Arwen adored the Pegasus that Sylas had gifted her. With shining eyes, she named the winged foal Elenolos, meaning Star-Horse. The name suited it perfectly, for its coat gleamed like moonlight, and its wings shimmered faintly under the stars.
In the days that followed, Sylas traveled frequently between Weathertop and Isengard.
Among his newly bred guardians, the three-headed wolf Cerberus grew at a staggering pace, like a balloon swelling larger each day. In just over a month, it had already reached the size of a full-grown warg, standing more than two meters tall. From its relentless growth, there was no telling where its limit might lie. After all, it carried the blood of dragons, basilisks, krakens, and wargs, each of them vast and mighty in their own right.
But with its size came an equally fearsome appetite. No longer satisfied with milk, Cerberus demanded meat, huge basins of it daily. Though all three heads shared one stomach, they still bickered constantly, snapping at each other as though competing for every bite.
Despite the quarrels, the beast showed remarkable intelligence. Though it could not speak, Cerberus quickly learned to obey Sylas's commands. Under his training, the three heads rotated their rest so that one always remained awake, standing sentry before Orthanc's gates, watchful through day and night. Its abilities also sharpened with age: venom that dripped from its fangs, fire that blazed from one maw, and acid that ate through steel. Blades and spells alike struck against its hide as though against stone.
Meanwhile, the Griffin Aslan stretched its wings for the first time. Though still young, it could already lift itself briefly into the air, circling low over the courtyard before landing proudly.
Buckbeak, the Hippogriff, thrived under the care of the white mare. Though his adoptive mother encouraged him to graze peacefully, Buckbeak's instincts told a different story, he pounced gleefully upon rabbits, marmots, and mice in the grass, flapping his wings with pride after each successful hunt.
Not long after, Gandalf returned from the plains of Rohan astride a steed unlike any other. The horse was taller and nobler than even the pearl-white mare: a Mearas stallion, swift as lightning and tireless as the wind. Its coat gleamed silver by day and shadow-grey by night, and its eyes held the light of wisdom. Even under Smaug's looming shadow, it did not flinch, but whinnied in defiance.
"This is Shadowfax," Gandalf said proudly. "The lord of horses, whom I tamed after three days' chase across Rohan's fields."
Sylas's eyes widened in awe. With Gandalf's permission, he carefully drew a small vial of blood from Shadowfax, already plotting new experiments with the blood of the Great Eagles. Perhaps more Pegasi, or even finer Hippogriffs, could be born from such noble stock.
Gandalf, meanwhile, marveled at Sylas's hybrids, especially the Griffin Aslan. His eyes lingered upon it, and he praised its majesty: the courage of a lion and the wisdom of an eagle bound in one form.
Shadowfax, however, was less impressed. The proud king of horses pinned his ears back, jealous of the attention. For several days he refused to heed Gandalf's call, glaring at the Griffin with disdain and stamping his hooves whenever it drew near.
Aslan, no less proud, returned the challenge, darting close and flicking his wings in provocation. Before long, Isengard was filled with the noisy antics of steed and griffin vying for dominance, to the bemusement of everyone else.
Yet Gandalf, true to his wandering heart, could not remain long. After a brief stay, he mounted Shadowfax once more and set off upon his journeys.
Sylas returned to Weathertop, leaving Isengard's safety in the hands of his "young recruits." Cerberus, barely more than a month old, was already posted as gatekeeper at Orthanc, snapping happily at any who dared approach. Aslan, entrusted to Thorondor's care, began patrolling the skies under the great eagle's watchful eye. Buckbeak galloped freely on the fields beyond the tower walls, wings half-spread as he chased field game.
For extra vigilance, Sylas visited Fangorn Forest and sought Treebeard's counsel. The Ents, ever the guardians of the trees, agreed readily to keep watch. Through the whispering of leaves and the murmuring of bark, they would see to it that no foe crept upon Isengard unnoticed.
Unlike Saruman, Sylas had no wish to strip the land bare. Orthanc would stand defended not only by stone and steel but also by the living strength of the forest itself.
For the Ents, Sylas's promise not only to spare the forests around Isengard but also to plant new trees was welcome news. Their ancient charge had always been to guard the groves and green places of Middle-earth. Now, with a wizard who cherished trees as allies rather than tools, they felt a rare sense of reassurance.
After returning to Hogwarts Castle, Sylas's first task was to retrieve the essence he had once buried in the fertile farmlands at the foot of Weathertop. The fields there had flourished, wheat heavy and golden under the summer sun, and the farmers worked joyfully, reaping the abundant harvest. Carefully, Sylas dug up the small lump of metal from beneath the earth.
The essence gleamed faintly, runes of harvest and plenty etched into its surface. Having soaked in the land's power for many months, it pulsed with a deep, steady aura, like the heartbeat of the soil itself.
He carried it back to the castle and laid it under sunlight for seven days to purify and strengthen it. Then, seeking a fitting vessel, he journeyed into a quiet valley among the Weathertop Hills. There stood a mighty oak, older than many kingdoms, its boughs entwined with mistletoe.
