Chapter 12: Whispers of Approach
The throne room was a cavern of cold elegance, its towering pillars carved with elven runes that glowed faintly in the torchlight, their lines whispering of ancient oaths and forgotten kings. The air was thick with the spiced scent of Thranduil's wine, a false warmth that did little to soften the hall's stone chill. Mark stood in a shadowed corner, his tunic damp with sweat, clinging to his skin, chafing his shoulders. His wrists throbbed, raw from old chains, and he rubbed them, the sting a sharp anchor to reality. The dust of the hall gritted his teeth, his throat dry, the wine's aroma a tantalizing tease he couldn't touch. "Thorin's here. Game's on," he thought, his modern lilt a defiant spark in this ancient place.
Theryn, a wiry Mirkwood scout, knelt before Thranduil, her cloak rustling like dry leaves, her forest-earth scent sharp in the air. Her voice trembled, urgent, echoing off the stone. "My king," she said, her eyes darting, "the dwarves… Thorin Oakenshield's company. They're in the cells."
Mark's pulse surged, adrenaline flooding his veins, his meta-knowledge a blueprint for his next move. "Gotta control this," he thought, rubbing his wrist, the sting grounding his racing thoughts. He needed to block Kili from Tauriel, to steer the narrative away from their fated meeting. His moral hypocrisy gnawed at him—manipulating events to protect his own interests, like Rick Grimes rigging a deal to save his people, a survivor's trick he wasn't proud of but couldn't abandon.
[Quest: Control the Dwarves. Reward: 200 Essence.]
Thranduil leaned forward, his silver-blonde hair glinting, his jeweled crown catching the torchlight like a star. His silk robes rustled, the wine's aroma lingering as he sipped from a silver goblet, his eyes gleaming with greed. "Excellent," he said, voice a low, cold hum, echoing like wind through the hall. "They carry a treasure map. I want it. They will surrender it to me."
He turned to Sylvara, a court elf with silk robes that swished softly, her voice a murmur as she nodded. "Order the patrols heightened," Thranduil commanded, his gaze sharp, unyielding. "Watch their every move."
[Intuition +0.2. Kings are predictable.]
Mark's lips twitched, a grin he hid behind a neutral mask. Thranduil's greed was a lever he could pull, a weakness to exploit. "He's playing into my hands," he thought, his wrist stinging as he rubbed it, the system's runes humming faintly, their snarky tone a prod. The hall's runes pulsed, their glow a reminder of elven power, a faded carving of a broken crown on the wall whispering of a king's fall, its story silent but heavy.
Tauriel stood nearby, her red hair glowing like fire, her green eyes fixed on Thranduil, her face a mask of stone. Her leather armor creaked, the lavender scent clinging to her a soft contrast to the hall's chill. Mark caught her gaze, a spark of connection igniting, but her silence was heavy, her sharp ears catching every word. "She's watching me, too," he thought, his heart pounding, guilt and admiration warring in his chest.
He acted on impulse, a mischievous grin spreading as he summoned Phase Echo, the system's runes buzzing like a glitchy storm. A shimmering duplicate flickered before Tauriel, clumsy and amateur, its form wavering before dissolving into a cloud of blue light, a comedic fizzle that sparked in the air. Tauriel's eyes widened, then softened, a melodic laugh escaping, bright and sharp, cutting through the hall's tension like a blade. She covered her mouth, a smirk playing on her lips, her gaze warm, unguarded.
"You're hopeless," she said, voice soft, amused, her dagger hand still, the leather silent for once.
"Hopelessly charming," Mark replied, winking, his modern lilt a spark in the tension, his grin reckless despite the ache in his chest.
[Tauriel Trust +10%. Finally, progress.]
The system's jab was a spark in his mind, but her laugh was a victory, a fragile bond growing stronger, like allies sharing a rare moment in a ruined world. A memory flashed: his sister, laughing at his clumsy magic tricks, her voice bright as she tossed popcorn at him, the scent of butter sharp in his nose. The ache of it tightened his chest, but he shoved it down, rubbing his wrist, the sting grounding his thoughts. The broken crown watched silently, its faded lines a reminder of the stakes, the hall's chill seeping into his bones.
In a quiet moment, Mark lingered by the carving, his fingers tracing its jagged edges, the stone rough under his touch. The hall was silent, save for the distant rustle of Thranduil's robes, the wine's aroma lingering like a false promise. "I'm ready," he thought, the system's runes pulsing faintly, their snarky tone a constant prod. The dwarves were here, and he had a plan, a power, and a bond worth fighting for. His wrist stung as he rubbed it, the raw skin a sharp reminder of his purpose, his resolve hardening despite the chill of the hall and the shadow of his own hypocrisy.
To supporting Me in Pateron .
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