewn herself deeper into the court — into its politics, into its whispers, into the quiet hearts of men who should have known better.
Elrond’s fingers shifted under hers, not enough to pull away — enough to show he wasn’t used to the casualness of her touch. His eyes, however, hadn’t left hers.

“You’ve told me about the dark. About the goddess. About magic in the blood,” he said, voice pitched lower now. “But you’ve yet to tell me what your people are truly like. Their… ways.”

“Oh?” Ambrose’s smile sharpened as she drew her hand back only to cradle her cup again. “You want the politics, Lord Elrond? Or the bedchamber?”

He blinked — once — and she caught it.

“Both,” he said finally, leaning forward, perhaps a touch too curious.

She tilted her head, as though deciding just how much of the web to reveal. “The Drow live under a matriarchal system,” she began, each word spun slow and deliberate. “Women rule. Command. Wage war. They hold the titles, the power, the resources. And the men?”

Elrond’s brow furrowed slightly. “Yes?”

“They belong to us.”

He drew in a small breath, as if trying to gauge how much of that was exaggeration. “In service?”

“In every sense,” she said without missing a beat. “Some are advisors. Some are warriors. Some are for pleasure. The most valuable are those who can be more than one thing without forgetting they are owned.”

Elrond’s fingers tightened slightly around his cup. “Owned?”

Ambrose’s lips curved, but there was no apology in them. “We are a practical people. Men are… resources, like weapons, wealth, or territory. To waste them is foolish. To cherish them is strategic.”

“That is…” He hesitated, not entirely sure what word would not betray some measure of discomfort.

“Upsetting?” she offered sweetly.

“I was going to say—”

“Efficient?”

A reluctant laugh escaped him, the sound warm despite the topic.

“See?” she said, leaning forward just enough that the scent of her violet tincture reached him again. “Your world would be far more interesting if your women ruled the way mine do.”

Elrond gave her a long, measured look — not unkind, but laced with thought. “I suspect your court is already more dangerous than most I’ve seen.”

“Mm,” she murmured into her tea. “You’d lose that suspicion quickly if you ever visited it.”

Across the balcony, Maegor’s shadowed form shifted almost imperceptibly — a predator recognizing another’s hunting ground.

The conversation had stretched like silk between them — easy, winding, warm in a way Elrond hadn’t realized he’d missed.

She had a laugh that crept in under the guard, soft at first and then wicked, like it knew exactly what it was doing. Her fingers had brushed his hand more than once — a light graze that lingered a heartbeat too long for mere politeness. He told himself he didn’t mind.

By the time she finished recounting a story about a Drow priestess who’d “married” three men in one week and used them all for entirely different purposes, Elrond was leaning in across the low table, shoulders relaxed, eyes bright.

“And did they… tolerate this arrangement?” he asked, a hint of disbelief tempering his curiosity.

“Oh, my dear Lord Elrond,” Ambrose purred, swirling her tea with a lazy flick of her wrist, “they adored her for it. They fought for the right to remain hers. A man who serves a powerful woman well? He has the whole of her protection. And… other things.”

She punctuated that with a look — not sharp, but deep enough to unsettle — and Elrond found himself chuckling despite it.

It was then she reached out, casually, and let her fingertips rest on the back of his hand. Not gripping. Not demanding. Just… there.

Warm. Alive. Intentional.

And that was the exact moment the air shifted.

A shadow fell across the terrace entrance, the kind that wasn’t cast by clouds or the hour.

Elrond glanced up first. “Thranduil,” he greeted smoothly, though something in the king’s gaze made him sit just a fraction straighter.

Ambrose did not look away from her cup immediately. She sipped once, then turned her head — slow, deliberate — to meet that pale, cutting stare.

“Your Majesty,” she said, her tone dripping with warmth so genuine it only made the moment sharper. “You’re just in time. We were discussing the merits of… courtship.”

If she noticed the faint clench of his jaw, she didn’t show it.

But she did let her thumb trace a languid circle against the back of Elrond’s hand before withdrawing entirely, lifting her cup as though nothing at all had just passed between them.

The king stepped forward, the sweep of his robes quiet but heavy, like the sound of a wave rolling in.

Elrond had known him long enough to read the silence: Mine.

And Ambrose — well. She was smiling.

“What of your people, Lord Elrond?” Ambrose asked, tilting her head in that way that always seemed halfway between curiosity and challenge. “How do they act? How do they live? Is it truly… night and day?”

Her gaze shifted between the two men, letting the weight of the question hang in the warm terrace air.

“How many different elves are there?” she went on, fingers idly tracing the rim of her cup. “I know we have a few. Same for dwarves, gnomes, halflings…” She let the list trail off, a glint of amusement sparking in her eyes. “The list is long, but I’ll spare you reciting it. For now.”

Elrond smiled faintly, ready to answer, but Thranduil’s stillness was telling. He’d taken a seat across from them, but his attention wasn’t on her words so much as the way she spoke them — the unhurried lilt, the subtle lean toward his old friend, the fact that she looked at Elrond when she asked.

Elrond, for his part, was too intrigued to notice the shift in the air. “It depends,” he began. “Even within what you might call our kind, the differences can be vast. Sindar, Noldor, Silvan… each has its own history, its own customs.”

Ambrose’s lips curved. “So your people warred amongst themselves, too.”

That earned her a low, humorless sound from Thranduil. “We endured disagreements,” he said, voice measured, “but nothing so… elaborate as what you’ve described of the Underdark.”

“Oh, elaborate is a polite word for it,” she murmured, looking back to Elrond. “You’ll have to tell me which kind you think I’d suit best.”

Elrond chuckled, shaking his head, though his eyes lingered on her longer than they should have.

Across the table, the king’s fingers flexed once against the carved armrest of his chair.

Ambrose didn’t miss it.

She took another sip of her tea, letting the silence stretch before setting her cup down with a soft clink. “Perhaps I’ll learn more at the ball. Such events do bring out the truth in people — especially once the wine flows.”

Her smile was perfectly pleasant.

Thranduil’s was not.

Elrond settled back in his chair, his voice taking on the slow, thoughtful cadence of a man speaking from centuries of memory.
“The Noldor are the high kindred,” he began. “Lovers of craft, lore, and learning — though some would call them prideful. The Sindar are of the twilight, the Grey Elves, keepers of ancient songs and secrets. Silvan elves… they are the wood itself. Wild, patient, enduring.”

Ambrose’s eyes glinted with genuine interest, her body tilting forward so slightly that it drew him in without his realizing. “Fascinating,” she murmured. “In my world, surface elves tend toward similar divisions — sun, moon, wood — but the Drow… ah, we are a thing apart entirely.”

She set her cup aside, both hands now freed to sketch shapes in the air as she spoke. “We are matriarchal. The eldest women lead, not just in governance but in worship, in war. The men serve as consorts, warriors, scholars — sometimes treasured, sometimes disposable. And our houses… our houses are everything. To lose one’s house is to lose your very name.”

Elrond’s brows knit slightly, his mind clearly working to reconcile her words with his own frame of history. “And yet,” he said slowly, “your people endure?”

“We endure because we are not afraid to change to survive,” Ambrose replied, a wry smile curving her lips. “You’d be surprised how efficient a society can be when those at the top understand that affection is a privilege, not a right.”

Across the table, Thranduil’s jaw tightened, though he remained outwardly composed. Her words were meant for Elrond, but they landed on him all the same.

Elrond leaned in unconsciously, caught in the pull of her voice. “And the men? How do they see their place in such a world?”

Ambrose’s laughter was low and warm. “Would you truly like to know?”

When he nodded, she leaned in closer, close enough that the faint perfume of violets and something darker brushed the air between them. “Some fight to rise. Some thrive in their roles. Others…” Her smile turned faintly wicked. “Others take pleasure in being kept.”

Elrond’s expression shifted — part intrigue, part unease — and she laughed outright, the sound like the flicker of a candle in a darkened room.

“Don’t look so scandalized, my lord. I’m sure your kind has its own arrangements, unspoken though they may be.”

Thranduil had not moved, but the tension in the set of his shoulders was unmistakable now, and Ambrose could feel his gaze like a hand at the back of her neck.

She turned back to her cup, sipping with studied ease. “Perhaps we should trade more histories over tea, Lord Elrond. I think you’d enjoy the comparisons.”

Elrond inclined his head, a spark of something warmer than formality in his eyes. “I believe I would.”

Her smile was subtle, but the satisfaction in it was not.

Thranduil said nothing. But the next time he had her alone, she knew he’d make her answer for this little exchange.

Ambrose rose when Elrond did, the two of them moving in the slow, graceful rhythm of courtly parting. She thanked him for his time with a bow of her head, her voice honey-warm as she added, “Your insight is a gift, Lord Elrond. I look forward to our next exchange.”

Ever the gentleman, Elrond took her hand lightly — not lingering, but long enough for the gesture to carry weight — and placed a courteous kiss upon the ring she wore. “The pleasure is mutual, Lady Ambrose. May your day treat you kindly.”

He was already turning to leave, ready to disappear into the labyrinth of Mirkwood’s halls for his own business, when the shadows behind him shifted.

“Lady Ambrose.”

Thranduil’s voice was calm. Too calm.

She turned, her expression one of polite curiosity, though her pulse gave the faintest jump. The king was there in the archway, not blocking the light but somehow filling the space entirely — tall, poised, hands clasped loosely behind his back.

