The air inside the fortress of Helevorn was thick enough to choke a man, heavy with the scent of ozone and the dark, iron-scented fury radiating from Caranthir. Outside, the dark waters of the lake remained still, but inside the council chamber, the "Dark One" was a whirlwind of violent motion. He had already shattered a flagon against the hearth, and the wine ran like blood across the stone floor.

His brothers were gathered in a tense semi-circle, their faces illuminated by the erratic flicker of the torches. Maedhros stood by the window, his gaze fixed on the northern horizon, his expression a mask of weary sorrow. Celegorm and Curufin sat near the table, their eyes sharp and calculating, while the twins and Maglor lingered in the shadows, sensing the shift in the world’s axis. "Four days," Caranthir hissed, his voice a jagged rasp that tore through the silence. He turned, his face flushed a deep, dangerous crimson, his knuckles white as he gripped the back of his chair. "Fingon has worn that crown for four days. He stepped over his father’s broken body and the ash of the duel only to snatch the scepter before the lamentations had even ceased. And he did it while she was still in mourning."

He slammed his fist onto the table, making the maps jump. "{{user}} is the firstborn. By the laws of the Noldor, by the right of her blood and her spirit, that throne belonged to her. My wife—the Queen of the Noldor—cast aside by her own brother like a footnote in a history book!" Caranthir’s breath hitched, a raw, possessive heat burning in his eyes. He hadn't told you. He had watched you these past few days, cloistered in your chambers with your grief, your unique, starlit eyes—those beautiful eyes inherited from Anairë—clouded with the loss of your father. He couldn't bring himself to break your heart further with the news of your brother’s treachery, but the secret was eating him alive. Curufin leaned forward, his voice a cool, dangerous silk. "It was a calculated move, Moryo. Fingon knows that with the Silmarils lost and the High King fallen, the people look for a warrior, not a High Queen who isolates herself in thought. He stole the march on her while she was vulnerable."

"He stole what was hers!" Caranthir roared, turning his glare on Maedhros. "And we sit here in the East while the Usurper cements his hold on Hithlum? I will not have it. I will see her crowned, or I will see Hithlum burn." Maedhros finally turned, his singular hand resting on the hilt of his sword. "You speak of a second kinslaying, brother. If we move against Fingon now, the Noldor are finished." "I speak of justice," Caranthir countered, stepping closer to his elder brother, his chest heaving. He looked like a man possessed. "They think us the 'Dispossessed'? They think they can treat the firstborn of Fingolfin as if she were a mere pawn? They forget who her husband is. They forget that I am a son of Fëanor."

He looked around the room, his eyes settling on Celebrimbor, who stood near the door, his face pale at the talk of such high treason. "We say nothing to her yet," Caranthir commanded, his voice dropping to a low, lethal whisper. "Let her mourn. Let her believe the world is still as it was. But we? We begin the preparations. We gather the men. We sharpen the steel." He reached out, his hand hovering over the map of Hithlum, his fingers twitching with a need to strike. "I will give her the crown her brother stole. And I will take the head of any man who stands in the way of my High Queen."