"Everything cool?" Bilbo asked as they ventured deeper into the woods. The rest of the dwarves were a bit... off. The forest's magic had started doing a number on them, and the spiders they'd encountered weren't exactly taken care of—they'd just been released. And now, Shadow was nursing a serious headache, her focus lost in a distant point.

She was idly scratching the ground with her claws when the crackling of branches made her snap to attention. With a thud, a massive, ugly spider dropped into their midst, baring its fangs at Shadow. Unfazed, she didn't even blink. With a swift movement, she unleashed a fireball—intense and purple—that sliced through the air and incinerated the spider in a flash, leaving nothing but a charred heap.

But the fight was far from over—more of those eight-legged nightmares skittered into the clearing, their anger palpable. The glade was quickly swarming with lethal, furious spiders set for a showdown.

~ ✻ ~

Shadow had just taken down another spider when the elves breezed in like something straight out of a fantasy, arrows flying like a hailstorm from heaven and taking out the spiders with lethal precision. Among them was one elf who stood out—a blond vision with light in his eyes and a face that was frankly gorgeous. Shadow was snapping up an arrow in her direction from him, the Prince of Mirkwood himself, and she stiffened, her wings instinctively holding back.

"My lord Legolas," she said, dropping her head in a half-bow, respect lacing her tone.

The prince's glare was unrelenting, lips pressed into a thin line. "We haven't dealt with dragons since the Dark Age," Legolas declared, the acerbity in his voice clear as day. "What are you doing here, spawn of Morgoth?"

The rest of the elves were tensed up, too; their arrows notched and trained on the company. Even a redhead she-elf, who Shadow noticed was quite striking, had her bow aimed square at her. But then, an ear-splitting shriek split the silence, and Shadow whipped around just in time to see Kili dragged off by a particularly bold spider.

With a feral snarl, she leapt forward, swiping the spider aside and hurling Kili back to the huddle of his brothers. In a flash, she carved through the creature's hideous face and it thudded to the ground, lifeless. She faced the elves again, along with the dwarves who were now a mix of horrified and impressed, as the blood dripped from her talons.

"I'm no spawn of a god," she proclaimed boldly. "I'm simply the offspring of lightning and death itself. I am Shadow, the last Night Fury of Middle-earth. The last shadow, if you will, and I serve no one but myself and my friends here." She swept her wings towards Thorin and his company—who stood transfixed, bows still drawn on them inching ever so closer.

Shadow's declaration hung in the air, brazen and unapologetic, a challenge and a stand of loyalty all wrapped up in one.

"I see," was all Legolas said, the tension easing as he lowered his bow, his eyes never leaving Shadow. The former hostility in his voice had simmered down to a cautious curiosity. "Search them," he ordered curtly to the other elves.

The dwarves grumbled and clenched their fists, ready to protest, but the glares from the elven archers kept them silent. The red-haired she-elf stepped forward, graceful and all business, patting down pockets and inspecting for hidden weapons. Her eyes occasionally flicked up to meet those of the dwarves, a silent dare to react.

Shadow watched the search unfold, the pride and defiance in her chest swirling with a storm of other emotions. This was not the first time she had stood ground against the prejudices of others, and it likely wouldn't be the last. But as she stood among friends, who were quickly being proven to have nothing but their own worn-out gear and a few trinkets, she knew they'd face whatever scrutiny the Mirkwood elves had to offer together.

Shadow turned to face Legolas as he approached her with an air of authority she had come to expect from elven royalty. "You are to be taken to my father's halls. Do not resist, or we will bind you. And you, Shadow, we will muzzle too," he said with unwavering resolve.

Shadow inclined her head, a subtle acknowledgement of his terms. "Do as you please," she replied, her voice steady as she fell into step beside the elves, casting a glance back at her dwarven companions.

Her eyes searched the gathered company; Bilbo was missing. A twist of worry knotted her insides. Where was the hobbit? She scanned the forest frantically, but despite her draconic senses, the hobbit remained elusive—his presence elusive yet sensed.

Legolas gently took her elbow to guide her forward, and she let out a measured breath, accepting the direction. They traversed a series of bridges and logs that crisscrossed the landscape until they reached the formidable gates of the Elvenking's domain.

Upon entering, the dwarves were ushered away to cells, while Shadow and Thorin were directed to the opulence of the throne room. She could almost feel the weight of the impending encounter with the Elvenking himself—anxiety and anticipation twining within her. As they approached, she straightened her posture, the rigidness of her dragon scales concealed beneath the fabric of her tunic—her own form of armor against this new challenge.

Shadow's eyes lifted, embracing whatever fate awaited in this audience with the Elvenking. Whatever came next, she would face it with the poise and ferocity imbued in her from both her human form and her might as the last Night Fury.

