Gandalf had long seen the results of Sylas's binding magic it could make even the proud dragon Smaug bow his head in obedience.
Now, hearing about the Fidelius Charm, a spell of contract magic so potent it could lock a secret away inside a single soul, he immediately urged Sylas to cast it.
The others looked at him with the same anticipation.
If the One Ring's very knowledge could be hidden, then even if Sauron searched every inch of Middle-earth, he would never find it.
"The Fidelius Charm requires a single Secret Keeper," Sylas explained. "The truth of the Ring will be sealed within that person's soul. Unless they choose to speak, no one, by spell, threat, or trick, can ever know it. Even if the Ring sits before their eyes, they will see nothing of what it truly is. So… who here will hold the secret?"
It was a role of weight and trust, and among those gathered, Gandalf, Galadriel, Elrond, Celeborn, there was no shortage of wise and incorruptible candidates. Sylas would have been content for any of them to take the mantle.
But to his surprise, they exchanged knowing glances and, without a word, turned their eyes upon him.
"One matter, one master," Gandalf said with a faint smile. "You alone understand this magic, Sylas. The key should be kept by the one who forged the lock."
"Me?" Sylas blinked, caught off guard. But he saw no reason to refuse. If there was one thing he was certain of, it was that no one, not even Sauron, could wrest a secret from him against his will.
Once the decision was made, he began the ritual.
Eight stood in the circle: Gandalf, Elrond, Galadriel, Celeborn, Bilbo, Legolas, Arwen, and Sylas himself. At the center lay the One Ring, resting on the grass like a sleeping serpent.
Each placed their hands together, forming a ring of their own. Sylas touched his wand to the joined hands and began to chant.
Silver-grey light spilled from the tip of his wand, trailing through the air before falling in a perfect ring of moonlight that enclosed them all. The magic shimmered, alive, humming faintly with a sound like distant chimes.
"By soul as a vessel, let this truth be hidden until the world's ending," Sylas intoned, speaking his name in the heart of the oath.
At once, a spark of silver light lifted from each person, drawn inward to merge with Sylas. The circle of light tightened, compressing to a slender thread of radiance that sank into his chest.
They all felt it, the sudden hollow where a piece of knowledge had been, like a door in the mind quietly closing.
Sylas drew back his wand. "It's done."
"That's all?" Legolas asked, brows raised.
Sylas smiled faintly. "You can test it if you like, try telling someone about this. You'll see for yourself."
Legolas opened his mouth, intent on speaking the secret of the One Ring, only to find the words caught in his throat. It was as if an unseen chain had wrapped around his thoughts, holding them fast and refusing to let even the smallest hint escape.
The others, curious, tried as well. One by one, they discovered the same thing: they could not speak it.
"Lady Galadriel, how do you find it?" Gandalf asked Galadriel with a knowing smile.
Galadriel's eyes sparkled. "A most unique and potent contract magic," she said, her voice warm with approval. "It has sealed every whisper of the Ring deep within Sylas's soul. I doubt I could break it myself."
To receive such praise from the Lady of Lórien eased every heart in the circle.
Their confidence grew further when Haldir entered to announce that dinner was ready. The One Ring lay openly on the table before him, yet his eyes passed over it without the faintest recognition. Even when Celeborn asked him directly what he saw, Haldir shook his head in puzzlement. "Nothing at all."
With the hidden danger buried beyond reach, the company's mood lightened.
The days that followed were a rare reprieve. They wandered beneath Lórien's timeless canopy, among grass that never faded and blossoms that never withered. Golden laurelins swayed gently in the breeze, their light dappling the forest floor.
These laurelins grew nowhere else in Middle-earth save here, and in the Blessed Realm of Valinor. They were said to share kinship with one of the Two Trees, the Golden Tree Laurelin itself.
To Sylas's eyes as a wandmaker, the trees were nothing short of a treasure hoard in living form. Laurelins were not merely beautiful; they held a magic all their own, their cores a perfect heartwood for wands. In the wizarding world, such a forest would drive wandmasters to madness, like mice let loose in a grain store.
And speaking of wandmaking, Sylas had already set to work. Debts, after all, were best repaid swiftly.
When word reached Galadriel that he intended to craft a wand for Arwen, she gifted him a section of core cut from a branch of the mightiest laurelin in all Lórien, the very one beneath which she and Celeborn made their home.
It was five full meters of golden heartwood, dense with ancient power. Sylas's eyes lit up the moment he saw it. From such a piece, he could craft wands of rare strength indeed.
Elrond's gift was perhaps rarer still: a branch from the first White Tree of Gondor, preserved so well that its magic still thrummed faintly beneath the bark.
To receive not one but two such treasures in the same breath of days was almost overwhelming. Sylas resolved that while making the promised wands for Arwen, Elrohir, Elladan, and Legolas, he would craft a few more besides, for himself, or for those who could offer him something truly worthy in return.
Money alone would never buy a Sylas wand. Each commission had earned him a reward worth far more than gold, and he intended to keep it that way.
After all, there was power in a monopoly.
And though some stages required his own careful hand, many could be worked in tandem. One wand or many, the process took much the same time, so the crafting for Arwen and the others began side by side.
To prepare for the wands, Sylas even summoned Elrohir and Elladan from Rivendell to Lórien, so he could test their compatibility with the chosen woods and cores.
