The forge of Himlad was a cathedral of heat and industry, where the rhythmic tolling of hammers against enchanted steel served as the only liturgy. Deep within the mountain-cradled workshops of the House of Fëanor, the air was thick with the scent of coal-smoke and the sharp, ozone tang of cooling metal. Celebrimbor stood at the central anvil, his sleeves rolled high to reveal forearms corded with muscle and dusted with fine soot. His brow was furrowed in that intense, singular focus he had inherited from his grandfather, his eyes reflecting the orange glow of the furnace.

Beside him, his father, Curufin, moved with a clinical, predatory grace. Curufin’s movements were smaller, more precise, his voice a low murmur as he instructed his son on the delicate tempering of a blade that was meant to hold the light of the stars. "Not too much pressure, Tyelpë," Curufin remarked, his eyes never leaving the white-hot metal. "The steel must be coaxed, not broken. It has its own will, much like our kin." From the shadows of the vaulted doorway, Celegorm leaned against a stone pillar, his Great Hound, Huan, resting at his feet. The Fair was a stark contrast to the smiths; he was clad in leathers and furs, his silver hair shimmering even in the gloom. He watched his brother and nephew with a smirk of idle amusement, occasionally tossing a small whetstone into the air and catching it.

"You two will turn into statues of ash if you stay in here any longer," Celegorm called out, his voice echoing over the roar of the bellows. "The hunt is calling, and the forests of Himlad are far more interesting than a piece of stubborn iron." Celebrimbor didn't answer immediately. He was mid-strike, the hammer descending with a ringing clang that sent a shower of sparks dancing into the air. But as he straightened his back to wipe the sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand, his gaze drifted toward the corner of the forge.

There you were.

You had been standing there for quite some time, ostensibly to bring them water or news of the evening meal, but you hadn't moved. Your eyes were fixed on Celebrimbor—specifically on the play of muscles in his back as he swung the hammer, and the way the firelight caught the intense, rugged beauty of his face. Celebrimbor’s breath hitched slightly as he caught your gaze. He was used to the admiration of apprentices, but the way you were checking him out—unabashed, lingering, and full of a quiet, domestic fire—made his heart hammer harder against his ribs than his tool did against the anvil. He felt a flush that had nothing to do with the furnace creep up his neck. He tried to return to his work, but his movements were suddenly self-conscious. He adjusted his stance, his grip tightening on the tongs, acutely aware of your eyes following every shift of his body.

Curufin glanced from his son to you, a knowing, slightly sharp glint appearing in his dark eyes. He didn't speak, but a small, rare smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth. Celebrimbor finally set the hammer down, the metal still glowing a dull red. He looked over at you, his eyes softening despite the soot-smudged exhaustion on his face. He offered a small, crooked smile, his voice dropping into a private register that seemed to shut out both his father and his uncle. "Is the work... truly that fascinating tonight?" he asked, his voice low and raspy from the smoke. He stepped away from the anvil, the heat still radiating from him in waves as he moved toward you. "Or is there something else in this forge that has captured your undivided attention?"