Sylas frowned thoughtfully at Elrond's words.
"If Morgoth was defeated, shouldn't this circle be useless now?"
Gandalf shook his head, his voice solemn.
"Defeated, yes, but not destroyed. After the War of Wrath, Morgoth was captured, bound with Angainor, and cast into the timeless void. Yet his shadow still lingers. There are those who whisper his name, who spill blood in his honor, hoping their sacrifices will one day grant him strength enough to break free and return."
Galadriel held the parchment blueprint in her hands. Her starlit eyes lingered on the sinister etchings, and her voice lowered into something like sorrow.
"There is an ancient prophecy. It claims that Morgoth will tear free from his chains and descend again upon Arda, unleashing a war darker and crueller than before. For many years, I thought it no more than rumor. But now, seeing this… perhaps the signs have always been with us."
The chamber grew heavy with silence until Gandalf, in his usual way, forced a smile to ease the tension.
"Prophecies are distant things," he said lightly. "Whether they hold truth or not, they are beyond our present worry. And thanks to Sylas, the circle itself is gone. For now, that threat is ended."
Sylas nodded, and with a flick of his wand, he burned the parchment until not a trace of design remained.
Afterward, he turned his attention to Orthanc itself. With a wave of his staff, flames roared inside the great fireplace, and he bound the hearth to the Floo Network. Green sparks whirled within the blaze, now, with a single step, he could travel between Weathertop and Isengard.
Galadriel and Elrond, graceful and polite, declined his invitation to linger. Both stepped into the fire, vanishing in emerald swirls, one bound for Lothlórien, the other for Rivendell.
That left only Sylas and Gandalf in the great tower.
Orthanc, wrought of black Númenórean stone, was nearly indestructible. Saruman had carved it with runes, built it with cunning devices, layered it with wards, spells that turned it into both fortress and amplifier of his sorcery. To simply destroy such a marvel felt wasteful. Yet to leave its defenses untouched risked giving Saruman a weapon if ever he returned.
So the two wizards bent their wills to the task. For a full month, they unbound Saruman's spells and re-wove them, reforging the tower's wards so that its power answered only to them. Sylas etched his own runes into the walls, reinforcing the fortress until Orthanc became even stronger than before.
But one problem remained, Saruman's followers.
The Rohirrim and Gondorian soldiers who had fallen under his command were simple enough to deal with. They were handed over to the forces stationed near the Fords of Isen.
The Dunlendings, however, were another matter.
These wild men of Dunland lived just west of Isengard. For generations, they had borne hatred for the horse-lords of Rohan. Long ago, their ancestors had held the valleys and plains of the Isen before the Rohirrim arrived, granted those lands by Gondor. When the horse-lords settled and drove them out, the Dunlendings retreated into harsher country, nursing grievances that never healed.
They believed the Rohirrim had stolen their birthright. Skirmishes over pastures and farmland flared across centuries, until bloodshed hardened into enmity. Saruman, clever as ever, had fanned those flames, promising the Dunlendings revenge. Many of them had joined his cause, hoping to strike at their old foes.
Now, with Saruman gone, Sylas found himself master of Isengard, yet staring at a nest of enemies right on his doorstep.
He knew well enough: if the Dunlendings turned back to Saruman in secret, Isengard would stand on shifting ground.
And Sylas had no patience for unstable neighbors.
After much discussion with Gandalf, Sylas resolved to meet the Dunlending chieftain in person, partly to announce the new rule over Isengard, and partly to mark his arrival in Dunland with his own presence.
He released the captured Dunlendings and sent them home with a message: within one month, he would come himself to speak with their leader.
Once Orthanc's lingering wards and traps had been rewritten and secured, Sylas mounted Smaug. Together they soared across the Misty Mountains, the dragon's vast shadow racing over the stone ridges until the lands of Dunland spread out below them.
Dunland clung to the western slopes of the southern Misty Mountains. It was a rugged country of wind-beaten hills and narrow plains, bounded east by the North-South Road, north by the river Gwathló, and south by the river Isen. Its people had no cities. They lived as scattered tribes, nomads, herdsmen, and farmers scratching the soil in stubborn defiance of the Rohirrim who had once driven them from richer pastures.
When Smaug glided down from the high peaks, the people of Dunland cried out in terror. They saw the golden fire-dragon wheel across their skies and believed the world's ending had come.
But no ruin fell. The dragon merely circled once, skimming the treetops, a silent show of might, before descending toward the grasslands where the Dunlending leader's encampment lay.
It was deliberate intimidation. Sylas knew well that these tribes respected power above persuasion. Only through awe and fear could he hope to keep them in line.
The settlement was crude but fortified, a scatter of tents gathered behind a wooden palisade, built to turn away wolves and raiders. In the center stood the largest tent, the seat of the chieftain.
When Smaug descended, the earth trembled, and the Dunlendings scrambled in alarm. Men clutched their axes and spears, though their hands shook as they faced the vast wings, the armored scales, the golden eyes of the dragon glaring at them.
