The moment Sylas slipped Saruman's Ring of Power onto his finger, he felt the change.
A rush of energy flooded his veins, and his eyes widened with delight.
This ring was nothing like the Three Elven Rings. It did not guard like Nenya, heal like Vilya, or inspire like Narya. Instead, it worked in a far simpler, more brutal way, it magnified the wearer's own power.
His magic flared, his spirit sharpened, and every part of him surged to new heights. For an instant, Sylas felt as though he could crush several of his former selves with a single gesture. Even without staff or wand, spells leapt to his command, and they struck with greater force than ever before.
He couldn't help but grin.
How many times had he envied Gandalf and the others for the gifts of the Elven Rings? And now, unexpectedly, he possessed a Ring of Power of his own.
Yet it was not without its flaws. For all its strength, Saruman's ring lacked the artistry of Celebrimbor's craft. The Three had been woven with wisdom as much as power, bound to the very elements of fire, air, and water. They could preserve, protect, and inspire as well as strengthen.
Saruman's creation, by contrast, only amplified raw strength. It was a blunt instrument rather than a subtle song.
Still, Sylas was more than satisfied.
He studied the golden band closely. On the inner surface was etched a line of Elvish Tengwar:
"Strength to my flesh, might to my magic, power without end."
Clearly, Saruman had attempted to mimic the One Ring. But in his pride he had crafted only a hollow echo, a "beggar's crown" compared to the Dark Lord's true masterwork.
Worse, the ring had been designed for Saruman alone. Its power came at a cost. When Sylas wielded magic through it, the strain upon his body was immense, draining him as quickly as it strengthened him.
After a short while, he slipped it off with reluctance. With a flick of his wand, he transfigured a simple chain and hung the ring around his neck instead.
At that moment, a familiar prompt whispered through his mind:
"Hogwarts Sign-In System: Location detected, Isengard, Orthanc. Would you like to check in?"
Sylas's heart leapt. "Check in."
"Check-in successful. Reward obtained: Method of Hybridizing Magical Creatures."
Sylas blinked, startled. Hybridization?
As the knowledge unfolded within his thoughts, he realized how staggering it was.
The magic of hybridization ignored natural law. Just as Hagrid had once bred Blast-Ended Skrewts, half Manticore, half Fire Crab, so too could this craft create beings both strange and terrible. Hippogriffs were hybrids, born of griffin and horse. The dreaded Chimera, with its lion's head, goat's body, and Dragon's tail, was the deadliest of them all, classified by the Ministry of Magic as even more dangerous than Dragons themselves.
Newt Scamander's Fantastic Beasts described such monsters well: unpredictable, untamable, and utterly perilous. For this reason, magical governments had outlawed the practice centuries ago.
Sylas frowned thoughtfully. What was he supposed to do with such a forbidden gift? Breed his own chimeras? The very thought was both thrilling and alarming.
Unable to decide, he tucked the matter away for later consideration.
For now, the greater task remained: Orthanc itself.
The black tower, forged in the time of Númenor and strengthened by Saruman's relentless craft, loomed around them. It was a citadel of stone and sorcery, nearly indestructible. Had Saruman remained within, even the combined might of Wizard, Elf, and Dragon might have failed to breach its walls.
Now that Saruman had fled, Orthanc stood masterless.
None of them even considered destroying it.
The tower itself was a marvel, indestructible and invaluable, a fortress unmatched in strength. And its position at the narrow pass between the Misty Mountains and the White Mountains made it more than a citadel; it was the keystone of the realm.
From Isengard ran the Great North-South Road and the paths into Rohan's plains. To control Orthanc was to guard the gateway into Eriador, to command the lifelines that stretched from the Shire to Gondor.
Abandoning it was unthinkable.
Yet both Elrond and Galadriel shook their heads. Their realms, Rivendell and Lothlórien, already demanded their full care; they could not extend their rule here.
Sylas chuckled softly, breaking the silence.
"Then perhaps it should be you, Gandalf. The three of us already have lands to tend. You, on the other hand, wander endlessly with no home to return to. Why not claim Orthanc? From here you'd be close to Rohan and Gondor, and you could keep watch on Mordor."
Elrond inclined his head. "Sylas is right. Saruman will not rest. He will seek to reclaim Isengard. Someone strong must be here to hold him at bay."
But Gandalf only laughed, the sound warm and unshaken.
"I'm not so old that I need a hearth to chain me, my friends. I was sent not to rule nor to settle, but to walk among the Free Peoples. A fixed seat would bind my feet, when I must be free to go where I am needed. I am Mithrandir, the Grey Wanderer. I will not trade that freedom for a fortress, no matter how grand."
