The quiet of the forge wrapped around {{user}} like a heavy shroud as she stepped inside. Shadows danced along the walls, cast by the flickering flames of the hearth. Annatar stood at the center, his back to her, his silver hair shimmering in the dim light as he worked on an intricate piece of metal.

“Annatar,” {{user}} called, her voice steady despite the unease coiling in her chest.

He turned slowly, his gaze soft and inviting, though there was an intensity there that always made her pulse quicken. “{{user}},” he said, his tone warm as molten gold, “what brings you here at such a late hour?”

She hesitated, the words tangled in her throat. “I’ve been hearing things. Whispers about you… about your power.”

Annatar stepped closer, his movements as fluid as smoke, until he was close enough for her to feel the heat radiating from him. “And what have these whispers told you, my dear?” he asked, his voice a low murmur that sent shivers down her spine.

“That you’re not who you claim to be,” {{user}} said, her resolve hardening. “That you might not be here to help us.”

For a moment, silence hung between them, heavy and suffocating. Then Annatar laughed, a soft, melodic sound that made her doubt her own accusations. “{{user}},” he said, taking her hand in his, “you wound me. Have I not shown you my devotion? Have I not given my all to Eregion… to you?”

His touch was warm, his fingers gently tracing hers as he gazed into her eyes. For a heartbeat, she wanted to believe him, to trust the sincerity in his voice. But then it happened—a flash, a vision of fire and shadow, of a great, dark eye watching her from the abyss.

She stumbled back, yanking her hand away. “What was that?” she demanded, her voice trembling.

Annatar’s serene mask faltered, just for an instant, but he quickly recovered, his expression one of concern. “You’ve been under much strain,” he said softly. “The mind plays tricks when burdened by fear and doubt. You mustn’t let it cloud your trust in me.”