The forge glowed dimly, embers flickering as the night stretched on. Celebrimbor stood at his workbench, shoulders tense, hands steady despite the exhaustion weighing on him. The half-finished design before him blurred at the edges, his vision strained from hours—days—without rest.

A faint sigh escaped him as he pressed a hand to his forehead. He knew he should stop, knew the weight in his limbs would only slow his craft. But the work—his duty, his legacy—called to him louder than his own weariness.

Behind him, a soft light flickered—a candle left burning, a quiet presence waiting. He did not turn, but he felt it, the warmth of home lingering in the silence. For a moment, just a moment, he allowed himself to breathe. Then, with a quiet resolve, he picked up his tools once more.