“Elrond,” he said with the faintest of nods.

“Thranduil,” Elrond returned smoothly before excusing himself down the corridor.

The moment the dark-haired elf was gone, Thranduil stepped forward, the measured sound of his boots on stone closing the distance between them.

“I trust the tea was… enlightening,” he said, the words silk-wrapped steel.

Ambrose let a small smile curve her lips, tilting her head just so. “Very. Lord Elrond is quite—”

He stopped her with a look, one that skimmed over her in a way that felt both proprietary and assessing. “Walk with me,” he said, not quite a command, not quite a request.

Too bad for her morning plans.

Or perhaps… too good.

Notes:

Guys, it's been to damn hot here in the states. It made me sick and nocturnal for a moment.

Chapter 11: Chapter Eleven - Drazhael Baenre**NSFWISH**

Summary:

A chapter from another angle—through the eyes of Drazhael Baenre, First Son of Menzoberranzan’s most powerful house. Before Arda, before the spider silks and secret kisses, there was blood, blade, and a courtship written in threats and offerings. Ambrose wasn’t chosen by fate—she earned her place. And back in Mirkwood, her game with Thranduil reaches a new pitch of control… just as other eyes begin to take notice.

Oh, how the weave bends and breaks apart the fate of others once thought to be set in stone. 

The hall of House Veylthra was awash in violet glow from the faerzress-crystals set into the pillars. Courtiers whispered in little knots, gloved hands brushing daggers, eyes darting like hungry spiders. Ambrose’s mother sat high on her throne, her daughters fanned like deadly petals around her.

And there she was.

Ambrose.

Not the youngest anymore, not the fragile daughter he had only glimpsed in passing years before. She stood at her mother’s right hand now, her lips the shade of fresh-spilled venom, her eyes black flame set in a flawless mask. A sister-killer, they whispered, her smile sharpened on blood.

Drazhael felt it coil in his chest when she turned those eyes his way. Heat. Recognition. By Lolth, it nearly staggered him.

He steadied his grip on his sword’s hilt — too obvious, too telling — but the motion did not go unnoticed.

From the high dais, Matron Baenre’s laughter cut the air like a whip. His mother’s voice slid through the hush of the hall, a velvet blade.

“My son.” She purred, her gaze fixed not on Ambrose, but on him. “Do not think I miss the way your stance falters. Have you found her so compelling?”

The courtiers stilled. Heat rose under his collar. For the first time in years, Drazhael Baenre — first son, sorcerer-knight, breaker of House loyalties — was nearly undone where he stood.

Ambrose’s lips quirked — not a smile, but something crueler, quieter, as if she too had tasted the revelation and found it amusing.

Lolth had spun her snare. And he was caught.

Drazhael straightened, shoulders tight in his armor as the murmurs rippled through the chamber. He knew better than to show weakness — especially under his mother’s eye. Yet still his gaze betrayed him, flicking back to Ambrose like a moth testing flame.

“Compelling?” he echoed at last, his voice steady but his throat dry. He dipped his head in the barest nod of respect toward Ambrose’s matron. “It would be a fool who did not look upon the daughters of House Veylthra and see strength worth notice.”

The words were safe. Polished. But his mother’s smile widened, the satisfaction of a spider watching her prey twist deeper into silk.

“Strength, yes,” she purred. “And beauty — or is it venom you savor more, my son?”

Laughter trickled through the chamber, cruel and knowing. Drazhael’s jaw set, but his matron’s delight was already won.

Ambrose tilted her head ever so slightly, her eyes still locked on his. She said nothing — she didn’t need to. The curve of her lips, the faint shimmer of toxin there, spoke volumes. A promise. A dare.

For the first time since he had taken up his blade, Drazhael Baenre felt heat crawl the back of his neck. His oath-trained tongue faltered on words that would not come.

He bowed low, a curt gesture meant to end the scrutiny, though his heart thudded like a war drum.

“Perhaps,” his mother said, lounging back in her throne, her tone silken and barbed, “Lolth herself guides your eyes, First Son. I would not presume to… interrupt.”

The chamber filled with more laughter, sharper now, but Ambrose’s gaze did not waver. She watched him bow, watched the famed First Son of Baenre struggle — and the corner of her mouth lifted as though she had won something.

And perhaps she had.

---

Days faded, but the sting of his mother’s laughter did not. Drazhael licked his wounded ego, burying himself in spellwork, drills, endless drills. Yet every time his eyes closed, it wasn’t runes or forms he saw — it was her.

Ambrose.

The way she had darkened her hair with pitch to set herself apart, black upon black. On a drow it was strange, striking, almost obscene. But Lolth’s web — it caught him. It made her eyes blaze brighter, obsidian shards glinting in torchlight. It made him wonder if her lips — always painted in venom’s red — would leave his tongue numb or aflame.

He sat cross-legged now in the Baenre training chambers, an apple in one hand, scrolls scattered before him. But every incantation blurred into her silhouette, every rune twisted into the curl of her smile. A hundred and twenty? A hundred and thirty? Young by Menzoberranzan’s measure, yet her mother flaunted her already, a jewel of promise, a weapon to draw suitors and rivals alike.

He bit into the apple, mind turning over plans, scenarios, excuses to see her again—

The door crashed open, shouts fracturing his reverie.

“LORD BAENRE! ” a voice rang out, breathless, frantic. “ Another house has taken the Fifth Mantle!”

The apple rolled from his fingers, forgotten.

Drazhael surged to his feet, the glow of wards still humming at his skin. His crimson eyes cut through the messenger, sharp as drawn steel. “ Which house dares? ”

The male dropped to one knee, head bowed low. “House Veylthra, my lord.”

His blood stilled, then thundered, thundering with something dangerously close to exhilaration.

Ambrose.

Of course.

The name rang through him like steel against steel.

House Veylthra.

The Fifth Mantle.

He turned his back on the kneeling messenger, dismissing him with a flick of his fingers. The door slammed shut again, leaving the chamber steeped in the pulse of the faerzress glow and his own hammering breath.

Veylthra.

The girl who had darkened her hair with pitch to make her eyes burn brighter. The girl whose lips promised poison with every smile. He had thought of her in stolen moments, between the pages of spellcraft and the ring of blades, dismissing it as weakness, as some venom in the blood he could sweat out.

But no.

She was a force. She was climbing. She was dangerous.

And he wanted her all the more for it.

Drazhael’s lips curved into a smile he rarely allowed himself — sharp, wolfish, hungry. If she could take the Fifth Mantle at a hundred and twenty, then she would not stop until the Web bent beneath her. She was no apple to be bitten and discarded. She was the venom that made one hunger for more, even knowing the end.

Lolth take him, but he was already hers.

The echo of laughter down the corridor snapped him from the thought. His mother’s voice, deep and commanding, carried even through stone. She would already know. She always knew.

He straightened his tunic, set his shoulders, and stalked toward the great audience chamber. The doors groaned open before him, spilling him into the riot of torchlight and voices.

Matron Baenre sat high on her throne, her daughters arrayed like blades at her feet. Her smile was wicked with amusement, red eyes glittering as they fixed upon her firstborn.

“Drazhael,” she purred. “Come and tell me… does this rise of House Veylthra delight you as much as it delights me?”

Drazhael stepped into the chamber, bowing low, his face a mask of composure. Inside, his blood still burned with her name.

He was a vision of the Underdark’s cruel beauty: high-boned features carved sharp as a blade, crimson eyes gleaming like coals banked beneath obsidian, hair bound in silver that shimmered with every shift of torchlight. Even in stillness he drew eyes — daughters whispering behind jeweled hands, cousins biting down envy, rivals noting the lines of strength in his shoulders and the smooth cadence of his stride.

“Mother,” he greeted, voice smooth as obsidian glass. “I heard of Veylthra’s rise. Swift. Unexpected, perhaps. But not unworthy.”

Matron Baenre’s smile deepened, her jeweled fingers tapping the arm of her throne. The court’s whispers lulled to a hush. “Not unworthy, you say? Such words from my First Son carry weight. Tell me then—does the daughter they flaunt please your eye?”

The tilt of her head was deliberate, her tone a knife sharpened for amusement. Around them, sisters and cousins leaned in like carrion crows, hungry for his slip.

Drazhael let silence stretch, his expression unreadable. Then, with a half-smile carved from restraint, he spoke.

“She is… formidable. Her mother has forged her well.” He paused just long enough, let his eyes gleam as if considering, then added: “A male could do far worse than to be bound to such fire. If, of course, it served Baenre’s designs.”

The chamber rustled with laughter and sharp whispers. Matron Baenre’s gaze sharpened, lips curving in satisfaction. He had given her just enough — interest framed as politics, desire veiled in service.

“Oh, my son,” she purred, “you learn at last to speak like a true spider in my web.” She leaned back, her smile wicked. “Yes. Perhaps such a union could amuse me. Even if you are one of many husbands… winning the affections of such a girl would be a prize, would it not?”

Her words struck like a lash, yet he bowed his head in deference, hiding the flicker of heat in his eyes.

“Yes, Matron,” he said evenly, though inside he vowed it.
Not just one of many.
He would win her.

---

She had been weary of the court’s clamor, the endless parade of hollow words and hungry eyes. Too many suitors, too many whispers about alliances, too many poisoned smiles from males who thought themselves clever.

When the tray was brought to her chambers — a silver platter, veiled in black silk — she nearly dismissed it. Gifts were nothing new.