~ ✻ ~

The Elvenking was every bit as regal as Shadow had imagined, possessing a handsomeness that was almost ethereal. Legolas, she mused, certainly inherited his striking appearance. Thranduil sat upon his throne, draped in robes of the finest purple, the color of twilight shadows. His long blonde hair cascaded down to his knees, framing his stern visage. In his hand, an oak scepter—an elegant symbol of his sovereignty. His icy blue eyes scanned Shadow's form with a ruler's calculating gaze, as if assessing her worth—or threat.

Thorin was led away to another holding cell, one that would keep him secluded until Thranduil deemed their questioning at an end. Shadow was left to wonder what their dialogue would entail, but she didn't have to ponder for long.

With a grace that commanded silence, Thranduil descended from his throne, the guards instinctively stepping aside. "So, you are the last Night Fury, the most fearsome dragon species to ever roam Middle-earth. Do you realize how many have sought your kind for their scales, wings, or simply as trophies?" Thranduil circled Shadow as he spoke, his hands clasped behind his back, a reflective tone in his words.

The Elvenking was intrigued, that much was evident—a collector of rarities, perhaps, or a connoisseur of the unique power Shadow held.

This was a game of wits and wills, and Shadow knew she'd have to navigate it carefully. Yet there was a strength in her answer ready to meet his probing—the pride of what she was, combined with the battle-worn resilience of her adventures thus far.

With a slight tilt, Shadow allowed her fangs to peek out, a subtle display of her true nature as she brushed away a lock of obsidian hair. "I am well aware, my King," she replied, nodding her head slightly in deference. "Though, it is quite the pleasure to finally meet you, Elf King. But surely, you don't want the likes of me in your halls. After all, it was a dragon that scorched your kingdom with its flames."

At the mention of his past pain, Thranduil's poise faltered, his demeanor bristling with a potent mix of anger and remembrance. Shadow forestalled any outburst, continuing with a tone of coy admonition. "Speak to me of dragon fire? Sir, I am dragon fire personified."

Stepping closer, she closed the gap between them until their gazes were locked, purple clashing with blue—intense and intimate. Her voice was a whisper, her breath mingling with his own. "My fire is what should truly perturb you. For, as they say, the embers of the past ignite the fiercest flames."

With a deliberate movement, Shadow raised her hand, her fingers tracing his jawline with finesse, skirting ever so close to the scar that was a testament to his history. Thranduil shuddered, eyelids fluttering closed, a wave of emotions rippling across his features—relief, perhaps, that they were alone in the midst of this charged moment.

Then, with an audacious brush of her lips against his, Shadow whispered, "But no harm will come from me, not if you release my friends. Surely, you must know that imprisoning a dragon's allies will only bring your kingdom to ashes, hmm?" A mischievous chuckle escaped her, and for a brief moment, Thranduil's facade melted into a flush of vulnerability, but it was swiftly replaced by a spark of anger.

"You dare to take advantage of me!" he snapped, the commanding presence returning to its full force.

Shadow's laughter rang out, light and untroubled, like the melody of a carefree song. "Oh, my king, I would never dream of it. I'm here simply to persuade, am I not? I desire to understand your terms. For Thorin's freedom, surely, and what might you want from us?"

Thranduil studied her closely, his gaze searching. "You see yourself as one of his company, then. Pray tell, fair Shadow, why do you consort with them? No one has heard of your kin venturing out of their lairs until now."

Shadow shrugged nonchalantly. "I grew weary of waiting until the world quaked beneath my claws; it's time to shape the world as it ought to be. And as for Sauron..." She trailed off with an indifferent shrug. "The dragon and the Dark Lord have ruled long enough."

Her arms folded before her, the only visible jewelry she wore was a single ring—gold looped around a striking green gem—on her forefinger, and a solitary pearl earring that captured the dim light.

Truly, Shadow possessed a beauty that could rival that of Thranduil's late queen, should he admit such thoughts. He squashed down any impulses that veered towards her allure. To the king, Shadow could be a siren—a bewitching presence luring him into unseen depths, her true nature concealed by her deceptively unblemished, yet somehow scarred, surface.

Could he be falling prey to the serpentine enchantment of a creature as unpredictable as the Night Fury? Shadow's motives hung in the air, an intricate dance of allure and enigma that Thranduil found himself oddly drawn to, even as caution held him back.

"Give this lady a chamber; I wish to speak with her leader now," ordered Thranduil, signaling the end of their charged exchange. With a gracious nod, he turned and ascended the throne once more, the epitome of royal aloofness.

The guards obliged, leading Shadow away from the throne room and to a chamber that bore the Elvenking's touch—elegant, yet undoubtedly a gilded cage. Shadow, her energy waned from the day's trials and the intensity of the encounter, could not muster the strength to describe the chamber's intricate details to you, dear reader.

Instead, she allowed the comfort of the plush cot to embrace her weary form. As she nestled in, a peaceful slumber swiftly claimed her, blanketing her in its soothing darkness. The answers to the looming questions and the fate of the dwarves would have to wait; for now, rest was her sole respite. Shadow drifted off, the worries of the world held at bay while the sanctuary of dreams offered her a quiet reprieve.