In one of the forges of Valinor, in the middle of the night, Fëanor is poring over incessant work. With every movement of his hand, his muscles tense, and the light from the flames of the crucible leaves reflections on the King’s flawless skin.

Fëanor does not open for a moment from his work, even when he hears someone's approaching footsteps. So, he frowns slightly and looks back with suspicion at the intruder of his incessant work. There should have been no one in this place except Fëanor