But the scent caught her first. Metallic. Sharp.

She pulled the cloth back.

Beneath lay a folded note, its parchment sodden, edges curling where blood had seeped into the fibers. A smear of crimson still wet gleamed across the Baenre seal pressed into wax.

Ambrose lifted it carefully, the stickiness clinging to her fingers as she unfolded it. The words within were written in an elegant, steady hand — every line scored deep enough that the parchment nearly tore.

You need not raise your hand, nor even waste a thought.
The moment someone offends you, the moment you feel even a whisper of distaste — I will have them silenced.
Consider this your first sign of proof.

Pinned to the bottom of the page was a lock of hair — pale, silvered. She knew at once whose it was. One of the more persistent males who had pestered her that very morning, pressing for her favor with a smirk that had made her lip curl.

Her eyes widened despite herself. A thrill ran down her spine, molten and dangerous.

She had known the Baenre heir was watching. She had felt his gaze at court, heavy as a blade. But this…

This was poetry in blood.

Ambrose smiled, slow and venomous, folding the note back into its gore-stained envelope. For the first time in weeks, her lips curved in something genuine.

“Drazhael,” she whispered to the shadows. “You play well.”

Ambrose lingered with the letter long after the servant had withdrawn, tracing the grooves of each word with her fingertip. Blood had seeped into the parchment, leaving her hand faintly stained. It pleased her.

A Baenre son — the First son — had written her a vow in another’s blood. A gift, a threat, and a promise all at once.

Very well, then.

She called for her handmaiden, whispered instructions sharp and swift. Hours later, the message was delivered.

Drazhael found it waiting in his private chambers, set upon his weapons stand: a dagger of fine adamantine, still dripping with venom. The blade was sunk clean through a folded scrap of parchment — parchment cut from the flesh of some lesser rival’s spellbook.

When he drew it free, the note opened beneath his hands.

I accept your courtship, First Son.
In the eyes of Unseelie, our fates may well tangle further.
But know this — I do not give myself blindly. I will learn you. If I find you wanting, I will end you with the same blade you now hold.

At the bottom, a delicate smear of her own lip-poison kissed the page, still glimmering faintly, daring him to touch it to his mouth.

Drazhael’s laugh was low, hungry, and dangerous in the empty chamber. He pressed the parchment to his lips without hesitation. The venom burned, then numbed, a sweet ache that seared through him like a vow.

Ambrose Veylthra had answered. She had accepted.

And now the game began.

---

To the here and now…

---

She matched his stride without protest, the sound of her heels echoing softly between the carved stone and wood-paneled walls. The great corridors of Mirkwood were quiet at this hour — most of the court still at their own tables or lost in morning business — which meant there was no one to interrupt when he took a turn she hadn’t expected.

This was not the path to the main hall.

Her gaze slid toward him, but his expression was unreadable, eyes fixed ahead as though the decision had been made the moment she’d said Elrond’s name.

They passed no guards. No courtiers. Only the filtered green light of the forest spilling in through latticed windows, dappling the floor like a shifting spell.

And then, without ceremony, he pushed open a set of high, narrow doors I’d never seen before and gestured me inside.

His private quarters.

It smelled faintly of cedar, old parchment, and the sharp bite of winter air drifting through the half-open balcony doors. The room was all clean lines and quiet power — polished stone underfoot, furs thrown across a low-backed chair, an ornate table near the hearth scattered with unrolled maps.

I let my steps carry me forward, silk trailing in my wake, the ruby spider at my back catching the firelight as I moved. “Does the king wish to speak in private?” I asked lightly, tasting the shape of the words.

The doors shut behind me with a quiet click .

“Not speak,” he said, voice low enough that it brushed along my spine like a hand. “Clarify.”

I turned, catching him in my periphery as he began to circle. Not pacing — no, he moved like a predator who already knew where I’d run, should I try.

“You’ve taken an interest in Elrond,” he said, each word careful, measured. “A… warm interest.”

I let my lips curve, though I didn’t answer immediately. Instead, I wandered toward the balcony, letting the cold air toy with the edges of my gown. “He’s interesting. Intelligent. You’d hardly want me to be dull company for your guests.”

When I looked back, he was closer than I expected — close enough that I could see the faint tension in his jaw, the narrowing at the corners of his eyes.

“You’re not dull,” he said, the words coming out like a low growl. “And you don’t give yourself freely. So I ask again — what did Elrond do to earn so much of your attention?”

I tilted my head, feeling the silver-threaded necklaces shift across the bare line of my spine. “Perhaps you should have joined us for tea, my king.”

Something dangerous flickered in his eyes at that.

He stepped into my space, one hand bracing on the balcony rail beside my hip, caging me in without touching me. “Perhaps,” he murmured, “I prefer to watch you weave your web… and then remind you whose court you walk in.”

My breath caught — not from fear, but from the sharp, deliberate edge threaded through his tone.

The forest beyond the balcony seemed to still, the only sound the faint clatter of my heels as I shifted my weight under his gaze.

Oh, he was simmering.

And gods help me — I loved it.

He was so close I could smell the forest wafting from his skin — cedar, moss, and something sharper, like frost clinging to pine. His presence would drown and weaken others. But me? I thrived in it.

I let my head rest back, slow and deliberate, until it found his chest. The warmth of him seeped through the silk, curling low in my belly.

The game wasn’t over.

“And yet,” I murmured, my lips curling just enough for him to feel it in my voice, “you still get caught so effortlessly.”

Cheeky little thing. I knew exactly where I was aiming.

I pressed my hips back just slightly — enough to let the curve of my ass brush against him, light and fleeting, but unmistakable. A dare.

The muscle beneath my shoulder blades tensed, a slow inhale from him betraying the restraint he clung to. His hand didn’t move from the rail, but I could feel the coiled energy in him, like a bowstring pulled taut.

I was baiting him. And I wanted him to take it.

His breath warmed the shell of my ear, his chest expanding against my back as though my words had sparked something deep and dangerous.

And then — gods — he moved.

A slow, deliberate grind of his hips into mine, answering my little brush with the full, unmistakable press of him. I bit back a gasp, but it slipped out anyway, curling into the low sound that had been building in my throat since the moment we stepped into his chambers.

“Thranduil—” It came out softer than I intended. Too soft. Too wanting. The syllables purred but trembled, a dangerous balance between plea and provocation.

His head dipped, lips ghosting the edge of my jaw as though tasting the air between us. “Say it again,” he murmured, voice so deep it resonated in my bones.

The grind came again, slower this time, purposeful, making sure I felt every inch of his intent through the layers of silk that suddenly felt far too thin. My hands gripped the cold stone of the balcony rail, not for stability, but because I didn’t trust them not to wander up into his hair and pull.

I tilted my head, letting the silver-threaded necklaces shift against my bare back, and breathed his name once more — not as the king, not as the predator, but as the man currently making my knees weak.

“Thranduil.”

This time, it drew the faintest sound from him — not a groan, but something darker.

He dragged me back from prying eyes, shutting out the forest beyond the balcony with a single sweep of the doors. The world narrowed to the sound of my heels against his floor and the sharp pull of his hand at my waist.

Our lips collided — not in the careful heat of court, but in something messy, unrestrained, teeth grazing, breaths tangling. And this time, it was my turn. My turn to take control, to drive him to the edge and leave him there, trembling.

This never-ending dance of dominance was a fever in my veins. I walked him backward with deliberate steps, drinking in every flicker of hunger that passed over his face until the backs of his knees found the edge of his own bed.

He sat — or maybe I made him — and I turned without a word, lowering myself between his spread legs like I was settling into a throne. My nails traced lazy paths down the outside of his thighs, scratching lightly over the fine fabric just enough for him to feel the bite beneath.

The tension between us was its own living thing now — thrumming, electric, inevitable.

And gods, I was going to make him sweat for it.

He was pent up again, the hard length of him straining against his trousers like it might split the seams if I pressed just a little harder. I didn’t… not yet.

Instead, I leaned in, letting my breath ghost over the shape of him before my lips found it — slow, unhurried — mouthing over the outline like I had all the time in the world.

“Thranduil…” His name slipped from me in a whisper, soft enough to curl against the heat beneath the fabric.

I felt him twitch.

Sloppy, lipstick-printed kisses marked a trail along his clothed member, a deliberate mess against the pristine lines of the king.

“My mouth—” The words came low, heavy, meant for him alone. I dragged them over him like silk, knowing exactly what picture they painted. My tongue followed, a teasing lap against the barrier of his trousers, just enough for him to feel the heat, the promise.

‘His hands found my hair almost immediately, long fingers threading through the pleats and silver chains, guiding me without forcing. “Lower,” he murmured, the command curling through me like smoke. I let him — let him tilt my head just so, until he could drag me along the length of him in slow, measured passes.

Even through the fabric, he was teaching me something — the way his breath hitched when I lingered just under the head, the subtle grind of his hips when I pressed a little firmer along the base. “Here,” he breathed, low and rough, guiding me back to the spot that made him twitch. I rewarded him with a languid suck against the fabric, my tongue pushing at him through the barrier, wetting the silk between us until it clung. 

 

My hands moved, unfastening the ties along his pants before I was able to loosen them enough to free his cock.I found myself admiring it for a moment before I looked up at him and playfully stuck my tongue out, bouncing the tip of his cock against my wet muscle. ‘

He groaned — low, dangerous — the sound vibrating through my chest as his fingers tightened in my hair.