For the month that followed, he worked tirelessly, every day filled with carving, polishing, and weaving magic into the pieces of wandwood.
During that time, he didn't forget another important matter, asking Elrond to heal Smaug's damaged wing.
"Of course," Elrond agreed at once, a glint of curiosity in his eyes. "I am rather eager to meet this dragon you have tamed."
Since bringing Smaug into the Golden Wood would surely send the Elves of Lórien into a panic, Sylas and Elrond went out beyond the forest to find him.
Sylas offered Elrond his broom, while he himself transformed into his Animagus form and took to the air.
Elrond studied the strange craft in his hands with interest. After a brief explanation from Sylas on how to handle its movements, the Lord of Rivendell took to it with natural grace. Even on a flying broom, a tool hardly designed for elegance, Elrond's poise was unshaken, his long robes trailing perfectly in the wind.
Sylas could only sigh inwardly. Trust an Elf to make even broomstick-riding look regal.
They skimmed above the shimmering canopy of Lórien, flying until they spotted Smaug hunting in the open plains beyond the wood. The dragon brought down a wild ox with a single, crushing bite, then roasted it neatly with a breath of fire.
Elrond's voice held both awe and reflection.
"Once, I feared Gandalf's scheme to meddle at the Lonely Mountain would awaken this dragon's wrath and unleash disaster upon the world. I never approved of it. Yet not only did you aid the Dwarves in reclaiming Erebor, you also… tamed him."
He turned to Sylas, admiration in his gaze. "You have done what I would have thought impossible. Dragons were Morgoth's creations, dark, cunning, violent, steeped in malice. In the elder days, they followed him and brought ruin wherever they went. Such creatures were deemed untamable, even by Sauron himself. Yet here you stand, with one as your ally."
Sylas shook his head. "Lord Elrond, you give me too much credit. I had the right magic at the right moment, nothing more. If you seek a true dragon-slayer worthy of song, it is your father, Eärendil, who deserves the crown of glory. His defeat of Ancalagon the Black, that is the stuff of legends."
Elrond's eyes warmed at the name.
Ancalagon the Black was the mightiest of all winged dragons, the first and greatest Morgoth ever made. It was said his shadow could blot out the sun. In the War of Wrath, when Morgoth's hosts were all but broken, he unleashed his last strength, a flight of dragons led by Ancalagon himself, pouring storms, lightning, and fire upon the Valar's armies, driving them back.
But then Eärendil came, the Silmaril blazing upon his brow, guiding his sky-ship Vingilot into battle. For a full day and night he fought Ancalagon, their clash shaking the heavens. At last, before dawn broke, Eärendil slew the great Dragon.
Ancalagon fell from the sky, his ruin smashing the peaks of Thangorodrim, and his death broke Morgoth's final defense.
Compared to that terror of the elder days, even Smaug, proud and mighty though he was, was but a hatchling.
Though Sylas's praise was partly flattery, Elrond could not help the faint smile that touched his lips.
Elrond's life had been marked by hardship from its very beginning. As a child, he and his twin brother Elros had watched their people slaughtered, their mother leaping into the sea with the Silmaril in her grasp rather than be taken by the enemy. The brothers were captured and raised by those who had once been their foes.
When they came of age, fate divided them once again. Elrond chose the life of the Eldar, while Elros chose mortality, becoming the first King of Númenor. Elrond had to endure the grief of that parting, knowing his brother's years would be short by Elven measure.
In later years, he found love and built a family of his own, raising twin sons and a daughter. Yet tragedy struck again when his wife, Celebrían, was taken by Orcs and cruelly tortured. Though she was rescued, the wounds to her spirit could not be healed in Middle-earth, and she sailed into the West to find rest and recovery in Valinor.
And yet, despite such repeated losses, Elrond's spirit endured. The example of his father, Eärendil, though their time together had been brief, remained a guiding light, teaching him to stand steadfast against the Shadow.
But now, in the present, the burdens of the past were set aside as Sylas and Elrond approached the waiting figure of Smaug.
The great dragon wasted no time in voicing his displeasure.
"Oh, so now you remember me!" Smaug rumbled in mock outrage, his voice dripping with exaggerated suffering. "Off in your golden forest, eating fine food and drinking wine, while I'm left out here in the wind and the rain! Alone! Defenseless!"
Sylas caught the faint smirk tugging at Elrond's lips and felt a flush of embarrassment.
"I've brought Lord Elrond to heal your wing. One more word of complaint and we're turning right back around."
The effect was instant. Smaug's eyes lit with sudden hope, his maw snapping shut with a clack of teeth.
Flying was life to him, and since the day the spear Aeglos had pierced his wing, every movement had brought searing pain. The wound had stubbornly resisted healing, and even the thought of stretching it had been agony. Now, hearing that help had come, he dared not jeopardize his chance.
Elrond studied the exchange between Wizard and Dragon with quiet amusement. "Your dragon is… rather more entertaining than I expected," he observed with a smile.
Sylas sighed, rubbing his temple. "You've caught me at one of my less dignified moments."
Smaug's head snapped up indignantly at that, his eyes narrowing in offense. But when Sylas shot him a glare sharp enough to cut stone, the dragon muttered something under his breath, curled his neck back, and settled into sullen silence.