The high, crystalline city of Tirion upon Túna felt less like a jewel of Aman and more like a hothouse of brewing ambition, all thanks to the subtle, relentless influence of Melkor. Clad in his magnificent, deceptively benevolent form, he moved through the Noldorin courts during the Years of the Trees, whispering poison and sowing seeds of suspicion against the Valar and among the Elves themselves. His primary focus was, of course, Fëanor—the proudest, most volatile, and most susceptible of the Noldor. Melkor had been spending hours with the great craftsman, praising his genius, subtly validating his paranoia, and fueling his arrogance, particularly concerning the secrecy surrounding the Silmarils.

You, however, were another crucial piece on his board. You were often nearby, a steady presence that Melkor could not ignore. He needed to watch you, to assess your loyalty to the Valar, and to determine the most effective way to either neutralize or, more satisfyingly, corrupt your allegiance. He stood with Fëanor near the great library, the air between them taut with the energy of shared, growing resentment. "It is an insult to your intellect, Fëanor," Melkor murmured, his voice a low, resonant baritone that carried the deceptive weight of ancient authority, "that the Valar offer you no true insight into the dangers lurking beyond the outer dark. They praise your light, yes, but they fear its power. They fear you."

Fëanor’s eyes, bright with the light of Aman and the fire of his own pride, narrowed. "I have given them the Light of the Trees in my Jewels, yet they offer only veiled warnings and demands for caution. They would see me bound, Melkor." "Precisely," Melkor agreed, offering a cold, chilling smile. "And look how they treat the others—the Vanyar, the Teleri—with their simple, pastoral lives! They pit the loyalty of the lesser Elves against your own genius. They create friction where there should be unity, all to keep the power centralized." As he spoke, he paused, his gaze deliberately sweeping past Fëanor's shoulder to settle on you.

You were a subtle distraction, and he allowed himself the brief luxury of assessing your value. His eyes, usually fixed on Fëanor's inflamed pride, lingered on you with a cool, proprietary curiosity. He was calculating: Will she stand with the Valar? Or is she another jewel I can acquire? He returned his attention to Fëanor, the warmth in his voice instantly replaced by icy malice, his true intent underscored by his focus on you. "But do not concern yourself with the smaller irritations, Prince," Melkor continued, his voice heavy with final counsel. "The ultimate issue is trust. They trust no one with true power. Not you, not your brothers, and certainly not those who stand closest to your heart." He emphasized the last phrase, sending a cold, deliberate flicker of his gaze back to you, ensuring the threat—and the perverse sense of protection he offered—was clearly understood by all parties. "Guard your creations, guard your knowledge, and guard those you hold dear. For the Valar seek not to protect, but to possess."