I gave him another playful tap of my tongue, then slid the flat of it along his underside, slow enough to make him hiss. My nails traced lazy, featherlight lines along his thighs, feeling the way they tensed beneath my touch.

“Like that,” he breathed, guiding me in a rhythm. I let him. For now. Taking just enough of him into my mouth to feel the weight, the heat, without giving him the full indulgence he clearly wanted.

Every time he thought I’d take him deeper, I’d pull back, lips closing in a wet kiss against the head, my tongue swirling there until his hips gave the smallest, helpless jerk forward.

“You’ll kill me,” he muttered, voice roughened with restraint.

“Mmm,” I hummed around him, letting the vibration tease another reaction from him. My hand curled around the base, stroking him in slow, deliberate pulls while my mouth worked just the tip, leaving it glossy with my spit.

He was close — I could feel it in the way his breathing shortened, the way his hand trembled just slightly where it tangled in my hair.

And just as his muscles coiled for that final shudder—

I let him slip from my mouth, giving one last slow stroke before letting my hand fall away entirely.

His eyes snapped open, pale and burning, his chest rising hard beneath the weight of his breath.

I licked my lips, purposefully slow, meeting his gaze with a smile that was all teeth. “Patience, my king.”

Then I rose — as if nothing had happened — and smoothed my skirts into place, leaving him seated, half-undone, every inch of him straining toward the release I’d denied him.

The click of my heels against the stone as I crossed to the door was the only sound in the room.

I didn’t look back. I didn’t have to. I could feel his eyes on me.

The cool air of the corridor kissed my flushed cheeks as I stepped out, closing the tall doors with the quiet finality of someone leaving a crime scene untouched.

Not that it was a crime.

---

The weight of what had just happened still clung to me like the scent of violets and heat. My lips tingled, my tongue still carried the taste of him, and my fingers… I curled them once, feeling the ghost of his pulse there.

I let my heels strike a little louder than necessary as I moved away. A Drow’s victory march.

Halfway down the hall, the sound of voices drifted from around the corner — soft, idle conversation between two courtiers. It stopped when they saw me. Their eyes flicked to the closed doors behind me. Then to the loosened, almost careless drape of my gown at my hips.

I gave them a smile that told them nothing and everything all at once.

One of them lowered his gaze quickly. The other held it just long enough to confirm what he thought he knew.

Good. Let them whisper.

The air shifted again before I reached the end of the hall — a subtle awareness prickling along the nape of my neck. That… other presence. The one that didn’t move like the others.

I didn’t turn. Didn’t need to. Whoever it was lingered in the shadows just out of sight, letting me feel the weight of their attention before melting away.

By the time I reached the grand stairs, my smile had returned — warm, lazy, as though nothing in the world had unsettled me.

But the game’s pieces had shifted.

And tomorrow night, at the ball, I’d see who tried to move first.

Notes:

It's getting juicy and we're slowly peeling back the layers to find out how you arrived in Mirkwood to begin with- but keep your head up sweet matron, The eyes of the court forever linger, and you never know what gods are on your side!

Chapter 12: Chapter Twelve - Threads Of Fire

Summary:

Ambrose sharpens her web across Mirkwood’s court, drawing Thranduil, Legolas, and the golden-eyed guest into her orbit. On the terrace, she teases Legolas into making a claim, salt on the wound of Thranduil’s possessive restraint. Confronted, Thranduil corners her with heat and cruel patience, leaving her burning without release. That night, Sauron slips through the Weave into her dreams, marking her with a token of molten gold — a spider forged of shadow and promise. Memory drags her deeper still, to the Underdark and her dangerous courtship with Drazhael Baenre, where daggers, vows, and poisons entwine. Threads tighten past and present, fire and shadow, until even Ambrose wonders which predator’s claim will hold.

Notes:

Song for this one- SLEEP TOKEN - Nazareth

Night draped itself over the courtyard — moonless, beautiful, as dark as the Underdark and just as lethal. I found him at the edge where torchlight bled into shadow, the air sharp with the scent of rain yet to fall. He stood with the stillness of a creature who knew he was being watched and didn’t care. Golden eyes scanning, measuring, missing nothing. I slipped behind him without sound, folding myself into his space the way my people always had — as if I were an old friend returning home. My arms slid around him, palms flattening against the line of his chest before my lips brushed the edge of his ear.

“You know how many eyes I have in every corner of this court, yes?”

Almost teasing, almost affectionate — but heavy with truth. His answering breath was deliberate. “And how many of those eyes are watching me, little spider?”

I smiled against his skin — the smile he couldn’t see but could feel. “Enough to know when a guest doesn’t just watch the king… but me.” His head shifted the barest fraction, as though tempted to glance back but denying himself. “Curious,” he said, each syllable unspooling like silk. “I thought the king kept what was his on a shorter leash.”

I chuckled low in my throat, smoke curling between us. “Perhaps I’ve chewed through it.” Something flickered in those molten eyes — recognition, intrigue, and something older. Something that looked at me as if it had met me before. His voice dropped lower, meant for me alone. “Perhaps I’ve seen the weave you walk before. Long ago… in another world.” Not a question. Recognition.

The chill rolling through me wasn’t fear — it was kinship. He’d felt it, the way the web clung to me, how I slipped into rooms without ever raising a blade. I let the silence stretch, deliberate, before my fingers traced the inside of his wrist and I leaned closer. “Then you know,” I murmured, “even the smallest spider can bring down what’s ancient… if it finds the right thread.”

The faint curl of his mouth wasn’t quite smile, wasn’t quite threat. “Careful,” he breathed. “Always,” I whispered, brushing the air by his jaw before I slipped back into shadow.

I didn’t look over my shoulder as I left him, though I felt the weight of his gaze following every step. The great hall glowed warm with firelight and murmuring voices. My heels clicked lightly against polished stone, drawing just enough attention without asking for it. Faces turned, conversations faltered. I smiled at no one in particular — yet for all of them. A warning. An invitation. The first strand of a web catching light.

Legolas’s gaze found me first, a tilt of his head in quiet acknowledgment. Elrond’s lingered longer, more openly. And from across the hall, Thranduil watched with the same taut focus I had left smoldering in him earlier. And then — him. The golden-eyed guest. No longer cloaked in shadow but blending into the finery of the court so seamlessly that no one else marked him. His eyes, however, never left me. Predator’s eyes. Measuring. Choosing. Good. Let him try. The thing about webs — when you touch them, the spider always feels it first.

I hadn’t crossed half the hall before a figure barred my way — all polite grace, disarming smile. “Going somewhere?” Legolas. The firelight caught his temple braids, the faint curve of amusement on his mouth. He extended an arm just enough to force me to stop or walk into him.

“Circling the room,” I said with a tilt of my head. “You make it sound as if I’m trying to escape.”

“Are you?”

My gaze slid past him deliberately, toward the far end where Thranduil and the golden-eyed guest still lingered. Then back to him with a smile. “Would you stop me if I were?” His smirk was boyish, but calculation gleamed beneath it. “I might,” he said. “For the sake of keeping you… entertained.”

He offered his arm, and it wasn’t just courtesy. It was a claim. Subtle, but unmistakable. I placed my hand in the crook of his elbow, feeling the tension of strength there. “And here I thought the prince preferred archery to politics.”

“I prefer a good challenge,” he replied, guiding me into the current of the room. Behind us, I felt Thranduil’s focus sharpen. And beneath it, like a second pulse, the golden-eyed stranger’s hunger thrummed. Threads pulled tighter. And weaving was what I did best.

The terrace air was cool, heavy with pine and the promise of rain. Lantern light cast soft gold over carved railings, beyond which the forest stretched vast and dark. Legolas stopped near the edge, releasing my arm only to lean on the rail — casual, though his gaze never left me. “It’s quieter here,” he said. “Fewer eyes.”

“Fewer,” I echoed, stepping beside him so my gown’s hem whispered against the stone. “Not none.” His eyes followed mine back through the open doors — to his father, still half-turned toward us, locked in talk with the golden-eyed guest.

“Let them look,” Legolas murmured, boldness threading his tone. I rested my palms on the railing until my shoulder brushed his. “You’d invite it?”

“If it’s you,” he said softly, “yes.” The wind teased through my hair, catching silver webwork, pearls, and the ruby spider nestled above the small of my back. I let it gleam, let him see. “Careful,” I warned lightly. “I’ve been told that taking interest in me is dangerous.”

He smiled, eyes steady. “I’ve always had good aim.”

I laughed, soft but edged to carry just inside — enough for both Thranduil and the stranger to hear. The threads tugged taut. I wasn’t just watched. I was studied. Thranduil’s gaze pressed from within the hall, measured and simmering. The golden-eyed shadow studied me too — like something half-remembered, a thread once held and lost.

Legolas stood warm at my side, steady and sure. I let my fingers brush his lightly before curling them back around the rail. Close enough for him to feel, far enough for others to imagine.

“Tell me, prince,” I said, eyes on the forest. “Do you always linger on terraces with women who leave half the court tangled in knots?”

He huffed a quiet laugh. “Only the ones worth the trouble.”

“Mmm.” I angled my shoulder so the ruby spider winked in the light, taunting the eyes still on me. “I am worth it, you know.”

His silence agreed. Inside, I felt Thranduil’s restraint stretch taut — silk pulled to breaking. I’d left him simmering once today. This was salt in the wound.