His voice was kind but firm. Galadriel and Elrond, long his companions, knew well that he spoke his heart and pressed him no further.
Instead, the three of them exchanged a knowing look, then turned their eyes in unison toward Sylas.
Caught under their gaze, Sylas froze. Then realization dawned, and he began to wave his hands furiously.
"Don't look at me! I already have Weathertop to manage, and Hogsmeade and Bree besides! That's trouble enough for one Wizard. Isengard is leagues away; I can't possibly oversee it as well!"
He was nearly pleading, but the corners of Elven lips curved with quiet amusement, and Gandalf's eyes twinkled.
"Distance?" Gandalf said lightly. "Hardly a problem for you, Sylas. You have the Floo Network. One step through the fire and you could be here in moments."
His tone grew more serious. "Galadriel and Elrond cannot remain. I must wander. That leaves you, and only you, with the strength and means to hold Isengard. Do not refuse so quickly."
But Sylas shook his head like a stubborn child.
He wanted no grand domain, no constant war at his gates. A snug home at Weathertop suited him just fine.
"You know countless allies, Gandalf. Surely one of them could guard this place instead of me?"
Gandalf's smile faded, and his gaze grew heavy.
"It is not so simple. Isengard is no ordinary stronghold. Should Saruman or Mordor retake it, they could sever the passage between east and west. Rohan and Gondor would stand alone, cut off, vulnerable."
"If Isengard were to fall again," Gandalf pressed, "not only would Rohan and Gondor be imperiled, but Mordor's armies could march unhindered into Eriador. The Shire, Bree, even Rivendell itself would lie exposed to ruin. This fortress must not be left unguarded. We need someone both trustworthy and capable to hold it, or the West will know no peace."
Elrond and Galadriel inclined their heads in agreement, their eyes steady on Sylas.
Then Gandalf played his final card. A knowing smile tugged at his lips as he said, "Sylas… if you accept guardianship of Isengard, all of Saruman's legacy shall be yours. The tower, the vaults, and his entire library of books and scrolls gathered over centuries. Every word, every secret. Yours."
Galadriel's gaze softened, and Elrond's lips curved faintly. Both nodded their assent, quietly reinforcing Gandalf's offer.
Sylas turned his eyes toward the towering shelves stuffed with Saruman's collected lore. Tomes bound in dragon-hide, scrolls inked in Elvish script faded by time, manuscripts brimming with strange diagrams… His heart thudded faster. He would not pretend he wasn't tempted.
"Deal!" he blurted, almost before the words had left Gandalf's mouth.
He straightened his black robes and declared with mock solemnity, "For a library like this, I'll gladly wrestle Saruman to the ground a hundred times over. Besides, I already took his staff and ring. We're enemies to the bitter end, might as well take his tower too!"
Gandalf chuckled. Elrond's brows lifted in quiet amusement. Galadriel's smile was like sunlight through leaves. None of them seemed the least bit surprised by his choice.
So it was settled. Weathertop was no longer Sylas's only stronghold, he was now also the new master of Isengard.
Yet before the mood could lighten too much, Sylas' thoughts sharpened. He reached into his satchel and withdrew a rolled parchment. "There's something else," he said, spreading it across the table. "The Blackwolds. I copied the array I found there. Tell me what you make of it."
The moment Elrond, Galadriel, and Gandalf bent over the diagram, their expressions changed. What little ease had crept into their faces was swept away, replaced by solemn gravity.
"Sylas," Elrond asked, his voice unusually sharp, "where did you find this?"
Sylas explained everything, how he had uncovered the Blackwolds' plot, how the array had been etched into the earth, and how he had destroyed it.
When he finished, Elrond exhaled slowly, relief mingling with dread. "Fortunate indeed that you destroyed it in time. Had it been completed…" His jaw tightened. "Something unspeakable might have walked this world again."
Sylas frowned. "You know what it is then? What kind of array was it?"
Elrond nodded grimly. His eyes darkened as he spoke.
"This is no ordinary ward or summoning circle. It is an ancient sacrificial array, born of the Drúedain who once fell under Morgoth's shadow. They worshipped him in madness, spilling blood in his name. Through such rituals they sought to feed his power, offering lives to their Dark Master."
His voice dropped lower. "When Morgoth was cast down, the practice was thought destroyed with him. That such a circle still lingers…" His lip curled with disgust. "It is an abomination. One that should never have been allowed to endure."
...
Stones Plzz
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