The awestruck group crossed the stone bridge with a pilgrim's reverence, ascending the wide, smooth road until they stood before the towering castle gates.
Up close, the grandeur of the fortress made their hearts race even faster.
Beneath the massive gatehouse, two enormous bronze doors stood open, intricately engraved with scenes from the Battle of Five Armies—elves, dwarves, and men raising their swords in triumph, while orcs and trolls fled in terror. At the very top, a commanding figure rode a dragon, wand raised, unleashing flames like a god of war, dominating the battlefield.
Even a king's palace couldn't compare to this, thought Mayor Larry, swallowing hard.
At the gates, well-dressed villagers greeted the guests with warm smiles.
Larry stared in surprise. Their refined manners and natural elegance made him—a man of noble descent—feel awkward and out of place.
Had he known, the villagers would have been delighted. They had unconsciously mimicked Legolas' graceful demeanor, striving to appear dignified so as not to embarrass Lord Luke.
The unexpected effect was working wonders.
As the carriage passed through the gates, Larry saw a straight white-gravel path lined with lampposts, already glowing despite the lingering daylight.
And the golden and silver trees, visible from afar, now loomed even more majestically.
The golden tree towered over a hundred meters high, its fan-shaped leaves shimmering in the sunset, bathing half the fortress in a radiant glow.
The silver tree, though shorter, coiled like a dragon, its leaves reflecting moonlight, casting the other half in a cool luminescence.
Even without knowing their names, Larry understood—these were no ordinary trees.
"Mayor, we've arrived. You may step down now."
A servant's voice snapped Larry out of his daze. He and Butterbur, the innkeeper, descended the carriage near the fountain.
Villagers led the horses away while others escorted them toward the Great Hall.
Larry's eyes locked onto the golden dragon statue atop the fountain.
That's real gold.
The sheer extravagance made him gulp.
Forcing himself to look away, he followed his guide—only to freeze when he spotted a familiar face.
"Mr. Larry! What a surprise!"
Luke Thompson, now the polished mayor of Hogsmeade, greeted him with a diplomatic smile. "I'm the reception supervisor for tonight's banquet. Welcome as Lord Luke's honored guest."
He turned to Butterbur. "And you, sir! We were about to fetch you from the Prancing Pony ourselves!"
Larry's expression soured.
Years ago, he had used his authority to drive Luke out of Bree. Now, the man stood before him as a trusted servant of Luke—poised, confident, and dangerously well-placed.
If Luke held a grudge…
But Luke merely gestured politely. "You're among the first to arrive. Please, follow me inside to rest."
The Great Hall left them speechless.
White stone walls stretched toward a vaulted ceiling, where thousands of floating candles illuminated the vast space. The roof mimicked the sky outside—blue with drifting clouds and warm sunlight.
Four long tables filled the hall. Dwarves already occupied two, roaring with laughter as they downed ale.
At the head of the room, a raised platform held the high table, centered around a golden throne-like chair.
Magical instruments hovered midair, playing soft melodies—until the dwarves heckled them into switching to livelier tunes.
Some dwarves, finding this hilarious, began shouting conflicting requests. The instruments floundered, producing chaotic noise before finally giving up and bonking the troublemakers on the head.
The hall erupted in laughter.
Larry and Butterbur gaped, feeling like they'd stepped into a realm of wonders.
Luke, unfazed, led them to their seats—near the end of the high table.
Larry bristled.
Why am I seated so far from the center?
He shot Luke a suspicious glare. Is this revenge?
But before he could protest, Luke explained smoothly:
"These seats are reserved for distinguished guests—representatives of Dale's lords, the King Under the Mountain, the Elvenking of Mirkwood, Lord and Lady of Lothlórien, Lord Elrond of Rivendell, and the Lord of the Anduin Vale."
Larry's anger evaporated.
Kings. Lords. Elven royalty.
Suddenly, his measly mayoral title felt insignificant.
He sat down meekly.
Butterbur, meanwhile, grinned at the dwarves guzzling his ale. The more they drink, the richer I get.
In the Amon Sûl Tower, Luke welcomed early arrivals via the Floo Network.
Bilbo came first, bearing Hobbit-brewed malt ale.
Next was Legolas, returning from Mirkwood with a gift from Thranduil—a white-gemmed brooch, enchanted to grant the wearer harmony with forests.
Beorn followed, presenting a barrel of royal jelly from his prized bees—a potent stamina booster.
Then came Bard of Dale and Fíli, representing Thorin.
