Building a mental barrier proved to be a task of immense strain.
Each day, Sylas devoted himself to Occlumency, pushing his mind to its limit as he slowly erected the defenses within his thoughts. He would labor until his strength was utterly spent, and only then would he pause, walking the vineyards with Calenmir, lord of the estate.
Unlike their reclusive kin in the West, the Elves of Dorwinion lived more like Men, shaped by centuries of coexistence. Each kindred found its place in the rhythm of life:
The Sindar were master vintners, their craft producing wines famed even in the Woodland Realm.
The Nandor tended the vines themselves, coaxing from the soil grapes of unmatched sweetness and potency.
The Avari, more worldly than their brethren, served as merchants, often partnering with Men to carry Dorwinion's treasures westward.
The vines themselves were ancient marvels. Some had endured for centuries, even millennia, sprawling across the earth like living tapestries. Their fruit not only carried sweetness and fragrance but also bore enchantments that could restore strength and invigorate the spirit. Thus, even Elves, whose constitutions rarely faltered, could succumb to the wines they produced.
The greatest vine of all grew upon Calenmir's estate: a colossal trunk said to be older than ten thousand years, the mother plant from which all surrounding vines had sprung. Its harvest was reserved entirely for Calenmir's hand, each year pressed into wine and sealed away in vast cellars, only to be uncorked for honored guests.
It was from this treasure that Sylas was offered a bottle, aged for a thousand years. Its taste was rich and mellow, heavy with fruit and lingering sweetness. With each sip, warmth spread through his limbs, until his spirit seemed to glow. Unwittingly, he drank cup after cup, and then the strength of Dorwinion overcame him. He fell into slumber, lying in dreamless rest for a full day and night.
When he awoke, there was no ache of wine upon him. On the contrary, he felt sharpened, his thoughts clearer, his mind stronger, his mental power subtly increased. The discovery astonished him.
'If every draught raised my strength like this… I might gladly embrace the life of a drunkard,' he thought wryly.
Nearly a month passed in Dorwinion. By then, Sylas had achieved what few would believe possible, within his mind, he had raised the prototype of a fortress. Not yet the majestic likeness of Hogwarts Castle that he dreamed of, but rather the watchtower of Amon Sûl, standing proud and unyielding.
This stronghold was only the beginning: its halls were bare, its chambers undefined, but its foundations stood. Thanks to the blessing of the Crown of Wisdom and the restorative power of the golden wines, his progress had been swift. Without such aids, the task would have taken years.
Within his thoughts now loomed stone walls, a bastion of his will. Against ordinary mental magic, it was impregnable; any Legilimens would find themselves repelled, their probing minds dashed against its barriers. Even against the silver tongue of Saruman or the dark whispers of Sauron, Sylas was no longer so vulnerable. He could endure where once he would have faltered, holding fast for precious minutes rather than being swept away at once.
And with the fortress came clarity. His mind was quieter, distractions dulled, his thoughts flowing with newfound calm and precision. This gift he had not expected, but it pleased him deeply.
He knew the work was far from done. To build a castle in the likeness of Hogwarts within the mind was a labor of years, not days. Such a citadel could not be conjured in haste but must be raised stone by stone, memory by memory, through patience and practice.
For now, Amon Sûl would suffice.
Sylas at last took his leave of Calenmir, preparing to set out for Dongyi City in search of the Blue Wizards.
As a token of gratitude, he gifted Calenmir a small spatial pouch, enchanted with an Undetectable Extension Charm. The Sinda Elf lord was astonished and delighted at such a rare treasure, and in return he pressed upon Sylas a dozen barrels of his most cherished wine, each one brewed from the fruit of the ancient mother-vine itself.
Sylas, knowing well the wine's rare property of strengthening the mind, accepted gladly.
Mounting his broomstick, he rose into the air and left Dorwinion behind, gliding eastward over the dark waters of the Sea of Rhûn. Beyond its eastern shores stretched the heartlands of the Easterlings, vast, fractured, and scarred by endless war. Primitive kingdoms and savage tribes sprawled across the plains, forever clashing with one another. Some had long sworn fealty to Sauron; others still whispered the name of Morgoth; and a few, restless and rebellious, had been stirred to resistance by the Blue Wizards. In this land, war was the daily bread of men.
To avoid suspicion, Sylas drew upon his gift as a Metamorphmagus, molding himself into the guise of a weathered Easterling warrior. Thus disguised, he moved unnoticed among their tribes, studying their ways.
Everywhere he went, he found signs of their devotion. Iron idols of the Dark Lord stood in their encampments, alongside crude stone carvings or rough-hewn wooden figures, all fashioned in his image. Every man, woman, and child bowed before Sauron as though he were divine.