And the golden-eyed one? He wasn’t watching me like prey. No — his gaze carried recognition, curiosity laced with something older. He had felt the weave before; I would have staked my last drop of wine on it. Good. Let him wonder. Let them both wonder.

I laughed at something Legolas said — light, melodic, sharp enough to carry — and felt the hooks set deeper. By the time I turned to face him fully, I knew I had woven exactly what I wanted: Thranduil’s possessive burn, Maegor’s sharpened interest, and Legolas caught blissfully unaware in the middle of it all.

The moment came sooner than expected. One heartbeat I was leaning with the prince at the terrace rail, the next I was caught by the wrist — firm but not brutal — turned toward the tall figure in the doorway. Thranduil said nothing as he drew me from the railing, away from golden eyes and my amused little prince. Candlelight replaced moonlight as the hall swallowed us.

“You’re playing with fire,” he said finally, voice taut.

“I do love the warmth.”

His jaw flexed. “Do you think I don’t see what you’re doing?”

I smiled, letting him walk me back until my spine met cool stone. “Oh, I know you see it. That’s why you’ve come to collect me like a piece you don’t want stolen from the board.”

A flare in his nostrils — that possessive heat rolling off him again, enough to unravel lesser women. I tilted my head, braid sliding forward so the jeweled spider brushed my hip. “But tell me, Thranduil… if you managed to get me into your bed, do you think I’d be yours?”

His eyes narrowed. I stepped closer, words silk-wrapped poison. “You’d be wrong. Just as you were never hers.”

There — the flicker in his gaze. The sting of truth, memory of the court woman who once thought herself special. His hand braced the wall beside my head. “You are not her.”

“No,” I whispered, breath ghosting his cheek. “I’m worse.”

For a moment, silence bared its teeth between us. Behind him, down the corridor, I knew the golden-eyed guest lingered still — watching, measuring. I brushed my lips along Thranduil’s jaw, not quite a kiss, before slipping from under his arm. “If you want to keep me, you’ll have to work harder than that, my king.”

I left him with nothing but perfume and the certainty that neither of us had won this round.

I did not hurry. The secret to slipping from one predator’s gaze into another’s is never to break stride, never to look back, never to show that you feel the weight of golden eyes trailing like a shadow that breathes. The corridors gave way to cooler stone, gardens stretching beneath the night air. Flower perfume dulled into loam and moss.

That was when he spoke. “Do all your kings let you walk away so easily?”

I stopped just far enough to force him to close the gap. “Do all your guests stalk their hostess into the dark?”

A faint smile, teeth without warmth. “Only the interesting ones.”

He joined me unbidden, our pace slow as the palace light thinned. Lanterns dotted the path, each swallowed by shadow as we passed. I knew where he was leading me before the trees thickened, before the ruins appeared — black stone skeleton half-eaten by ivy. My spores whispered unease. The spider network was here, but strained. Guarded.

He stopped by a crumbled archway. “They don’t come here often,” he said, voice a low rumble. “But when they do, it is not without reason.”

I crouched to touch a silk strand trembling in the breeze. Old, strong, carrying whispers not born of Mirkwood. Lolth’s presence stirred under my skin. “You brought me here for a reason,” I said. “You wanted to see if the spiders would come to me.”

A pause. “And?”

I rose, meeting molten eyes. “They would. But only for a moment.”

He studied me, unreadable. “A moment can be enough.”

The ruin seemed to listen, stone remembering too much. I stepped past him toward the lantern trail. “Next time,” I murmured, “you should ask what they say.” I didn’t need to look to know he was following.

I almost made it back to the light before he caught me — not with force, but with disarming ease. His hand found my hip, steady, sliding forward with a familiarity older than this lifetime. His presence filled the air like smoke, and when I turned, he was already leaning in.

“I know what they would call you in older tongues,” he whispered, voice a secret pressed against my ear. “Names older than this forest, names even your goddess would flinch to hear.”

His other hand found my opposite hip, drawing me fractionally closer until only his restraint remained between us. “There are threads in you,” he continued, low and certain, “older than this court. You were not misplaced. You were sent.”

The ruins breathed with us, spores holding still as though listening. I tilted my head, chains brushing bare skin. “Careful, guest. If you whisper like that, I might think you’re trying to seduce me.”

His smile was all shadow. “Who says I’m not?”

Thumbs pressed lightly at my hips, a forgotten promise of possession without claim. Not yet. And before I could decide whether to lean or break, he released me. Cold air swept back between us.

“You’ll find your way here again,” he said, stepping into the dark. “And when you do… I’ll have questions.”

The forest felt colder after he left. Colder still when I returned to the palace and found Thranduil waiting. Not at his desk. Not in the halls. Waiting for me.

He said nothing at first, only looked — pale eyes flicking over my face, my throat, the rise of my breath. He stepped close enough to catch the faint trace of someone else’s shadow on me, something darker under my perfume. His hand closed around mine — not harsh, but with purpose — and led me down a side hall I had never walked.

The doors shut. No conversation. No pretense. He had me against the wall before I found my balance, his mouth crushing mine in a kiss that left no doubt how long he had held this back. My skirts bunched in his fists, silk wrinkling under his grip, his body’s heat branding against my hip.

“You think you can walk through my court,” he growled against my mouth, “and carry another’s shadow back to me—”

“You left me,” I whispered, biting the corner of his lip. “I warned you what would happen.” His hand hiked my skirts, and though I tried to shield my innocence with shy palms, his ringed hand swatted my ass.

“Move it—” He squeezed one cheek, spreading me open for his eyes alone. “Who has seen you like this? My son?” His knuckle skimmed my entrance, pulling a gasp from my lips. “You seemed close with Elrond this morning…” His middle finger slipped inside me, curling slow and deliberate, pressing me harder against the wall. “And you smell like that golden-eyed fool…” He bit my ear, my muscles clenching around his finger in sharp betrayal.

His words slid over me like silk stretched over steel — smooth, meant to cut. His finger curled again and my breath hitched, the cool metal of his rings a sharp counterpoint to the heat blooming between my thighs. My back arched, searching for more, but his hand at the small of my back held me perfectly still.

“Not answering?” His voice was almost conversational, though the deliberate curl of his finger left no doubt of intent. “Shall I take your silence as yes?”

I turned just enough to catch his gaze from the corner of my eye, lips curving slow. “Perhaps it means I enjoy watching you guess.”

Another swat, sting blooming across my skin before his palm smoothed over it possessively. “Careful,” he murmured, withdrawing his finger only to drag the slickness along my folds in a maddening sweep. “You tempt me to skip the game.”

I rolled my hips back into him, brushing the hard line of his cock through his trousers. “And yet,” I breathed, “you never do.”

His growl was low, audible only in the way his hand tightened, tracing circles that spiraled closer, pressing just shy of where I ached. “Because I prefer,” he whispered against my ear, “to leave you thinking of me for hours before I finally give you what you beg for.”

A shiver raced down my spine — not from cold, but from the cruelty of restraint. And gods, I wanted it. Wanted him to make me wait. His fingers returned with maddening patience, each brush deliberate, grazing my clit one moment, sliding past the next. Never enough. Always almost.

“You tense like this when you’re cornered,” he murmured, his lips brushing my ear. “Do you know what that tells me?”

“That I want you to stop teasing?” The words broke sharp, too desperate.

His laugh rumbled low against my back. “That you’re already mine here—” His fingers pressed until my knees weakened. “—and here.” His other hand cradled my throat, tilting my head back so my lips parted on instinct.

My fists curled against the wall. “You think this makes me yours?”

“I know it does.”

His finger slid inside me again, curling wickedly, until my body betrayed me, hips canting toward him in desperate search. Just when I thought he’d give, he pulled away, circling, circling, circling that throbbing spot until my thighs trembled. I bit back a gasp, refusing him the satisfaction.

“Good,” he whispered against my jaw. “Hold it in. Keep holding it… because I’m not finished with you yet.”

The ache was unbearable now, pulsing between my legs. He wasn’t going to let me fall. Not yet. “Walk into that ball tomorrow like this,” he said with dark amusement, “and every step you take, you’ll remember my hands.”

And then he stepped back — as if nothing had happened. I stayed braced against the wall, skirts tangled at my hips, breath uneven.

“Go,” he said simply, leaving me on the edge.

That night, I couldn’t sleep. Heat lingered in my skin, coiling low where his voice had stirred it. I drifted only to jolt awake — something shifted in the dark. Not in the room. In the Weave. Silk threaded through my thoughts, drawn taut in some places, slack in others, humming with deliberate rhythm.

“You’re not sleeping,” a voice murmured.

I knew it at once. Low. Molten. Dangerous. Sauron.

“You’ve been restless,” he went on, syllables brushing the inside of my skull like fingertips. “I thought I might help.”

The bed dipped though no one entered. He wasn’t here, and yet — he was. The Weave carried him, placing him at my side as if distance meant nothing. “Dreams are pliable,” he whispered. “And you, Ambrose, are already tangled in one.”

A hand slid from my hip to my thigh, coaxing it open under the covers. I should have pushed back. Should have reminded him I was no pawn. Instead, I let him.

“Thranduil left you wanting,” he said, curling the words like smoke. “I don’t leave debts unpaid.” His palm spread, and visions spilled with it — webs stretching endless into shadow, power thrumming in stone, old magic tasting of centuries. My breath caught, torn between gasp and dream.