Luke wasn't surprised Thorin hadn't come—but sending his heir was a diplomatic gesture.
As he guided them to the hall, the Floo flared again.
"Arwen?" Luke blinked.
"Not welcome?" She arched a brow, her starlit eyes gleaming.
Luke laughed. "Just unexpected. Did you come from Rivendell or Lothlórien?"
"Rivendell." She brushed soot off her sleeves with a frown.
A quick Scouring Charm fixed that.
"Your Floo Powder is brilliant," she admitted, "but the soot is dreadful. I have to bathe after every trip between Rivendell and Lothlórien."
Luke smirked. "Nothing's perfect, right?"
"True." Her eyes sparkled with mischief. "But I suspect you enjoy seeing me disheveled."
"Slander!" He raised his hands in mock defense. "Though if you'd like, I could teach you the cleaning charm."
"Deal."
Before they could shake on it, Elladan and Elrohir tumbled out of the Floo, eyeing their playful exchange with suspicion.
"Luke's teaching me magic!" Arwen announced.
The twins perked up. "Us too! We've mastered the spells you taught us last time!"
Luke grinned. "Stay a few days after the feast. I'll show you more."
Their cheers were cut short as the Floo roared again.
"Lord Elrond?!"
The Elf-lord stepped out, smiling mysteriously. "I'm not the last guest. Someone far greater comes."
Luke's breath hitched.
Then—
The flames shimmered, and Galadriel emerged.
No dust dared touch her.
Clad in white, her silver-gold hair luminous, she radiated an otherworldly grace.
"Luke," she said, her voice like a melody. "We meet again."
Luke was overjoyed to see Elrond and Galadriel arrive.
With a bright smile, he stepped forward to welcome them. "Lord Elrond, Lady Galadriel! Your presence brings unparalleled honor to Hogwarts!"
Elrond returned the smile warmly. "Congratulations, Luke. With a lord as mighty as you in Weathertop, I foresee greater peace for Eriador."
He then gestured to his eldest son, Elladan, who presented a spatial pouch.
"I've had scribes copy a portion of Rivendell's archives—books on elven spells, magic, and arcane principles. I hope you find them valuable."
Luke's eyes sparkled as he took the pouch. He knew its expanded interior well—he had enchanted it himself.
Peeking inside, he saw thousands of books neatly stacked.
"This is… incredible! Lord Elrond, your gift is beyond precious!"
Elrond's gesture was profound.
In Middle-earth, books were rarer than gold—vessels of a people's wisdom, often lost to war and time. Even the Dúnedain, heirs of Númenor, now relied on ancient blades to reclaim forgotten arts.
Rivendell's library was among the richest in the world. Luke had once dreamed of transcribing its contents with his Quick-Quotes Quill—yet here was Elrond, offering a trove of magical knowledge outright.
"Your delight is thanks enough," Elrond said kindly.
Next, Galadriel turned to Arwen, who held an intricately carved wooden box.
"This is my grandmother's gift."
As Luke opened it, a radiant light spilled forth.
Inside lay a crown of the White Tree, woven from silver branches so lifelike they seemed to sway in an unseen breeze. At its center gleamed a diamond, pulsing with captured starlight.
Luke was speechless.
Arwen beamed. "I designed it, inspired by my grandfather Eärendil's Silmaril. The gem holds my grandmother's light—it shines brightest in darkness."
Luke took a deep breath. "This is… too grand. Lady Galadriel, am I worthy of such a treasure?"
Galadriel stepped forward, her tall frame towering even over him.
"Worth is not measured by the object, but by the meaning it gains." Her voice, melodic and ethereal, seemed to hum in the air. "May it shine brighter still with your deeds."
Before he could react, she lifted the crown and placed it upon his head.
Starlight cascaded around him.
The crown's glow cast Luke in an aura of mystery and majesty—like a king descended from the night sky.
Even the elves gazed in awe.
Arwen's smile deepened, pleased her creation had found its perfect wearer.
Galadriel nodded approvingly. "Now, if all guests have arrived, might we tour your castle?"
The Great Hall fell silent as Luke entered with the elves.
All eyes locked onto Galadriel—her beauty and presence eclipsing even the hall's grandeur.
Luke, crowned and radiant, stood beside them without dimming their light.
He guided them to the high table, offering Galadriel the central golden seat—but she declined with a smile.
"Tonight, you are the host. We shall not overshadow you."
Elrond agreed.
Thus, Luke took the throne, with Galadriel and Elrond flanking him.
