With his gift of Legilimency, Sylas could speak seamlessly to the three-headed dog.
"You've guarded this place well," he said warmly. "Here's your reward."
From the golden cup he conjured a great pile of fresh meat and a wide basin of milk.
The aroma instantly roused the two sleeping heads. They snapped awake and began to nuzzle and jostle against him, competing for his attention. Even the watchful central head, no less eager, joined in their playful affection.
Pinned between the three massive muzzles, Sylas nearly lost his breath beneath the weight of their affection. Laughing helplessly, he conjured more food to distract them, and soon the they were content, their tails thumping as they tore into the feast.
When they were settled, Sylas left them behind and went to see his other guardians.
The griffin perched proudly atop Orthanc's tower. Though not yet grown to full size, it was already larger than a lion, for it bore the blood of the Great Eagles.
Unlike the exuberant three-headed dog, the griffin was aloof, more like a regal hunting cat than a hound. It enjoyed Sylas's touch and trusted him deeply, but it never begged or fawned for affection.
Instead, it devoted itself to its duty. Each day it scouted the skies and patrolled the borders of Isengard, sharp-eyed and relentless. Even in Sylas's absence, it had captured Orcs sneaking from the Misty Mountains and torn them apart with beak and claw.
Surprised when he glimpsed these memories, Sylas stroked the griffin's curved beak and patted its feathered neck.
"Well done, Aslan. You are my pride."
The griffin preened at his praise, spreading its vast wings and releasing a cry that was both leonine roar and eagle's scream. From that day forward, it watched Isengard with even greater zeal, allowing no trespasser to escape.
The hippogriff, by contrast, was simpler. Lacking the keen intelligence of the griffin or cerberus, it was loosed into the woods within Isengard's ring-wall, where it lived beside its mare-mother.
Now nearly grown to her height, the young hippogriff stayed close but had learned to hunt rabbits and mice on its own, supplementing its diet with grasses and fruits. Though its wings had strengthened, it still preferred the earth to the sky.
Within the fortress walls, Sylas had also raised stables of Mearas horses captured from the northern plains. Here he bred them with giant eagles, waiting to see what would emerge. Would the offspring prove to be hippogriffs, or Pegasi? Such things were beyond control, magic made the outcome a matter of chance.
The Pegasi he had promised Elrond, Elrohir, and Elladan would be born from these lineages.
Beneath Isengard, Sylas had carved out something far more ambitious: an underground breeding hall.
There, he tended embryos wrought from the mingling of dragon, serpent, and lizard. Stable for now, these strange creations were nurtured within surrogate mothers, awaiting their time to hatch.
For Sylas's goal was bold, he sought to create a new breed of dragon.
Not the sentient fire-dragons of Middle-earth, nor the mighty Smaug, but beasts like those of the wizarding world: voiceless, less cunning, but still potent.
Every part of such a dragon would be precious. Its sinews could become wand-cores; its hide, strong armor; its scales, enchanted shields; its blood, a hundred potions. Even its dung was famed as the richest of magical fertilizers.
Truly, a dragon was a treasury of living magic.
Sylas's experiments demanded such resources, but he would never again draw from Smaug. The last time he had bled the dragon had left scars of mistrust, and he would not press further.
Thus, his plan was simple: let Smaug live in peace, while bred dragons would provide the materials needed for craft and lore.
Unwittingly, his design moved along the same dark path as those in Mordor, for Sauron and Saruman too dreamed of breeding dragons for their own ends.
As Sylas waited, one of the great serpent finally laid an egg.
These serpents, captured for him by Thorondor the mighty eagle from the Misty Mountains, were fearsome beasts in their own right, seven meters in length, dreaded even by the Orcs.
Ordinarily, such creatures could lay several eggs at a time, but this one produced only a single egg. It was massive, larger than an ostrich's, its surface stone-hard and etched with natural patterns. Tapping it with a knuckle gave the sound of striking a rock.
Sylas stared at the strange egg, unsure how to hatch it.
In the end, he sought Smaug's counsel.
The dragon studied the egg with a wary curiosity. He knew Sylas had once used his blood in experiments, and he sensed a faint kinship in the shell. But if Sylas hoped for even a flicker of fatherly affection, he was mistaken.
Dragons had no such ties. They slew their own kind for treasure, fathers and sons alike, and this greed had been their undoing.
And besides, this egg was not pure, it was a mingling of his blood with other beasts. At best, Smaug was mildly intrigued. His interest soon faded.
Still, he gave Sylas a piece of advice: fire-dragon eggs must be hatched in heat. He himself had been born deep in a furnace of stone and flame.
Taking this to heart, Sylas placed the egg into an iron cauldron, set it over a roaring fire, and even covered the pot to trap the heat, letting it simmer as if it were some heavy stew.
While this great egg baked, other hatchlings stirred.