His lips brushed my jaw — impossible, unreal, and yet my skin prickled. “Tell me… do you want me to finish what he started?”

The Weave trembled, waiting. My own voice whispered back, raw: “I want you to burn your path into my skin—”

I woke with a gasp, chest heaving as though I’d been running. My sheets clung damp, thighs pressed tight around phantom heat. Morning light slid soft across Mirkwood stone, too much after the night I’d dreamed — or thought I dreamed. Except…

There, on the pillow beside me, lay a token. Small. Simple. A piece of dark metal, cool under my touch, coiled in runes that pulsed with molten-gold light. His light. A fragment of him, meant to stay.

It was no mere ornament. At first glance, a brooch — a spider no larger than my thumb, forged of blackened silver so fine its legs seemed poised to move. But the abdomen glowed faint from within, the same molten shimmer that had flooded my veins in the night.

The legs twitched as I turned it, a whisper of movement — imagination, or not. To others, a spider ornament, fitting for my House. But to me, it was something else entirely. A promise. A mark. A piece of him, resting where I’d feel it with every breath.

---

A Breath from the past- Exposed to the dark…

---

The chamber chosen for their first meeting was neutral ground — a blackstone hall carved from the Underdark’s belly, lit by faerzress crystals burning violet and green. Enchantments shimmered faintly in the air, warding out eavesdroppers, though both knew a dozen unseen eyes lingered in the shadows regardless.

I entered first, gown a cascade of onyx silk threaded with crimson, hair veiled in pitch-dark dye that sharpened the blaze of my eyes. No visible blade adorned me, but Drazhael Baenre would know better. Poison was as much a part of me as jewelry.

When he arrived, the hall seemed smaller for it. Armor gleamed across his shoulders, the Baenre insignia stamped bold on his chestplate. Warrior. Sorcerer. First Son bred for blood. He did not bow — not fully. His head inclined sharp and deliberate, an equal’s greeting.

“Ambrose Veylthra,” he said, my name a blade across his tongue.

I smiled faintly, lips curving in a promise of ruin. “Drazhael Baenre. Your poetry was well received.”

His mouth twitched — not a smile, but enough to betray satisfaction. “I am glad. The message was simple: no offense to you shall live long.”

“And if I offend you?” I asked sweetly, stepping closer, eyes glittering with challenge.

He did not flinch. “Then you will give me reason to crave you all the more.”

Silence hung heavy, thick as webs. Then I laughed — low, rich, venom threaded with amusement. Circling him like a spider tasting a fly, my fingers brushed the shimmer of wards across his vambrace.

“I will learn you, First Son,” I murmured, close enough for him to taste the faint toxin on my breath. “Every crack in your armor, every weakness you hide. If I find you wanting…” I plucked at the edge of his gauntlet, “…this courtship ends in your blood.”

His hand shot out, steel closing around my wrist before I could pull away. Not cruel. Careful. Almost reverent. His crimson eyes burned into mine.“Then you had best look well, Ambrose,” he said, voice a vow. “For I intend you to find nothing but strength.”

We stood locked there, predator to predator, neither yielding. And though unspoken, the bond coiled tighter with every poisoned breath, weaving a thread that neither of us could cut.

The obsidian chairs were set across from one another, a gulf of stone and etiquette meant to hold us apart. I ignored it. Instead of taking my seat, I drifted to his side, the sweep of my gown whispering against the floor. With the ease of one who had never feared propriety, I perched on the edge of his chair, shoulders nearly touching his.

Drazhael went still. He could smell the musk of my poisons, sharper up close, and beneath it something softer — the scent of spores and earth, alien in this stone hall. His gaze dropped to the delicate curve of my neck, a stray lock of blackened hair brushing forward to reveal the small beauty mark above my collarbone. The sight struck him harder than any dagger.

And then he saw them — faint, nearly invisible in the faerzress glow: tiny spores clinging to my skin like motes of dust, alive, breathing with me.

His lips parted, though no words came.

I tilted my head toward him, eyes alight with sly amusement. “You study me like a spell, First Son. Do you mean to unravel me so quickly?”

His reply came low, rougher than he intended. “You are… not as others.”

My smile deepened, dangerous, knowing. I leaned just close enough for my breath to brush his ear. “And would you have me be?”

His gauntleted hand flexed on his thigh, instinct urging him to seize, to claim what Lolth had dangled before him. But he held fast, crimson eyes betraying the hunger burning through him.

“If you are a snare,” he murmured, “then I will be the fool who steps willingly into it.”

A laugh slipped from me, soft and sharp, velvet wrapped around a knife. My hand grazed the edge of his vambrace, fingertips cool against steel. “Then, my lord, perhaps I will allow you the chance to prove it.”

My laughter still lingered when Drazhael reached into his cloak. The motion was fluid, unhurried, yet the chamber shifted with its weight. He drew a dagger — sleek blackened steel, violet sheen along its edge, his own spellcraft etched into the blade. The hilt was bound in spider-silk cord, the pommel carved into the suggestion of a fang. Not some bauble from Baenre’s vault. His work.

He turned it once in his palm, the violet edge catching faerzress light, then offered it hilt-first to me. “A courtship should not be words alone.”

My eyes lit with something sharp, hungry. I accepted, fingers brushing his as I took its weight. The weapon fit my hand perfectly, as if he had measured me before shaping it.

“You forged this?” My voice was soft, though I already knew.

He inclined his head. “Steel holds truth better than parchment. May it strike for you when words fail.”

I lifted the blade, letting the glow dance across its surface, and extended my free hand.

He caught it without hesitation. Bowing over my fingers, his lips brushed my knuckles — lingering too long for politics, too reverent for lust. Worship dressed as courtesy, his breath caught against my skin.

The spores shimmered faintly where his lips touched, drifting as though they sought to taste him in return.

When he finally drew back, his voice came rough as stone. “This is my vow, Ambrose. To guard you, or fall by your side.”

My lips curved slow, dangerous, and—perhaps—pleased. “Then I shall keep you close, First Son. Close enough to see if your vow holds.”

Chapter 13: Chapter Thirteen: The Spider’s Masquerade

Summary:

The spring ball unfurls in gilded splendor, but the music falters the moment Ambrose enters—her gown and jeweled spider brooch turning every gaze. Across the hall, Thranduil watches with a predator’s restraint, Legolas wrestles with intrigue and jealousy, and Elrond courts answers wrapped in velvet diplomacy. In the shadows, Maegor’s golden eyes gleam, his hidden tether thrumming through the brooch. Each step Ambrose takes is another strand in her weaving

The music faltered. Not stopped—just… faltered. As if the strings themselves forgot their place the moment you crossed the threshold, bow and string trembling with hesitation. Notes hung suspended in the golden glow of the chamber, quivering, until silence threatened to swallow them whole.

You did not rush. No. You let the great carved doors swing wide at their own pace, spilling you into the hall with measured grandeur. The hinges groaned like old voices straining to announce you. Your steps carried slowly, deliberately, each one ringing sharp against the polished stone, the metallic clatter of your tinned heels echoing into the hush. It was not only sound; it was a declaration. Every click a reminder that you came armed in presence alone.

The gown moved like poured ink over your frame—blackened violet swallowing the torchlight until the silken fabric caught and shifted, revealing hidden slivers of deep wine-red pleats. Those flashes came sudden, like blood glimpsed beneath skin. The bodice clung close, threaded with silver filigree, each line drawn into spiderweb patterns so delicate they seemed woven from strands of moonlight. The fabric shimmered with restraint, hinting at artistry and menace both.

At the center, at the hollow of your chest, the brooch caught the eye before all else. A spider wrought in jeweled detail: its body gleamed with a light not wholly from the chandeliers above, as if it possessed its own faint pulse. Each facet of its tiny gem eyes captured the hall in miniature reflections, scattering a hundred courts back at themselves. The legs arched outward with an elegance that seemed alive, a careful mimicry of motion, anchored so naturally into your embroidery that onlookers might have believed the creature resting on your breast to be fused with flesh rather than stitched in metal.

The court did not breathe. Their silence was not reverence alone but unease, held taut like a string drawn too far. Even whispers dared not stir the air. They could only watch, each noble pinned in place as though your very presence carried chains that wound about their throats.

Your hair was no less deliberate. The heavy length had been pleated and bound in silver chains that caught the candlelight, each loop and drape chosen to bare the entire sweep of your back. The gown’s cut dipped low, exposing skin grey beneath the net of woven silver threads stitched into spiderwebs across your spine. As you moved, those chains shifted, chiming faintly, catching again the flash of hidden violet from the skirts, so that every step became a shifting tapestry of shadow, gem, and glinting steel.

You did not smile yet. Not for them. Your lips held composure sharp as a blade’s edge, a refusal and a promise both. This unveiling belonged to you, and you alone would decide when to grant them even the smallest curve of satisfaction.

And as you descended the final steps into the hall, you felt the weight of every gaze tighten like a noose. None dared look away. Among the sea of faces, one focus burned brightest—familiar, fierce, and unrelenting. Thranduil’s eyes, sharp as a hawk’s, seared across the distance, claiming you in silence. And just behind that, heavier still, older, stranger—another gaze. Ancient, laden with something colder than desire, more patient than envy. A gaze that felt as though the brooch at your chest was not merely an ornament, but an eye opened, watching the hall with you, judging as you judged.

The music faltered again, then caught, notes trembling as though bowstrings themselves bowed to your entrance.