Arwen sat beside her grandmother, while Elladan, Elrohir, and Legolas joined Elrond's side.
Bilbo, Bard, Fíli, and Beorn—all old acquaintances—chose seats together.
At the far end, Mayor Larch and Butterbur sat stiffly, dwarfed by the nobility around them.
Larch barely dared to glance at the elven lords, his pride shriveling in their presence.
As the last guests settled, the floating instruments paused.
Luke stood.
"Let the feast begin!"
With a wave, tables groaned under sudden feasts—roasts, fruits, wines, and delicacies appearing as if conjured from thin air.
Gasps filled the hall.
Arwen leaned toward Luke, amazed. "Did you create all this?"
He chuckled. "Merely summoned from the kitchens. Magic can't make food from nothing."
(He omitted the weeks of practice—linking kitchen tables to the hall via enchantment to ensure flawless teleportation.)
As the banquet roared on, dwarves, emboldened by ale, demanded livelier tunes. The instruments obliged, swapping elegant melodies for rowdy battle hymns.
While the revelry continued, Luke and the elves slipped away to the garden pavilion, nestled between the Mallorn and White Tree.
By night, the Mallorn dimmed, but the White Tree blazed brighter under moonlight.
Elrond marveled. "Had I not known Galadriel gifted you the Mallorn seed months ago, I'd swear these trees were decades old."
Galadriel, touching the Mallorn's bark, seemed lost in memory.
"They remind me of the Two Trees of Valinor—Laurelin and Telperion, lighting the world in gold and silver…"
Her fingers glowed as Nenya, the Ring of Water, channeled its power into the tree.
Golden blossoms burst forth, gleaming like stars.
Not to be outdone, Elrond approached the White Tree, his own ring, Vilya, flaring.
Snow-white flowers bloomed, luminous as sunlit snow.
The two trees, now in full glory, stood as twin beacons—a echo of the ancient Light of Valinor reborn in Middle-earth.
The blossoms of the Mallorn and the White Tree filled the castle with their intoxicating scents.
The Mallorn's fragrance was warm, like sunlight given form, wrapping around the body in a comforting embrace.
The White Tree's aroma, in contrast, was crisp and cool—a revitalizing clarity that sharpened the mind.
Luke's eyes gleamed.
The White Tree's scent enhanced mental focus—perfect for meditation.
"Thank you, Lady Galadriel, Lord Elrond," he said sincerely. "Without your aid, these trees might have taken decades to bloom."
His potion had accelerated their growth, but like wild herbs compared to cultivated ones, they lacked the depth of natural maturity.
Now, infused with the power of the Elven Rings, their vitality had been perfected.
Galadriel and Elrond accepted his gratitude, and the group settled in the fragrant garden, the distant banquet noise a world away.
Under the moonlight, they savored the quiet.
An Invitation to the White Council
"Luke," Elrond began, "what are your plans now?"
Luke blinked. "Plans? Do you have suggestions, Lord Elrond?"
Elrond's gaze was steady. "We've come to invite you to join the White Council. Would you accept?"
Luke was stunned.
"The White Council?" He glanced at Galadriel, who remained serene. "Don't such decisions require unanimous approval? Does Gandalf—and Saruman, as its leader—agree?"
"It was Mithrandir's suggestion," Galadriel said. "He believes your deeds against Sauron prove your worth. Elrond and I concur."
Luke flushed. "Gandalf overpraises me. The Council is for wise, ancient beings—not a youth like me."
Galadriel's voice was firm. "You need not humble yourself. You helped defeat Sauron in Dol Guldur, tamed Smaug, and ensured victory in the Battle of Five Armies. No one else has achieved so much."
She met his eyes. "The White Council exists to oppose Sauron. Your inclusion is decided."
Then, her tone darkened.
"As for Saruman… he is no longer our leader."
Luke's breath hitched. "You've confirmed his betrayal?"
Galadriel nodded. "Mithrandir investigated Isengard while I lured Saruman away. In Orthanc, he found palantíri tainted by Sauron's will… and designs for forging a Ring of Power."
Luke's eyes widened. Saruman had fallen so quickly?
"What will you do?" he asked.
Elrond's voice was grave. "Without absolute certainty of subduing him, we cannot act rashly. Orthanc is impregnable. If he allies fully with Sauron, Gondor and Rohan will be trapped between two evils."
Galadriel added, "We must bide our time—let Gondor and Rohan prepare, then strike when he least expects it."
Luke frowned. "Why not lure him out and ambush him?"
