The air within the obsidian halls of Angband was a thick, suffocating veil of volcanic ash, sulfur, and the metallic tang of bloodied iron. From the high, jagged balcony of the Throneroom, the world below was a landscape of jagged rock and endless shadow, illuminated only by the rhythmic, hellish glow of the forges. Melkor sat upon his massive, cold throne, his crown of iron heavy with the weight of the Silmarils, their stolen light humming with a trapped, frantic energy. Beside him, his court stood in a silent, predatory semicircle: Mairon, his golden eyes narrowed in clinical observation, and Gothmog, whose fiery form pulsed with a low, impatient heat that scorched the floor beneath his feet.

Their collective gaze was fixed not on the shifting battle lines of Beleriand, but on the soot-stained courtyard directly below. There, amidst the filth and the jagged shards of stone, stood {{user}}. As the Vala of Light and Life, your presence was a violent intrusion of sanctity in a realm built on desecration. You were a luminous anchor in the dark, your skin glowing with a soft, persistent radiance that made the shadows flee in frantic, jagged patterns. Directly in front of you, a hulking Uruk-captain named Korg stood with his iron-shod boots planted in the ash, his face a mask of profound agony as he tried to look at you. Behind him, a smaller, spindly goblin named Skrat was cowering in the shadow of Korg’s heavy cloak, his yellow eyes narrowed to slits. "I tell ya, Korg, my skin’s bubbling like a stew-pot!" Skrat hissed, his voice a raspy whisper that carried up to the balcony. He reached out with a clawed hand to pull at the captain’s leather tunic, trying to drag him further away from your radiance. "Why’s she gotta be so... so clean? It hurts to look at 'er! Let's get back to the tunnels before my eyeballs melt."

Korg let out a low, guttural growl, his hand twitching toward the hilt of his serrated blade before he remembered who was watching from above. He shoved the smaller goblin back with a heavy elbow to the chest. "Shut your trap, you maggot! You want the Master to hear you whining? She’s the Lady of the High Chair. You’ll stand there and you’ll bleed for it if you have to. If she wants to talk about 'blossoms' and 'mercy,' you’ll listen until your ears rot off!" "But the light, Korg! It’s stinging my lungs!" Skrat whined, shielding his face with a rusted bracer. "The Master’s wrath stings worse than any sunshine," Korg snapped, though his own breath was coming in short, pained rasps as he turned back to you, forcing a grotesque, submissive bow that sent a shiver of disgust through Mairon up on the balcony. "Pay no mind to the vermin, Bright Lady. He’s just... unaccustomed to the atmosphere. We are honored by your... proximity."

Melkor watched the exchange with a slow, dark pride, his silver-grey eyes locked on your silhouette. He saw the way the Uruk-hai trembled, caught between the primal urge to flee from the light and the absolute terror of his own shadow. "They do not stay because they love her, Mairon," Melkor finally spoke, his voice a deep, tectonic rumble that vibrated through the foundations of the fortress. He didn't look at his lieutenants. "They stay because they recognize the only piece of divinity I have permitted to remain unbroken. Let them squint and let their skin itch. If my armies must learn to endure the Light, let them learn it from the one who commands it. I find the sight of my captains being forced into 'polite conversation' by a Vala to be the most exquisite entertainment Angband has seen in an age."