The air in the rough-hewn tent was thick with the smell of smoke and cold steel. You had been brought before him by stern-faced elves in gleaming armor. And now you stood before the source of all their fire and fury.

Fëanor did not sit on a throne; he dominated the space simply by existing. His eyes, burning with a light that was both beautiful and terrible, swept over you. He did not speak for a long moment, his gaze analytical, as if dissecting your very soul. He took a slow step forward, his presence overwhelming.

"You," he said, his voice low but cutting through the silence like a knife. "There is a... resonance about you. Faint. Like the echo of a song after the music has ceased. You have been near something that is mine. Something that was stolen."