With a soft incantation, Sylas hollowed a space within the oak's trunk. He nestled the golden essence inside, now inscribed with runes of life and healing, and sealed the hollow with a spell that coaxed the bark to knit closed once more. There it would rest until autumn and winter, when the oak bore its fruit and the mistletoe blossomed. Only then could he retrieve the infused essence and begin forging Hufflepuff's Golden Cup.
This ritual was not mere artifice, but ancient Celtic nature-magic, very different from the forging of Gryffindor's Sword or Ravenclaw's Diadem. The cup would not only hold enchantments but also carry the living breath of the earth itself.
With that task set into motion, Sylas turned to other matters.
Among his possessions lay a dark ore taken from the Paths of the Dead, stone that held the Sulfur of Souls, born of countless ghostly tears that had seeped into the rock, saturating it with fragments of the departed.
He set the ore within his furnace, feeding it with steady flame and patient spells. For more than a month, he worked carefully, coaxing the spectral essence out. At last, he held in his hand a vial of pure Sulfur of Souls, shimmering faintly like bottled moonlight.
Now two of the three alchemical materials for the Philosopher's Stone were his: the Mercury of Spirit and the Sulfur of Souls. Only the final element remained, the elusive Salt of body/Flesh.
Elrond had been able to guide him to the first two, but even the Lord of Rivendell admitted ignorance of this last material. The Salt of Flesh, according to legend, could only be found in Hildórien, the cradle of mankind. It was said to lie far to the east, where the first men awoke in the dawn of the world. Yet over long ages, its exact location had been lost to all.
The East was no safe land. Mordor's shadow stretched across it, and tribes like the Easterlings bent their knee to Sauron. To seek Hildórien would mean venturing deep into hostile lands. Sylas knew that if he went, he would be challenged at every step.
Thus he resolved to prepare himself fully before embarking on such a journey. His plan was to complete Hufflepuff's Cup and to forge the Resurrection Stone, strengthening his power and foundation before facing the East.
The cup's crafting was already underway, awaiting only the seasons' turn. In the meantime, his thoughts turned to the Resurrection Stone.
One of the three fabled Deathly Hallows, the stone did not truly restore life. Rather, it summoned shades of the departed, more solid than ghosts, yet less than living flesh. Only the bearer could perceive them, and they returned unwillingly, burdened with sorrow for being torn from peace.
The Hallows themselves, the Elder Wand, the Resurrection Stone, and the Invisibility Cloak, were said by legend to have been gifts from Death. Yet in truth, they were born of mortal hands: the cunning work of the three Peverell brothers.
Of the three Deathly Hallows, the Resurrection Stone was crafted by the second Peverell brother, who longed to bring back the woman he loved.
But raising the dead was the most forbidden of all magical pursuits. What he created could only summon faint echoes of the departed, shadows pulled unwillingly from beyond the veil. The brother, unable to bear the hollow comfort of a false reunion, eventually chose death himself, seeking his beloved in the afterlife.
Because of this tale, the stone was often dismissed as useless. What good was a Hallow that could conjure little more than sorrow?
Yet Sylas saw its true value.
The stone could call back the shades of those long gone, not for companionship, but for knowledge. With it, he could seek wisdom from the greatest minds in history, masters whose secrets had been buried with them.
His hand brushed the Ring of Power that hung from a chain around his neck. Saruman's creation was potent, but crude compared to the Elven Rings. If he could summon Celebrimbor, who had forged the Three, perhaps the flawed ring could be reforged and perfected, perhaps even raised to rival the might of Narya, Vilya, and Nenya themselves.
And if the stone could reach farther still… perhaps he could summon Fëanor, the peerless smith of the Silmarils, to glimpse the brilliance of his craft. The thought made Sylas's heart quicken.
But there was risk. All Elves, Men, and Dwarves who died passed into the Halls of Mandos. If Mandos himself, the Doomsman of the Valar, took offense at his meddling, Sylas might bring a greater doom upon himself than any mortal could bear.
Even so, he knew he had to attempt it.
The difficulty lay in the materials. The Resurrection Stone required a rare essence that bridged the divide between life and death. In Wizarding world, the Peverell brother had drawn this essence from the Veil of Death, the black-draped archway hidden deep in the Department of Mysteries at the Ministry of Magic.
That veil whispered with the voices of the departed, audible only to those who had known grief. It was said to be a doorway to the realm of the dead, a threshold from which no traveler returned. The Ministry itself had been built upon that place, guarding and studying it as one of wizardry's greatest mysteries.
But Middle-earth had no Veil, no Ministry, no doorway to the realm of death. The souls of Elves, Men, and Dwarves all journeyed to Mandos after their end. How, then, was he to seize the substance of death?
Sylas closed his eyes and thought, the Crown of Wisdom upon his brow amplifying his mind. Slowly, an idea formed.
This world did have a shadow-realm, the unseen layer of reality that wove around the mortal world. When Bilbo slipped on the One Ring, he entered that realm, vanishing from sight. When Frodo was wounded by a Morgul blade, he was slowly drawn toward it, his spirit dragged halfway into shadow.
That realm was not unlike the wizarding "other side" beyond the Veil. It was a Netherworld, coexistent with the living world but invisible, a place where the boundaries of life and death blurred.
If the essence he sought could be found anywhere in Middle-earth, it would be there.
But another question immediately arose, chilling in its simplicity:
How was he to enter the Netherworld?