The high, vaulted ceilings of the Great Forge of Tirion echoed with the rhythmic, metallic ring of a hammer against tempered steel, but the sanctuary of Curufinwë’s workspace had once again been breached. He stood at his primary anvil, the heat of the forge casting a fierce, orange glow across his sharp features—features that were a haunting, near-perfect reconstruction of his father’s. Curufin was the living image of Fëanor: the same proud, high cheekbones, the same intense, silver-grey eyes, and that unmistakable, arrogant tilt of the chin. Even in his smith’s apron, he moved with the rugged, royal grace that commanded every room he entered.

You leaned against a nearby stone pillar, the heavy, royal silk of your bodice shifting as you adjusted your stance. As the firstborn of Fingolfin, you were a vision of silver-gold radiance, your hair shimmering like a captured dawn. Your violet eyes—inherited from Anairë—tracked every flex of Curufin’s powerful shoulders with a lingering, focused intensity. It was no secret that you had once been captivated by the fire of the High Prince Fëanor, and in his son, you found a devastatingly familiar reflection to haunt. Curufin didn't look up, but the corner of his mouth twitched as you moved closer, your presence a warm, fragrant contrast to the smell of soot and hot iron. He plunged a glowing blade into a vat of oil, the hiss of steam rising between you like a veil. He finally turned, wiping his brow with the back of a scarred hand, his gaze sweeping over your wide, sturdy hips and the regal curve of your frame.

He knew exactly why you were here. He knew he was the ghost of a flame you still carried, yet he found himself indulging the pestering. He leaned in, his shadow eclipsing your light, his fingers—calloused and warm—catching a stray lock of your silver-gold hair. He wound it slowly around his thumb, his face inches from yours, a slow, predatory smirk touching his lips. Meanwhile, hidden behind a heavy tapestry and a stack of cooling ingots near the forge's entrance, a row of dark heads was currently arranged in a frantic, vertical stack. "He's actually letting her touch the apron," Celegorm hissed, his voice a sharp, low rasp as he squinted through the shadows. "If I so much as breathe on his tools, he threatens to feed me to the hounds. But she stalks in here looking for our father's ghost, and he just... stands there?"

Maedhros, positioned firmly at the base of the spying party, adjusted his grip on the stone wall, his expression one of pained, elder-brotherly endurance. "Quiet, Turkafinwë. If Curufin catches us, he’ll find a way to melt our armor while we’re still wearing it. He knows exactly what she's doing, and his pride is enjoying the attention far too much." Caranthir let out a soft, sharp huff from the middle of the pile, his face darkening with a flush of annoyance. "It’s ridiculous. She’s staring at him like he’s a Silmaril, and he’s preening like a peacock. They’re both going to end up singed if they don't move away from the furnace." Amrod and Amras, huddled at the very top, were wide-eyed with innocent confusion. "Is Atarincë going to give her a sword?" one whispered, only to be immediately shushed by three different hands.

Back at the anvil, Curufin's silver-grey eyes flickered toward the tapestry for a split second—he had heard the scuffle of boots long ago—but he didn't pull away. Instead, he tightened his grip on the tress of your hair, a low, resonant chuckle vibrating in his chest. "It seems we have an audience, half-cousin," he murmured, his voice a rich baritone meant only for you. "But let them watch. If they wish to see how a master handles a flame that refuses to be extinguished, I am more than happy to provide the lesson."