From the great tent stepped their leader, a tall man with a weather-beaten face and a broad saber at his side. He froze at the sight of Smaug, his eyes wide as saucers. Legends had told of dragons, but none had prepared him for the reality of living flame and death's wings looming at his door.
Still, as chief, he swallowed his fear and strode to the fore of his people. Raising his voice, he shouted against the roaring wind of the dragon's wings:
"I am Brog, chieftain of this tribe. Speak, Dragon Lord, what brings you to Dunland?"
In the blink of an eye, Sylas vanished from Smaug's back and reappeared before Brog, so close that the chief nearly drew his saber in reflex.
"I am Sylas, the Black-Robed Wizard," he said calmly, his voice cutting like steel. "I sent word through your tribesmen. You know who I am, I trust?"
Brog's hand hovered at his saber but dropped again. He steadied his breath, studying the tall young wizard whose name had already traveled the length of Middle-earth.
At last he inclined his head, speaking with wary respect:
"Of course. You are the new master of Isengard, the Lord of Weathertop in the North, the Dragon Lord, bane of Orcs. Even in Dunland, we have heard your name."
Sylas's lips curved faintly, his gaze cool and steady.
"Good. Then I need not waste words. Know this: Saruman betrayed his charge, threw in his lot with Mordor, and has fled east to join the Dark Lord. Isengard now belongs to me.
But I have also heard that you allied your people with Saruman. I came myself to avoid misunderstandings. So tell me, Chieftain, where do you stand? Will Dunland walk in peace with me, or must I treat you as foes?"
Behind Sylas, Smaug shifted his colossal head and loosed a low growl, smoke curling from his nostrils. Brog felt the dragon's golden eyes upon him, and despite his outward composure, a cold sweat broke along his spine.
Brog quickly raised his hands in defense, his voice trembling but urgent.
"This is all a misunderstanding! We never knew Saruman had allied himself with Mordor. Our only dealings with him were because he promised to help us reclaim our ancestral homeland. Now that we know the truth, we will never work with him again!"
Sylas gave no sign of whether he believed the words, but inclined his head slightly. His voice was calm, though edged with quiet menace.
"I hope it is as you say, Chieftain Brog. Because if not, next time it will not be me who comes to speak with you, only my dragon."
Behind him, Smaug opened his vast jaws and bellowed a deafening roar. The sound shook the earth and made the Dunlendings clutch their ears in terror, certain that fire would follow at any moment.
Cold sweat poured down Brog's brow. He bowed quickly and promised over and over, "It will not happen again! By our ancestors, I swear it will not happen again!"
At that moment, the system's voice stirred within Sylas's mind.
"Hogwarts Check-In System: Location identified, Dunland. Would you like to check in?"
Sylas's lips curved faintly. Check in, he thought.
"Check-in successful! Congratulations, you have acquired the talent of Legilimency!"
At once, Sylas felt something awaken inside him. His mind sharpened like a blade, and it was as if a hidden door had opened. His thoughts spilled outward, and suddenly the world flooded in.
Whispers and shouts pressed against him, snatches of desire, fear, and suspicion. He heard the minds of the Dunlendings, the guarded thoughts of Brog, and even the deep rumbling impressions of Smaug himself.
The sudden chorus of voices struck him like a storm. Sylas winced, frowning at the noise battering his mind from every side.
"Master?" Smaug rumbled, tilting his great head, golden eyes flashing with concern.
Sylas steadied himself with effort, breathing deeply. He called upon the crown of wisdom and pushed back against the storm, focusing until the cacophony dulled into whispers he could control.
Brog, seeing Sylas's frown, shifted uneasily, though he forced himself to step forward and speak with desperate courage.
"Wizard Sylas, our people once lived peacefully in our ancestral lands. We raised flocks, hunted, and farmed, our lives were humble, but content. Then the Rohirrim came. They stole our pastures, and Gondor, with sly cunning, granted them our lands as though they were theirs to give. We were cast out, forced to wander in Dunland, landless and bitter."
"If you would help us reclaim our homeland," Brog said, his voice rising with passion, "then all our people would swear fealty to you. We would serve you as lord and protector, gladly!"
With his Legilimency, Sylas could feel the truth of Brog's words. The chieftain's emotions burned strong: longing, resentment, and a desperate hunger for hope. Around them, the gathered Dunlendings' thoughts echoed the same plea, their eyes fixed on Sylas with yearning.
But Sylas only sighed inwardly. He had no desire to involve himself in the bitter, blood-stained feud between the Dunlendings and the Rohirrim.
For in truth, the grievance cut both ways. The ancestors of the Rohirrim had indeed seized land that once belonged to the Dunlendings, driving them into exile. Yet in the centuries since, the Dunlendings had raided Rohan again and again. In ages past they had even allied with Easterling invaders, capturing Edoras itself and slaying the prince of Rohan.
Both sides had reason for hate. Both sides had blood on their hands.
The Rohirrim spat upon the Dunlendings as wild brigands. The Dunlendings cursed the Rohirrim as northern usurpers.
Even Gandalf, who was usually a peacemaker, found it difficult to judge and knew not how to resolve the conflict between the two sides.