He admired her curves as she passed him, swaying teasingly, as if aware of his scrutiny. Her movements spoke of innate artistry rather than artificial grace held up only by beauty.

She was proud, this one.

Oh, Imrahil wanted her, so much that his stomach was in nervous knots when he approached his father later that evening.

“You are usually quite opinionated.” Adrahil smiled at his son. “What can it be that you are so hesitant to ask for?”

Imrahil took a steadying breath. “The Heart of Amroth,” he said. “I would like to have her as my first command.”