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Myríel stood at the top of the grand staircase, her breath catching in her throat as she gazed down at the scene below. The dress her maids had laced her into was exquisite, a deep emerald green that shimmered like the forest at twilight. It hugged her figure closely, accentuating the shape the corset had molded, and the fine gold embroidery along the hem and bodice caught the light with every slight movement. Her hair, woven into intricate braids and adorned with small jewels, cascaded down her back like a golden waterfall.
But despite the beauty of her appearance, Myríel felt a wave of apprehension. The engagement banquet loomed ahead like a dark cloud, and the weight of her responsibilities pressed down on her shoulders.
Her brother, Legolas, appeared beside her, his presence a small comfort in the midst of her unease. He was clad in his finest robes, the rich blue fabric enhancing the brightness of his clear, sapphire eyes. He smiled at her, offering his arm with a brotherly warmth that contrasted the coldness she knew awaited her in the grand hall.
"Are you ready, sister?" he asked softly, his voice filled with gentle concern.
Myríel nodded, though the tightness in her chest made it hard to breathe. "As ready as I ever shall be."
Legolas gave her arm a reassuring squeeze as she laced it through his, and together they began their descent down the staircase. The soft rustle of her skirts and the light tap of their footsteps on the marble echoed through the corridor as they approached the towering double doors of the grand hall.
As the doors were pulled open with a deep creak, revealing the splendour within, Myríel felt a surge of intimidation. The hall was filled with the finest elves of noble blood, their elegant attire reflecting the grandeur of the occasion. The room itself was a masterpiece of elven craftsmanship, with high arched ceilings adorned with intricate carvings of vines and leaves, their curves mirroring the natural beauty of the forest. Candlelight flickered from tall candelabras, casting a warm, golden glow over the scene.
At the far end of the room, seated at the head of the long, ornate table, was her father, Thranduil. His presence was imposing, his gaze sharp as it swept over the guests. Seated beside him, the seat directly to his side remaining conspicuously vacant, were the honored guests of the evening—Eridor's family, resplendent in their finery. They were a picture of elven nobility, with faces that bore the haughty expressions of those who knew their station well.
As Myríel and Legolas entered the hall, the murmurs of conversation died away, replaced by the quiet rustle of fabric and the soft clinking of glass as the guests turned to scrutinise her. She felt their eyes upon her, assessing and judging every detail of her appearance. Her father's gaze was no less critical, and when she met his eyes, she saw a faint nod of approval, though it did little to ease her discomfort.
