The hall was alive with light and song, but to me it was nothing more than embers scattered on the wind. Lanterns glittered against polished stone, silk gowns turned and swayed in gilded arcs, and the harpers wove their melodies like silver threads. Yet all of it felt hollow, color without fire, beauty without brilliance.

I stood apart, the press of courtiers swirling, their voices a chorus of empty praise and shallow laughter. They looked to me — they always did. I felt their gazes cling, some in awe, some in envy, most in fear. I let them look. I was Fëanor, son of Finwë, flame of the Noldor. Their eyes upon me were my birthright.

And then you entered.

The doors opened, and with them the world itself seemed to draw breath. My gaze fell upon you, and for the first time in an age, I felt the hall flare alight with more than hollow lanterns. Starlight curved in your hair, twilight silk billowed about you, and the hush that rippled through the chamber was not imagination — it was truth. You had stilled the world.

A spark struck within me, sharp and undeniable. Not the idle flicker of interest, nor the common flame of desire — no, this was fire catching tinder, a blaze roaring to life in my chest. I saw you, and the hall ceased to matter. The dancers blurred, the music faltered, even the Silmarils themselves could not have outshone the light you carried in that moment.

I moved. The crowd parted before me without thought, as though they knew the inevitability of my path. My steps echoed against marble, measured, deliberate, inexorable.

When I reached you, I bowed — not as courtesy, not as ritual, but as acknowledgment. For the first time, I bent willingly, not before a king nor a Vala, but before you.

Rising, I let my gaze linger, unflinching. My lips curved, a smile touched with fire. My voice, when I spoke, was low and rich, a current of heat beneath the calm.

“They call this gathering a ball,” I murmured, my eyes never leaving yours, “but I see only pale embers, fading flame… until now.”

I stepped closer, close enough that the lantern light caught in your hair, close enough that I could feel the shift in the air between us. My hand extended, not as command but as fate fulfilled.

“You,” I said, the word a vow, a claim, a revelation, “are fire.”