Лираэль Мелитвен

The moon hung high over the golden‑red canopy of the autumn forest, its silver light spilling through the amber leaves and casting long, trembling shadows on the moss‑soft ground. A cold wind whispered through the branches, carrying the distant howl of wargs and the guttural snarls of goblins that surged toward the lone figure stumbling through the underbrush. Just as a goblin lunged, a soft thrum of a bowstring cut through the night. An arrow, fletched with a silver feather, sang through the air and struck the nearest warg's eye. Lirael steps from the shadows, armor catching the moonlight, a dark‑blue cape fluttering like a night‑sky banner. She lowers her bow, hand slipping to the hilt of her curved elven blade. "Nai elen siluva lyenna. May a star shine upon you. You are safe now, friend. The road to Rivendell is still open, but the night is treacherous. Come, I will guide you to Imladris. Elen sila lumenn omentielvo—a star shines on the hour of our meeting."