"He is already wary," Galadriel said. "And we lack the power to restrain him. Saruman is the strongest of the Istari—if he flees, we cannot stop him."
Luke exhaled. Saruman was more formidable than he'd realized.
Galadriel's gaze sharpened. "So, Luke—will you join us?"
Luke smiled. "How could I refuse?"
With his acceptance, Elrond revealed the Council's full roster:
Gandalf (Mithrandir)
Galadriel
Elrond
Celeborn (Galadriel's husband)
Círdan the Shipwright
Luke (newly joined)
Saruman, though secretly expelled, had once been their leader.
As a member, Luke would gain access to ancient lore, strategic intelligence, and even the secrets of the Valar's power.
After the discussion, Galadriel and Elrond departed via Floo, while Arwen, Elladan, Elrohir, and Legolas stayed to study magic under Luke.
Gifts for the Dwarves
The next morning, the dwarven craftsmen prepared to leave.
Luke addressed them, his voice magically amplified.
"For your labor, I offer two gifts."
First, enchanted gold coins—each would heat up in the presence of malice, warning its bearer.
The dwarves tested them instantly, laughing as pranksters were foiled.
Balin, deeply moved, declared, "These could save lives!"
Luke then presented a silver flask—a self-filling decanter that turned water into wine.
Balin's eyes sparkled as he filled it from the fountain. The moment water touched the flask's interior, rich wine poured forth.
"These WILL save lives!"
The dwarves roared in delight.
As they marched away, coins in their pockets and flask in hand, Luke smiled.
Hogwarts was complete.
The White Council had gained a new member.
And Middle-earth's fate had taken another turn.
The advantage is that Luke can not only directly obtain various information about Middle Earth, but also have a further understanding of the situation in Middle Earth.
After inviting Luke to join the White Council, Galadriel and Elrond did not stay in the castle for long, and returned to Lórien and Rivendell through the fireplace.
As for Arwen, Elrohir, and Elladan, they all chose to stay here for a while and learn magic from Luke. The banquet lasted until midnight.
The villagers returned to the village at the foot of the mountain one after another, and along the way they were excitedly discussing the elegance and beauty of the elves and the dazzling crown on their lord's head.
The dwarves remained awake, lingering in the hall, drinking and making dirty talk, much to the laughter of their companions. The mayor of Bree and the owner of the Prancing Pony Inn were both led by the butler, Edward, to the guest rooms.
Luke took Bilbo, the three elf siblings, Legolas, and Beorn to live in the tower.
The dwarves finally departed with the two gifts given by Luke.
Like when they had arrived, the thousand dwarf craftsmen retreated into the spatial boxes once more. Balin carried the boxes, and together with Fili, they traveled via the fireplace to Dale first before returning to the Lonely Mountain.
Of the two gifts, the dwarves favored the silver flask that could conjure fine wine the most.
This magical gift even became a symbol of friendship between the Lonely Mountain and Weathertop. During every feast held in the Lonely Mountain, it became an indispensable item.
With the dwarves gone, Hogwarts Castle instantly grew quiet.
As for Mayor Larch of Bree and the owner of the Prancing Pony Inn, they returned to Bree via the fireplace the day after the feast, only sending their accompanying cart drivers and militiamen back the way they had come.
Within the vast castle, only Luke, the three elven siblings, Legolas, Beorn, Bilbo, the steward Edward, and Village Chief Luke—who came up the mountain every few days to report—remained.
The construction of the castle was complete, but Luke's work had only just begun.
The current Hogwarts Castle was merely a shell, far from comparable to the Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry in the magical world.
Not to mention the absence of moving staircases, animated armor, or stone sentinels, the castle itself still needed to be inscribed with alchemical runes to enhance its resistance against spell attacks.
Beyond that, Luke had also promised to teach magic to Arwen and the others.
Figuring that teaching one student was no different from teaching a group, Luke simply gathered all those with wands together for collective instruction.
Inside the tower, Luke designated a room as a classroom.
He stood at the front as the professor of magic.
Seated below him were five students: Arwen, Ellohir, Elrohir, Legolas, and Beorn.
Under their eager gazes, Luke pulled out a copy of The Standard Book of Spells, Grade 1 and lightly tapped it with his wand. The book rapidly duplicated into five copies, flying into each of their hands.
"This is The Standard Book of Spells, Grade 1. It records some basic spells and their principles, serving as your introductory guide. Take a look," Luke said.
Ellohir examined the title on the cover and immediately raised his head curiously. "Luke, this is The Standard Book of Spells, Grade 1. Does that mean there are intermediate and advanced levels too?"