Thranduil was the first to move. Not toward you—never so obvious—but in the smallest roll of his jaw, the kind of motion he only used when the hunt had already begun. His eyes drank in every calculated detail, sharp as a hawk measuring prey: the jeweled spider brooch glinting with a life of its own, the pale streaks in your hair left uncovered as though they were banners of defiance, the echoing cadence of your heels striking the polished floor. Behind his composed stillness simmered that tightly banked flare of territorial heat, kept smoldering like a fire hidden behind glass. It was there in the hard line of his shoulders, the slight expansion of his chest as he drew breath, the way his gaze refused to break even for an instant.

Legolas swallowed before he could stop himself. Not because you were beautiful—though you were, undeniably—but because in that moment you looked untouchable, cloaked in more than silk and jewels. There was a barrier around you, woven from will and web, and it caught him off guard. The tightening in his chest wasn’t simple admiration. It was the sharper sting of uncertainty: was the impulse to shield that untouchable presence, to guard it from every eye in the hall… or was it to test it, to see if the weave would hold under his hand? That unsettled him more than he would admit, even to himself.

Elrond’s brows lifted, only slightly, but with the weight of a man whose mind was never still. His gaze lingered on you in quiet appreciation. Not desire—not yet—but recognition. Recognition of a political creature who knew her power and wielded it with precision sharp enough to cut marble. He was already calculating how your words might sound if offered across his table, what currents you would stir in Rivendell’s halls, how your alliances could braid themselves as deftly as the chains bound into your hair.

And from the shadowed tier above the dance floor, Maegor leaned forward. Not enough to be seen—never that careless—but enough that the brooch at your chest warmed faintly against your skin. A heat that did not belong to chandeliers or torchlight. As if his gaze alone, hidden in the dark, was enough to stir the fragment of himself he had left coiled within that ornament. The weight of it settled at the base of your throat, invisible but undeniable, a whisper only you could feel.

The King’s composure carried a faint edge of smugness as you crossed the floor toward him, your heels a deliberate metronome against the hush of polished stone. Your eyes never wavered from his figure—immaculately tailored, framed by the low gold glow of lanterns and the gilded sweep of the hall. Every inch of him was designed to remind the court of his dominion. And still, you met it unflinching.

You dipped in a soft curtsy. “King—”
To untrained ears, the word would have sounded polite. Deferential, even. But beneath the silk was a razor, a backhanded bite threaded through the syllable, one that he alone could taste. You had not yielded; you had set the trap in courtesy’s disguise.

Legolas stood just beside him, his gaze flicking between you both with the faintest furrow in his brow. He knew that tone. He knew what it meant: the game between you and his father was far from over. His lips parted as though to intervene, but he held his tongue. It was not his place—yet.

Thranduil’s lips curved, but it was not quite a smile. More the measured flex of a predator humoring the prey bold enough to bare its throat—or its fangs. The expression might have passed unnoticed by the others in the hall, but Legolas caught it. He always caught it. The flicker in his father’s eyes was there—the dangerous gleam that came before he made a move, before the snare was sprung. Legolas’s own shoulders straightened, tension creeping into his frame, though his gaze betrayed him by sliding once more over the pleats of your gown, the fall of silk, the pale streaks of hair uncovered like banners in defiance. You looked untouchable, untamed. And he hated, quietly and bitterly, that he was not sure whether the urge rising in him was to guard that… or to test it himself.

“Lady Veylthra,” Thranduil said at last. The title came smooth but weighted, voice curling like smoke around the syllables. “You are… radiant this evening.”

Your eyes glinted as though you heard every unspoken word beneath it—and found them infuriating. “And you, my king,” you returned, letting the words hang between you like perfume, “wear that crown as if it were made for you.” The syllables dripped with irony, silk over steel, daring him to push further.

Legolas’s brows lifted again, subtle but telling. To the rest of the hall, it might have seemed civility, a polite exchange between monarch and guest. But to him it was sharper, more dangerous—an intricate, deliberate dance balanced one step from civility and one step from something that would bare teeth.

When you shifted, letting your gaze sweep deliberately between father and son, Thranduil’s knuckles flexed once at his side. Subtle, nearly invisible, but not missed. You saw it. And so did Legolas. And the sight pleased you—pleased you enough to let your lips curl in the faintest shadow of amusement.

The moment tightened between the three of you like silk drawn to snapping, tension stretched so fine that even the court seemed to feel it. You let it hold, savoring the strain, then broke it with the faintest incline of your head before you stepped past.

Your skirts whispered across the floor as you moved, pleats swaying with a precision that mirrored your poise. Every step seemed to draw breath back into the room, yet no one dared exhale too loudly. The hall followed you, tethered by unseen threads, until the fabric stilled before a darker-haired figure.

“Elrond,” you greeted, your voice smoothing into something warmer—not the sharp silk you had offered Thranduil, but velvet that welcomed, velvet that promised.

He turned from his small circle of courtiers, the faintest lift of his brows betraying surprise—and perhaps the rare edge of pleasure. You did not curtsy this time. Instead, you reached for his hand, fingers curling lightly over his knuckles before your lips grazed them, lingering long enough to make the old gesture resonate with new meaning. It was a ritual as old as any alliance sealed in blood or shadow, and you wielded it as deftly as a blade.

“You look as though this room has already worn on you,” you teased, tone measured with that playful lilt, enough to coax the quietest smile from him without ever demanding it.

“And you,” he returned, voice carrying that even weight only he possessed, the kind that steadied as much as it provoked, “look as though you have not let it touch you at all.”

Your laughter came low, velvet-soft, a current that leaned close without closing the gap. “I’ve learned a few tricks.” Your free hand settled briefly over his, the touch delicate yet deliberate, lingering long enough to feel the quiet strength beneath the surface. This weaving was not the barbed snare you spun for Thranduil, but a gentler thread, one meant to tether and anchor. You liked how Elrond’s questions cut through the noise of politics, how his gaze never dulled even when surrounded by endless ceremony. He was a different kind of player, one who listened before striking.

“Walk with me,” you coaxed, velvet threading through your words, warm yet edged with invitation. “I still have yet to hear how your people view the night—and I suspect you have questions of your own.”

You did not need to glance back to know Thranduil’s pale eyes followed as Elrond bent his arm for your hand. The court’s noise dulled, your laughter drifting lightly against the din as music swelled and guided you both into the quieter edges of the hall where conversations softened into murmurs.

“You wished to know more of my people,” you began, eyes glinting like obsidian under lanternlight. “I could speak of our cities, our wars, our gods. But I think you’d prefer the more… intimate truths.”

Elrond’s lips quirked, silent permission. You leaned close enough for the ruby spider at your back to glimmer in the glow. “We are matriarchal. Women rule—not in name alone, but in truth. The matrons’ words outweigh steel. Men have their uses, but power? That is only ever given when earned—and rarely held long.” Your fingers traced idle patterns against his sleeve, calculated but artful.

He tilted his head, curiosity brightening the calm in his gaze. “And the men? What place is theirs in such a structure?”

The smile you offered was almost pitying. Almost. “Where the women wish them to be.” You let the words breathe before continuing, voice dipping into the cadence of a secret shared. “Some serve as advisors, some as warriors. Others as companions. It is not unusual for a powerful woman to keep a harem—men, women, both. Unions are rarely for love. They are for legacy. For survival.”

His composure stayed, but you saw the flicker in his eyes, the image forming behind the careful mask. “You seem… comfortable with such an arrangement.”

“Comfortable?” Your voice unfurled like smoke. “It is the air I breathe. Power should be worn like a second skin, Lord Elrond. Anything else invites weakness.”

Together you watched the dancers, their silks flashing under firelight. Thranduil’s gaze burned across the distance like a drawn bowstring, and gods—you loved it. Your voice slipped lower, for Elrond alone. “Would you like to know where the men in such harems sleep?”

He hesitated, then leaned that fraction closer. “Yes.”

Your smile bloomed, wicked and slow. “Wherever their mistress wishes them. Sometimes beside her. Sometimes at her feet. And sometimes, if they’ve pleased her greatly…” you let the pause stretch until it tightened between you, “…in her bed, but not for sleep.”

If Elrond was unsettled, he masked it. Only his thumb tapped against your gloved hand, a tell he likely didn’t realize betrayed him. “Fascinating,” he murmured, the word heavy now, weighed by thought.

You laughed, letting it curl like silk between you. “And the glowcaps—you’d adore them. Fungi that bloom with gentle light, enough to read by. Entire halls are lined with their glow. Then there are razorvines—beautiful, but touch them and they’ll strip skin in ribbons. And blood orchids…” your voice grazed his ear, velvet-dark, “those only thrive where the soil has been… well-fertilized.”

Elrond’s lips curved faintly. “You make the Underdark sound almost inviting.”

“It is—for those who belong there.” Your head tilted, studying him as though measuring his shape in that unseen world. “These people remind me of the High Elves of my own—proud, elegant, a touch too fond of their own reflection. But you…” Your smile softened, with something sharper beneath. “You strike me more like a Wood Elf. Minus the leathers, of course.”

You were so intent on Elrond you almost missed the shift. The air cooled, and Thranduil’s shadow stretched across you both, sliding in quiet as a blade unsheathed. “A charming comparison,” he said, tone smooth but edged. “Though tell me—what would that make me in your world?”

