Viggo
Círdan is exactly where I expected him to be. Standing on one of Silvenglen’s high bridges, overlooking the glowing forest below, hands clasped behind his back like he’s posing for a portrait. The moonlight catches in his silver hair, making him look every bit the serene, perfect Elven prince.
I’m not fooled. My gut twists with distrust, an uneasy chill settling over my skin.
I march toward him, boots thudding against the living wood. He doesn’t turn. Doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t even pretend he missed my approach.
“Viggo,” he says calmly. “Enjoying the evening?”
I grit my teeth. “No.”
He finally turns, brows raised. "This is about my father, isn’t it?"
“Where is he?” I demand, the anger in my voice barely masking the panic rising in my chest. I don’t care how aggressive it sounds.