Luke shook his head. "Wrong, Ellohir. After Grade 1, it's Grade 2, Grade 3, Grade 4, and so on. The difficulty of the spells increases progressively. Also, remember to address me as 'Professor' during class."
"Understood, Professor Luke," Ellohir obediently replied.
Luke nodded in satisfaction.
Who would have thought he'd become a professor one day?
Gazing at his students, whose average age exceeded a thousand years, Luke found the experience quite enjoyable.
The subsequent teaching process was equally pleasant.
The elves seemed born for magic—intelligent, perceptive, and quick to grasp concepts. They understood spells after a single demonstration.
Watching Arwen effortlessly cast the Lumos spell with a holy light effect, even making the light float freely away from her wand; Ellohir and Elrohir using the Levitation Charm to make tables dance midair; and Legolas conjuring roaring flames while precisely controlling their temperature—Luke could only sigh at how his students' brilliance made him feel somewhat redundant.
But then his gaze fell upon Beorn, and his eyes instantly softened with paternal warmth.
Here, at last, was a student who could justify his role as a teacher!
Beorn's magical talent was actually quite good, but compared to the elves—especially those with a minimum age of five hundred—he seemed rather ordinary.
In the days that followed, Luke divided his time between teaching spells to the elves and Beorn and inscribing runes onto the castle walls. These runes, imbued with magical properties like durability, imperishability, waterproofing, and fire resistance, would ensure the castle stood for millennia.
The castle was enormous, and nearly every brick needed runic inscriptions. The sheer scale of the task was no less daunting than the initial construction. Naturally, Luke had no intention of doing it all alone.
He promptly enlisted Ellohir and the others as laborers—even Arwen wasn't spared.
Since the runes on each brick were nearly identical, Luke designed the inscriptions first, then taught them to Ellohir and the rest, delegating the work of etching runes onto every wall of the castle.
This also served as a test of their magical progress.
Luke declared this with an air of righteousness.
Truth be told, he had previously considered having the dwarves inscribe the runes during the castle's construction. However, rune inscription required magical energy—without it, the carvings would be mere engravings, devoid of power. Thus, Luke reluctantly abandoned the idea of recruiting dwarves for the task.
Arwen and the others, however, voiced no complaints.
To them, Luke's teachings of wondrous magic were reward enough.
Moreover, they were also learning an entirely new form of runic magic.
If anything, they felt they were getting the better end of the deal!
Luke, for his part, was generous with his knowledge.
He compiled the contents of The Book of Spells into The Standard Book of Spells, Grades 1 through 7 and placed them in the library—open for study—withholding only the darker spells.
He even taught the elves the Patronus Charm, which they adored.
However, perhaps due to their inherently serene and balanced dispositions, the elves struggled with the Patronus Charm, which required intense happiness. They could only produce faint wisps of silver mist.
Beorn, on the other hand, surpassed the elves this time. After a month of practice, he successfully conjured a massive bear-shaped Patronus. The elves, unfazed, remained tranquil, adopting an attitude of "what will be, will be."
Indeed, extreme emotions were ill-suited for elves.
Profound sorrow was fatal to them, capable of weakening them to death, which was why elves cultivated restraint and equanimity.
A year passed in the blink of an eye.
Every brick of the castle was now inscribed with runes, the dense network of symbols forming an invisible magical array that seemed to breathe life into the fortress.
To the elves' keen senses, every stone in the castle pulsed as if alive, no longer the cold, lifeless rock of before.
Meanwhile, the castle corridors were now patrolled by suits of armor that moved and stood guard autonomously. To the uninitiated, they appeared to be mere decorative displays.
But should enemies intrude, these suits would transform into tireless war machines, slashing and striking without end.
These were Luke's alchemical armor sentinels—108 in total, stationed throughout the castle as its guardians.
Additionally, the castle housed numerous towering statues, including a thousand dwarf sculptures crafted by the dwarf artisans themselves.
To express his gratitude for their labor, Luke had invited each dwarf craftsman to carve a statue of themselves, leaving their likenesses in the castle for posterity.
The dwarves had thrown themselves into the task, striving to depict themselves as mighty and imposing.
Luke then enchanted these statues with runes, ensuring they would remain inert under normal circumstances but awaken in emergencies to defend the castle.
The staircases in the towers and corridors were also enchanted through alchemy.
Not only could they shift left and right autonomously, but the steps could also ascend vertically. Stepping onto them would transport a person upward—a "magical" version of an escalator.