The serpents Sylas had crossbred with dragon's blood laid their own eggs. To his surprise, three of them appeared, smaller than the great serpent's egg. Their shells were marked with patterns like serpent scales, shimmering faintly in the firelight.
Meanwhile, the mares of his stables delivered their foals. Eight births in all: three hippogriffs and five Pegasi.
At last, both breeds had begun to form true herds.
Sylas arranged for the hippogriffs to live among the older mares, roaming the forests of Isengard and even entrusted to the Ents of nearby Fangorn, who took them under their watchful care.
The Pegasi, however, were breathtaking: one coal-black, one silver-grey, two the color of flame, and one pale as moonlight.
Sylas smiled at the sight of them. "Perfect," he murmured.
Already he had decided their fates. The black Pegasus he would give to Elrond. The twin red steeds to Elrohir and Elladan. And the grey and the moon-white he would send as gifts to Celeborn and Galadriel in Lórien.
When news of the Pegasi's birth reached Rivendell, even the calm and measured Elrond could not contain himself, he arrived at Isengard at once.
Elrohir and Elladan were there too, eager as children, and Arwen stood beside them, her eyes shining as she watched the marvel unfold.
Sylas laughed, surprised. It was the first time he had seen Elrond so animated. The Lord of Rivendell, usually a picture of serene wisdom, now gazed with undisguised delight. Clearly, the Pegasi stirred something deep in the Elves, enough to loosen their usual composure.
He led them to the stables. He scarcely needed to speak; their eyes found what their hearts desired at once. Elrond's gaze settled upon the black Pegasus, regal and proud. Elrohir and Elladan were already fixed on the twin red steeds, their faces alight with joy.
Sylas smiled knowingly, he had chosen well.
Arwen, her face radiant, turned to him. "Now Elenoros won't be alone. From this day, he will soar with companions."
Her eyes drifted toward the two that remained, the grey and the moon-white, and she asked softly, "And what of these? Have you chosen their fates?"
Sylas nodded. "I will gift them to Lord Celeborn and Lady Galadriel. I can only hope they will welcome such a gift."
Of course, they did. Celeborn took to the grey Pegasus at once, its silver hide gleaming in the sun, and he built a fine stable worthy of its splendor. Galadriel, entranced by the moonlit steed, brought it into her private gardens. There, it drank from fountains of sweet, enchanted water and fed on herbs grown in silver-lit soil.
Sylas had never imagined his accidental breeding would kindle such reverence. At first he was taken aback, then quietly pleased.
In time, the Elves honored the winged steeds with the name Pegasus, and Sylas himself was given an unexpected title: Lord of Pegasi.
Yet his thoughts soon returned from the skies to the fire, for in his forge lay the first dragon egg.
After a month of steady flame, the egg began to stir. Resting in a red-hot iron cauldron, it shuddered violently, as though something within strained to be born. Sylas quickly removed the pot from the fire and set the heavy, steaming egg upon a stone table, watching in silence.
The trembling grew fierce. Cracks raced across the dark, stone-like shell. At last, with a sharp crack, the shell split apart, fragments falling away.
There, amid the shards, lay a newborn dragon.
Slick with egg-fluid, its small body gleamed with black scales. Yellow eyes blinked open, already glimmering with feral light. From its brow curved bronze-tinted horns, and down its spine ran a long tail bristling with matching spikes.
Sylas examined the broken shell and the gleaming egg-fluid that clung to the table. With a wave of his hand, he gathered the fragments and liquid into vials, ingredients too rare to waste, useful for future potions.
Then his gaze returned to the hatchling.
The small dragon crouched warily, its yellow eyes fixed on him. When Sylas leaned closer, it let out a high-pitched, warning cry, half hiss, half squeak.
He arched an eyebrow. "So young, and already so fierce?"
He extended a hand, moving carefully. The little creature flared its nostrils and suddenly spat a thin stream of sparks toward him. Before they could touch him, an invisible ward shimmered to life, deflecting the tiny blast harmlessly.
Sylas studied it with growing curiosity. The hatchling had clearly inherited the fire of its sire, though weak and sputtering. Its mind, however, was simple, more clever than a wolf or hawk, but lacking the higher cunning of true dragons.
Still, one trait had come through intact: the obsession with treasure. Even newborn, the little black dragon's eyes lingered on the sheen of Sylas's mithril chain, its attention caught by every gleam of gold or silver in the room.
And so, the first of his hybrid dragons was born into Middle-earth.
A week later, the other eggs stirred. These were the offspring of serpent and dragon, and three hatched together.
The shells split with sharp cracks, and from within slid hatchlings of a different cast. Their scales were deep green, their bodies long and coiling like great serpents. Yet they bore four clawed legs and wide, leathery wings sprouting from their backs.
...
Support me on patreon and read chapters ahead @patreon.com/Keepsmiling818