Elrond’s brows rose, though his arm did not move from yours. You turned slowly, lips curving with the bite of a knife. “The High Elf, without question.”

Thranduil’s pale eyes locked, unblinking. “High,” he repeated, tasting the word. “Yes. We have our ways.”

“Mm,” you hummed, feigning lightness even as your hand tightened imperceptibly on Elrond’s arm. “And I have mine.”

The music dulled, chatter dimmed. The three of you stood in a tension more dangerous than any song. You angled yourself so both kings fell within your gaze. “Tell me,” you said lightly, though the spark in your eyes was steel, “where are your half-elves?”

Elrond blinked once. “Half-elves?”

“Yes,” you replied, silk sharpened into steel. “Surely they exist here. Even in the city of spiders we have half-Drow—born of alliance, or of less formal arrangements. Yet not one in this court. Not even a whisper.”

Thranduil’s gaze narrowed, cool and calculating. “They are rare. Those who live do not often linger in courts.”

“Why?” Your curiosity cut genuine. “Are they not welcome?”

“They are not… unwelcome,” Elrond said carefully, his eyes flicking toward Thranduil for a fleeting moment. “But the world is not kind to those between realms. They often choose one path and keep to it.”

“Ah.” Your lips curved faintly. “So the same as in my world—only less honest.”

Thranduil’s jaw tightened, subtle but visible. “And in your Underdark, these half-Drow… are they treated well?”

“They are treated according to station,” you said smoothly. “Blood matters—but so does wit. A child of mixed blood can rise if clever enough. Or fall just as far if not.” Your smile deepened, though your eyes did not soften. “It is, in some ways, a fairer game.”

Elrond’s face remained thoughtful, unreadable. Thranduil’s stare bore down like weighty chains against your skin.

“And these alliances,” Elrond pressed, his tone polite but intent. “Do Drow often mix with other races?”

Your smile tilted languidly. “Often enough. Sometimes for strategy. Sometimes for pleasure. Sometimes both.”

Thranduil’s stance shifted, subtle but betraying that the words struck.

“With elves?” Elrond asked, as though idle. But the way his fingers shifted on his glass betrayed tension.

“Oh, yes,” you said without hesitation. “And dwarves. Humans. Tieflings. Orcs. The Underdark is generous in its appetites. My people value skill, beauty, power above blood. If you can thrive, you belong. If not…” you let your shoulders rise and fall, almost careless. “You don’t.”

“And you?” Elrond’s question slid softer than the music. “Would you mix your blood?”

Thranduil’s gaze seared, unyielding.

You met Elrond’s eyes, your mouth curving sharp. “If I found a partner worth the game,” you said, voice dropping so only the two kings could hear, “I would not hesitate.”

The words sparked like tinder. Elrond’s mask stayed unreadable, his thoughts hidden. Thranduil’s, though, clamped silent and possessive around your answer.

You left Elrond with the faintest brush of your fingers along his cheek, so soft it might have been nothing—or everything. His eyes followed longer than decorum allowed.

You passed Thranduil without pause. Your shoulder grazed his, the violet-sweet scent of you laced with sharper undertones trailing after. It was not enough. It was never meant to be.

The music swelled, laughter and goblets clinking as though nothing had shifted. You moved through it all like smoke, gown flowing in shadowed currents, jeweled spider catching firelight in flashes.

And then you found him. The golden-eyed guest—half in shadow, half in light—watching you with the patience of a predator who knew the prey would come. His stillness was absolute, his attention fixed.

You drifted toward him without breaking stride, as if the crowd itself had shaped the path. He did not move, not even when silence pooled between the columns. Only the faint shift of his golden eyes marked your approach, drinking in every deliberate step.

“You keep to the edges,” you murmured, a chide clothed as courtesy. “Do you fear the light?”

His mouth curved, a shape balanced between smile and threat. “I prefer the vantage it offers.”

Your gaze slid over him, slow and knowing. “A hunter’s answer.”

He tilted his head, candlelight grazing the angles of his cheekbones, sharpening them like blades. “And you, little spider? Still casting threads through every corner of the court?”

Your lips curved, mirroring his with equal weight. “The web must be maintained.” The brooch at your breast grew warm, pulsing as though alive, each thrum echoing the weight of his stare until it seemed your very heartbeat was not your own.

He leaned in—not to touch, but close enough for his voice to slip into shadow. “And what happens when your prey comes willingly to be caught?”

Your fingers played with the goblet stem, smile silk edged with teeth. “Depends,” you murmured. “On whether I intend to keep them… or let them struggle.”

The gold in his eyes darkened, firelight catching. “Struggling can be… exquisite.”

You held his gaze, unblinking. “So can surrender.”

He didn’t ask. One moment he watched with that predator’s stillness, the next his gloved hand extended—precise, commanding. A summons, not an offer.

You set your goblet aside and accepted. Heat radiated through leather, steady as a brand. He drew you onto the floor as the musicians bent the song slower, older, heavy with pauses that felt like breaths between strikes. A hunting song in courtly dress.

You moved together, circling. Not lovers, not strangers, but predators measuring reach. His palm pressed at the base of your spine, right where the ruby spider gleamed, heat bleeding through silk and silver thread.

You let him guide, but never yielded. Every pivot, every step was a message. I see you. A turn—I will not break. The sweep of skirts across his legs—yet I can be coaxed.

“You wear your power openly,” he said, voice pitched for you alone. “Even here, where they cannot yet name it.”

“Should I hide it?” you countered, tilting your head, teeth flashing in a smile that cut.

He studied you as they spun, unhurried. “No. But you must choose whether to let them think they have time to prepare.”

Your fingers flexed lightly against his shoulder. “And you? Are you preparing, golden eyes?”

His smirk was dangerous, sharp. He pulled you closer until the brooch thrummed, answering. “I’m learning,” he murmured at your ear, blade-smooth. “And when I’ve learned enough…”

The music slowed further, chords drawn taut like bowstrings before release.

“…we’ll see which of us survives the other.”

You parted without bow or curtsy, leaving the court uneasy, stirred by something they could not name yet could not ignore.

Across the floor, Thranduil saw everything. The deliberate way you moved, the ruby spider pulsing beneath another’s hand, the too-familiar cadence of your steps with his. He did not look away. Not when your skirts brushed a rival’s leg. Not when you leaned close to catch words. Not even when you laughed—that rare, low sound he had fought weeks to earn and now heard given freely.

Legolas glanced once at his father, reading tension like a student studying a storm. The king’s face was smooth glass, betraying nothing. Yet behind it, territorial heat smoldered, banked but waiting.

And when the dance ended, when you stepped back without a glance toward the dais, Thranduil’s hands flexed once at his sides.

He could wait. He could play the long game. But before the night was over, you would remember whose court this was.

You slipped through the crowd like silk through fingers—untouchable, uncontainable. Another lord bowed low, begging the next dance, and you accepted with teeth flashing half grace, half challenge. The music swelled again, strings weaving around your skirts as they whispered with each turn.

They asked of your travels, your world, your gown. You answered with glittering fragments, bright enough to dazzle but never to anchor. A laugh here, a sharp remark there, a brush of fingertips—all deliberate, another strand cast.

From the dais Thranduil’s eyes followed. You danced with Elrond, with allies and rivals, even those who lingered too close. You allowed just enough to intrigue, never enough to own. And when you turned, it was not them you sought. It was him.

Your gazes met in fleeting snatches between bows, enough to keep heat simmering low in his chest. Enough to keep him waiting for the moment you would stand alone, skirts settled, no partner at your side. Then he would move—not waiting. Claiming.

The next bow was not from a courtier. It was from a king.

Thranduil stepped into your path with a grace that drew silence like a tide. His hand extended, palm up, not an offer but an expectation. “Ambrose.” Your name was silk, your name was blade.

You placed your hand in his. The music bent slower still, laden with unspoken weight. His hand claimed your waist, pressure just shy of possession. “You’ve kept yourself busy,” he murmured, his breath brushing hot against your ear. “Half the court already covets you.”

You smiled sharp as obsidian, answering in Drowic: “And yet here I am, in your hands.”

His smirk curved, dangerous. In the same tongue his reply came low, steady. “You weave well. But do you know what happens to prey caught in the wrong web?”

Your head tilted, steps flawless. “Perhaps I am the spider, my king. Have you considered that?”

A spin drew you flush against his chest, then forward again, his voice warm and perilous. “Perhaps. But even spiders may be caught—if one knows where to strike.”

Around you the court held its breath. Envy, awe, recalculations all writ clear. This was no dance but a duel—poise the weapon, the floor the arena.

As the music edged toward its end, he pulled you closer than propriety allowed, palm firm at the small of your back. In Drowic, words like molten iron: “Careful, Ambrose. I can play this game as long as you.”

Your smile gleamed lethal. “Good. I’d hate for you to bore me.”

The final note rang out, and you parted with a bow—two predators draped in perfect grace. Polite applause followed, threaded with speculation.

You curtsied, spider brooch flaring a blood-red spark. Thranduil bowed, his eyes refusing to release you even after formality passed. When you drew your hand from his, fingertips grazed his palm like a whispered promise before you turned, weaving back into the throng, smoke slipping through gilded air.

He watched every step, each tilt of your head an invitation spun without ever glancing back.

And the court took note. Of a king who danced like one staking claim. Of a Drow who danced like one making him earn it.

By the time you vanished into silks and murmurs, one unspoken question threaded through the golden hall: Who would claim your time next?