Viggo
Silvenglen is too quiet.
Too perfect.
Too… watchful.
Arwen walks beside me, her hand warm in mine, her eyes wide with wonder as she takes in the glowing bridges, the crystalline waterfalls, the Elves drifting through the air like living starlight.
But all I feel is the magic. It presses against my skin like a second atmosphere—ancient, intelligent. It makes my heart race, leaving me both awed and uneasy. Far too interested in us. In her.
My Lycan snarls beneath my ribs.
I don’t trust this place. I don’t trust their King. It isn’t because I fear Arendil will harm Arwen—if he tried, I would destroy him and every last Elf in his kingdom. That much I know with certainty. When he saw her, he looked at her like she was the last piece of his heart. Yet I feel uneasy. There’s somethin
