While Prince Finrod sent word ahead to his sister in the Grey Elven realm, Rowan Mercer returned to the steady rhythm of his days.
His routine had settled into two clear halves.
First, long discussions with the elven instructors responsible for magic and forging. Rowan absorbed their theories, methods, and instincts, then folded what he learned into his own growing alchemical framework. Second, direct instruction. Elves and humans alike came to the academy to learn from him, though what Rowan taught was deliberately limited.
Only three branches of magic.
The first was meditation. A structured method that allowed practitioners to gather and refine magical energy. Elves were born with magic woven into their bodies. Humans were not. Without meditation, most humans could never cast even the simplest spell. And even with it, only some possessed the aptitude to progress.
Compared to elves, humans were fragile creatures. Short-lived, physically weaker, lacking innate magic. Elves were graceful, ageless, powerful, and deadly with a bow almost from birth. By contrast, humans often felt like an afterthought.
Yet humanity had advantages of its own.
They multiplied quickly. Where elves might welcome a handful of children over centuries, humans replaced entire generations in that same span. The human groups that had migrated west and reunited had already grown many times over.
More importantly, humans learned fast.
Because time pressed on them, those with magical talent devoted themselves completely. Where elves drifted through centuries, humans burned through years with fierce focus. An elven student might study a spell, then return to it days later between songs and celebrations. A human would obsess over it until sleep and practice blurred together.
The result was undeniable.
Barahir's son, Beren, only ten years old, had mastered meditation and his first light-based spell in just a few months. Rowan could only shake his head at the boy's potential. Legends did not grow from nothing.
Rowan was aware of the irony. In another version of history, Beren and Lúthien would one day become a legend together. But now, the boy was still a child, and Lúthien had already lived for more than three thousand years. If she came to the academy as an instructor, they would meet as teacher and student, not as lovers.
Paths were already shifting.
Rowan had altered the great melody of the world. Lives were bending in new directions. If Ilúvatar disapproved, Rowan suspected he would already know.
And since no divine hand had descended to correct him, Rowan took that silence as permission.
Three days later, Finrod returned.
"It's time," the prince said. "Galadriel will meet you near the forest of Region, close to the Esgalduin River. She'll guide you into the Grey Elven realm."
Rowan nodded. "I'll do everything I can to persuade Thingol."
With that, he spread his wings and lifted from the Elven City, flying south toward Doriath.
Between his starting point and his destination lay the Mountains of Terror and the Valley of Death. Morgoth had poured much of his power into the land itself, warping it into a breeding ground for monsters. The valley marked a place where divine forces had once clashed, and blood-hungry creatures still prowled its depths.
Even elves avoided it.
Rowan did not.
He crossed the mountains and valley in a straight line and soon arrived at the outer boundary of the Grey Elven realm.
"So this is Melian's Girdle," Rowan murmured.
A radiant barrier shimmered around the forest, faintly prismatic, like light bent through unseen glass. When Rowan touched it, he felt layered space folding back on itself, rules rewritten with quiet authority.
This was no ordinary spell.
Only brute force could break it. Not even Rowan's spatial magic could slip through without invitation.
"I thought you'd arrive by nightfall," a voice said. "You're earlier than expected."
The barrier parted smoothly, opening a passage. A woman stepped through, wearing a white gown, her deep golden hair catching the light. Her tone carried effortless pride.
"You're Princess Galadriel," Rowan said.
He had seen many elven women, and beauty among elves was hardly rare. But Galadriel carried something more. Light itself seemed to favor her, not merely adorning her features, but shaping her presence.
"Yes," she replied, eyes flicking over him. "And you must be Rowan Mercer. Hm. You look… ordinary."
She folded her arms. "I heard you saved my brothers. If they hadn't stopped me from going, things wouldn't have gone so poorly for them. Still… thank you."
Then, almost as an afterthought, she added, "Don't expect much from this visit. Thingol won't send troops. I'd bet my hair on it."
Rowan smiled, unbothered. "We'll see. Some things change only when you stand in front of them."
Galadriel snorted softly, half-dismissive, half-amused.
She was nothing like the composed queen she would one day become. This Galadriel was sharp-edged, proud, and restless, a princess still testing the world.
And Rowan followed her into the forest.