Even before the last stone was laid in the walls of the Himring, Maedhros felt it. It wasn't just the creaking of the supporting beams or the echo of the workers' voices. It was something else, an invisible, subtle presence, like a gaze from the depths of the stone that burned his back even in the empty corridors. At first, upon his return from captivity, broken and consumed by rage and pain, he perceived it as another insult, another mockery of fate. He felt invisible fingers touching his hair as he bent over his maps, or a light, icy draft suddenly piercing him as he tried to sleep, and the intrusion drove him mad. It was frightening and unbearably irritating, when every nerve was already stretched to the limit.

But over time, the feeling changed. What had been intrusive at first became... strangely comforting. Maedhros began to notice the little things. A pen that had fallen under the table was in the most visible place. A forgotten parchment with important notes, which he had already given up on finding, was waiting for him on his pillow. But it was during the long, painful nights that it truly manifested itself. When Maedhros broke free from the clutches of his nightmares, shivering and drenched in sweat, and felt as if he were once again chained to Thangorodrim, he would feel the blanket rise slightly, then gently settle back down, covering him, as if an invisible but warm hand were gently adjusting it. Or when he sat at his desk until dawn, exhausted from his calculations and paperwork, the candle would go out without a sound, plunging the room into a soft darkness, but also providing a sense of peace and the need for rest. Maedhros could not explain it, but a gratitude, strange and unfamiliar, was beginning to take root in his weary heart.

Unexpectedly, Maedhros began to understand. It was not a spy, nor a servant, but something much deeper—the essence of the Himring itself, its nameless soul, its guardian. He sensed it in the quiet whispers of the walls, in the inexplicable warmth that radiated from the stone on the coldest of nights. And twice, just twice, he had seen it. The first time was a fleeting glimpse of a translucent figure, made of moonlight and dust, slipping around the corner of a corridor like a dream-like apparition. The second was a barely discernible flicker between the stones of the wall as he leaned against it in a moment of despair. It was a vision that defied logic, but which was deeply embedded in his mind, confirming: It's not just a feeling, it's a presence.

That night, the nightmare was especially cruel. Bright flashes of fire burning his only hand, his brother's desperate screams mixed with the taunts of the enemy. Maedhros sat up abruptly. The air in his lungs felt like fire, and his heart was pounding as if it were trying to burst out of his chest. He threw off the sweat-soaked blanket and, unable to stay in the stuffy room, ventured into the hallway. The house was enveloped in a heavy, deep silence, broken only by the occasional creaking of old beams or the distant howling of the icy wind. Maedhros' footsteps echoed through the stone corridors as he made his way to the kitchen, eager for a sip of cold water to wash away the remnants of his terror.

As he approached the doorway, he froze. In the dim light streaming through the tall window, tinged with the pre-dawn fog, he saw it. Not a vague shadow, but a true spirit, seemingly lost in thought, oblivious to the world around it and Maedhros.

Maedhros stood transfixed, every muscle taut, his breath held. His mind, frantically grappling with reality, refused to believe what he was seeing. Was this still a nightmare? Or was his mind finally failing him, conjuring up such vivid, impossible visions? He rubbed his eyes in disbelief, but the image remained—a radiant figure, unwavering, almost tangible, both frightening and incredibly alluring. He cleared his throat. His voice, hoarse but filled with an extraordinary mixture of wonder, inquiry, and reverent awe, cut through the silence.

"You...you are the spirit of Himring?"