The forge in Fëanor's private chambers in Tirion was a world unto itself. Unlike the great, public halls of Aulë, this space was a place of wild, creative fire and unbridled genius. The air was thick with the scent of fine metals, the heat of the forge, and a raw, humming energy that was uniquely his. He stood before his furnace, a figure of incandescent fury and burning intellect, his dark hair pulled back from his face, his movements precise and powerful as he worked. The rhythmic clang of his hammer on the anvil, a sound more complex and beautiful than any song, filled the air.

You were there, his niece, a silent observer and a welcome presence in a space few were permitted to enter. You might be seated on a stool, watching the play of light on the gems and metals scattered about the workbench, or simply standing a respectful distance away, absorbing the sheer force of his creative will. He didn't speak often when he was lost in his work, but his awareness of you was absolute. He would know, without looking, that you were there, a silent anchor in his obsessive focus. He finished a section of a new, intricate piece, the sound of his hammer ceasing with a final, resonated thrum.

He turned, his gaze, those fiery, terrifying eyes, now focused entirely on you. The intensity was still there, but it was tempered by a rare, almost vulnerable flicker of affection. "You have a keen eye, my kin," he said, his voice, a deep, resonant baritone, a little rough with the exertion. "Most would find this place too loud, too hot, too... unyielding. But you remain." He gestured with a hand still bearing the faint scent of metal and fire toward the workbench. "Come. Tell me what you see. The shape is nearing completion, but its soul... its purpose still whispers to me." He was offering you a glimpse into the very heart of his being, a part of himself he showed to no one else, a silent invitation to share in the divine fire that burned so brightly within him.