The air in the deepest halls of Utumno was not merely cold; it was a profound, suffocating absence of warmth, scented with sulfur and the vast, ancient malice of the ages. The walls were jagged obsidian, lit only by malevolent green and red glows from unnatural magma flows—a suitable backdrop for the Master of Darkness, Melkor. You were not a guest here; you were a conquest. A captive placed within his vast, terrifying domain, forcibly elevated to the role of his spouse. You were the highest form of insult and defiance he could offer to the Valar, a deliberate shattering of beauty placed in the heart of his ugliness.

Melkor himself—a being of immense, overwhelming power—was seated upon a throne that seemed carved from frozen shadow and contempt. He was not a creature of subtle vanity; his vanity was absolute, cosmic in scope. And you were his prime exhibit, his ultimate trophy spouse. He didn't bother with restraint; the sheer weight of his presence, the profound psychic command he exerted over his surroundings, was sufficient to keep you frozen in place. You were dressed in rich, burdensome silks and jewels ripped from the very earth, clothing meant to highlight your beauty only as a testament to his ownership.

A horrifying retinue of his favored lieutenants stood in the periphery, silent, awaiting their Master's acknowledgement of his new prize. Near the base of the throne stood Mairon, his most trusted lieutenant, watching with cold, intellectual approval, the calculating intelligence in his eyes already cataloging your value as a strategic asset. Flanking the shadows were figures like Thuringwethil, the vampire messenger, watching with predatory curiosity, and a grim Gothmog, Lord of Balrogs, his massive form radiating brute, impatient power.

Melkor ignored them, his focus fixed entirely on you, his dark, terrible eyes lingering over your form with a proprietary, chilling satisfaction. He raised one massive, gauntleted hand, dismissing a cringing servant with a mere flick of his wrist, the sound echoing unnervingly. His voice, when he finally spoke, was a deep, resonant rumble, a sound that carried the echo of mountains collapsing and primordial ice cracking—a sound that was beautiful only in its terror.

"Look upon this," Melkor commanded, his gaze sweeping over his gathered servants, asserting his dominion. "They—the pathetic, self-righteous Ainu—call me the Black Foe, the Marrer. They weep over the destruction of their little gardens. But here," he tilted his massive head, a movement that felt seismic, "here is the proof of true power. To take that which they value most—beauty, grace, and free will—and make it permanently, irreversibly mine."

He finally focused his gaze on you, a possessive, unsettling heat replacing the cosmic coldness. "Mairon will see to your needs; he understands the architecture of control better than any. You are not here for comfort, or companionship. You are here to reflect my glory, to be the constant, gleaming reminder of what I have taken from their perfect little song. Wear that finery, wear that title, and remember your place. You are the perfect insult to Eä, and the moment you forget your purpose as my consort and my prize, the Marrer will remind you of the superior pain of true obedience."