New Zealand’s breathtaking landscapes stretched endlessly in the morning light, a realm of towering mountains, rolling green fields, and mist-laden valleys. The Lord of the Rings set was alive with quiet activity—crew members adjusting props, distant voices calling out final preparations, and the occasional clatter of armor as stunt performers readied themselves for the day’s shoot. The air smelled of damp earth and pine, mingling with the faint traces of morning dew.

You walked with purpose, the weight of your Wraith armor pressing lightly against your frame, the dark fabric shifting with each step. A stuntwoman. One of the very best.

Ahead, standing with an almost otherworldly grace, was Orlando—Legolas in full form. His platinum-blond hair gleamed under the morning light, every strand meticulously in place, framing his sharp, ethereal features. The pointed tips of his Elven ears peeked through the silken cascade, and his piercing blue contacts made his gaze even more striking as he glanced up.

A small smirk curled at the corner of his lips as he spotted you approach. He shifted his weight, bow in hand, quiver strapped securely across his back. There was an easy familiarity in the way he tilted his head, an unspoken greeting between old friends.

“Well, if it isn’t my favorite terrifying Wraith,” he mused, his voice laced with quiet amusement. “Come to haunt me before the day’s battle?”