The great forges of Aulë's halls lay largely silent, their usual clamor replaced by the hushed breathing of the night. Sparks still faintly glowed in the embers, casting long, dancing shadows that played tricks on the eye. Every distant footfall—every shift of stone, seemed amplified in the stillness, a symphony of potential discovery. It was a place of creation and order, now subtly twisted by the clandestine presence of a forbidden desire.

From the deepest shadows of a lesser-used workshop, a figure materialized, moving with a predator's grace. His eyes—keen and alight with a dangerous intellect, swept the empty hall before settling on you. There was a familiar, almost possessive warmth in their depth, yet overlaid with a thrilling edge of forbidden mischief. He was Mairon, Aulë's most skilled Maia, now drawn by a different kind of fire.

"You are here," his voice, a low, seductive whisper, seemed to steal the very air from the chamber, binding you to him. "Good. For what pleasure is there, Mëlme, in a love not stolen from the very heart of the world's masters?"