And with their worship came blood. Black altars stood at the heart of their camps, slick with sacrifice. Prisoners from rival clans, once warriors, now captives, were bound and slaughtered. Their skulls were piled into the foundations of the altar, their hearts cast into the flames, their blood smeared into runes of Mordor's dark tongue.
Sylas, cloaked and hidden in shadow, frowned deeply as he watched. The fanatical crowd roared with savage joy, their faces twisted by frenzy. For a moment, he felt the urge to intervene. Yet when he brushed their minds with Legilimency, he discovered a bitter truth: these victims, had they triumphed instead, would have been just as merciless, offering their captors in sacrifice without hesitation. Here, there were no innocents.
So he stood apart, cold and silent, a witness rather than a savior.
But then he saw what chilled him most. The sacrifices were not in vain. As the ritual reached its climax, the idol of Sauron exuded a foul, invisible power. That corruption seeped into the worshipers, twisting their bodies with feverish strength. Their eyes blazed, their movements became frantic, and their voices rose in wild howls.
The Easterlings called it the blessing of the god.
To Sylas, it was only the advance of decay. These men were not strengthened but consumed, their vitality drained to feed Sauron's malice. The power granted was fleeting; in time, it would burn them hollow, leaving nothing but husks enslaved to the Shadow.
Disgust welled in him. He turned away, intent on leaving this camp behind and pressing further east.
But before he could depart, a shrill, piercing cry rang out across the plains. It was no sound of man or beast he had ever heard before.
Sylas froze, his pulse quickening, eyes narrowing toward the horizon.
'What in all of Arda was that?'
Sylas's eyes narrowed as a shadow blotted out the sun. Far above, a vast, leathery-winged creature wheeled down from the clouds, its black wings stretched like a monstrous pterosaur.
"A Fellbeast," Sylas muttered grimly, his heart tightening.
Yet to his astonishment, the tribe did not flee in terror. Instead, they erupted in cheers.
"The divine messenger! The divine messenger has come!" they cried, their voices trembling with fanatical joy.
Upon the Fellbeast's back rode a cloaked figure, a Ringwraith.
A chill swept over Sylas. If the Nazgûl sensed him here, Sauron would know at once, and the Dark Lord's gaze would turn eastward. That would ruin everything.
He fought the urge to Disapparate on the spot. Apparition would crack the air like a whip, and the Ringwraith's senses were too sharp to miss it. His Disillusionment Charm, effective enough against mortal eyes, would never fool a creature of the Shadow.
So, with a flicker of thought, Sylas dropped his concealment and altered his form. He stretched his features into that of a rough Easterling tribesman. Hooded, scarred, and unremarkable, he melted into the throng just as the Fellbeast descended upon the altar.
The creature's arrival sent a reek of rot across the plain. Its whip-like tail lashed once, striking several Easterlings and hurling them broken to the ground. None dared complain. Instead, all eyes turned upward in awe as the Nazgûl dismounted.
The Fellbeast lowered its gaping maw to the altar, crunching bones and swallowing the bloody offerings whole. Beside it, the Ringwraith bowed before the idol of Sauron, its hollow voice rising in guttural chant.
Then, stretching forth its shadowed hand, it reached straight into the statue's chest. From within came shrieking wraiths, the souls of the freshly sacrificed, mingled with the lingering shades of long-dead captives. One by one, the Nazgûl drew them out, writhing and wailing, and consumed them into its own void-like body.
The tribesfolk looked on without fear. Their fanatic eyes gleamed as though witnessing a miracle they had seen many times before.
At last, the Ringwraith shuddered with a sound like a groan of satisfaction. Its eyeless helm turned to the crowd.
"Your offerings please me. As a reward, you shall receive a blessing."
Its words slithered into every mind like poisoned honey.
Then came the gift: black vapors streamed from the Nazgûl's form, curling down into the mob. The Easterlings screamed in ecstasy, clawing at the mist, inhaling it greedily as if it were life itself.
Sylas watched, his stomach tightening in disgust. Skin turned pallid gray. Eyes glazed with madness. Faces twisted, some skeletal, some swollen with unnatural strength. Those most deeply tainted withered faster, their flesh already collapsing into husks that would one day rise as wraiths themselves.
But none cared. They howled and laughed, welcoming their ruin as a holy gift.
Sylas clenched his jaw. He could not, would not, let the black fog seep into him. His mind fortress braced, his Occlumency shield hardened, and he resisted the pull of the Shadow.
That resistance did not go unnoticed.
The Nazgûl's head snapped toward him. From its helm flared two burning pinpricks of red, locking onto his soul. The Ringwraith's voice, like iron dragged across stone, cut through the screams of the mob.
"You are not of this place."
The Ringwraith instantly locked onto Sylas, red light shot out from its hollow eyes, and a suffocating, terrifying aura erupted.
...
Stones Plzzz
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