Thus, the magical castle began to take shape.
A year was but a fleeting moment for the immortal elves.
To them, it was merely the fall of a single leaf, barely noticeable in the passage of time.
But for Luke, it was the longest project he had ever undertaken.
For an entire year, he had labored over the castle.
Beneath the towering Gold and Silver Trees, a layer of golden and silver leaves had accumulated.
Under the trees' influence, the surroundings flourished with vitality. The garden bloomed with flowers transplanted from the tower's herbology plots—eternal golden bell-shaped Alfirin, giant white-petaled Snow-thorns, golden star-shaped "Sun-stars," and eight-hued "Ent-wives' Blossoms."
A graceful elven maiden glided beneath the Mallorn tree and called upward, "Sulond, come down for your meal!"
Her voice was ethereal and melodious, like a morning breeze, a delight to the ears.
High in the great Mallorn tree, an elegant treehouse and several platforms had appeared, reminiscent of the dwellings of the Lothlórien elves. A winding white spiral staircase coiled around the massive trunk, connecting the treehouse and platforms.
At the very top platform rested an enormous bird's nest.
Hearing the call, Súlond poked his head out.
Spotting the figure below, he let out a joyful cry and leaped from the hundred-meter-high nest, flapping his fledgling wings as he plummeted.
The eaglet's wings were still underdeveloped, and his flight was clumsy—more of a controlled glide downward.
But losing his balance midway, he suddenly tumbled headfirst.
Just before he could crash into the ground, the elf waved her wand, halting his fall and gently lowering him.
"Kee-kee..." The eaglet seemed embarrassed, tucking his head beneath his wing.
The elf maiden smiled softly, stroking his feathers. "You did wonderfully, Súlond! With more practice, once your wings grow stronger, you'll soar through the skies!"
"Kee...?" The eaglet lifted his head, eyes doubtful and unsure.
"Of course! You're still young. When you're older, the entire sky will be yours!" she reassured him warmly.
Then she produced a palm-sized package wrapped in Mallorn leaves. "Look what I brought you—some lembas I made. It'll help you grow faster. Do you like it?"
The eaglet chirped excitedly, nuzzling her affectionately.
The elf maiden's smile brightened. She unfolded the leaves, revealing a thin wafer of lembas, and broke off half to feed him.
The eaglet gulped it down without tasting, then looked up mournfully, eyeing the remaining half.
Shaking her head with a laugh, she said, "No, Súlond. You can't have more. What you ate will sustain you for days. Any more and you'll overeat."
"Kee-kee..." The eaglet nuzzled and pleaded until she relented.
Breaking off another tiny piece, she warned, "Just this bit. No more."
The eaglet nodded eagerly, then delicately nibbled the lembas this time, savoring the flavor.
"Arwen, you spoil Súlond too much," Luke remarked as he entered the garden, his eyes amused but his tone disapproving.
"Lembas is time-consuming to make. Feeding it to him is like casting pearls before swine."
"Kee-kee—!" Súlond protested indignantly.
How dare he compare him to swine! Pigs couldn't possibly measure up to him!
They can't even fly!
"You're unhappy after just one criticism?"
Luke looked at the eaglet, who was now taller than him, and patted its head in amusement.
"I heard from Edward that you haven't been eating properly lately. So you've been mooching off Arwen, huh?"
Súlond, caught red-handed, avoided Luke's gaze like a guilty child.
Ever since Luke moved his nest from the tower to the Mallorn tree, Súlond had grown close to Arwen, who often stayed in the treehouse, and frequently received treats from her.
Now spoiled by the refined tastes of elven cuisine, he naturally preferred her food over plain dried meat.
"Come now, Luke, Súlond is still just a child. If he likes lembas, I'll simply make more for him," Arwen interjected, stroking the eaglet affectionately.
"Besides, he's still growing and needs the nourishment. The energy in lembas will help him develop."
Well, if both parties were willing, what could he say?
Still, Luke couldn't help but envy the bird nuzzling against Arwen.
Talk about being outdone by a bird—I haven't even tasted lembas yet, and here he is eating it like a regular meal!
"Arwen, would you like to visit the Woodland Realm?" Luke suddenly invited.
Arwen blinked in surprise. "You're going to the Woodland Realm?"
Luke nodded. "After the giant spider infestations, they're planning a counterattack to purge Mirkwood. Legolas is returning to join the fight and invited me along. I've already agreed."
Without hesitation, Arwen replied, "Then I'll go too. Aside from Rivendell and Lórien, I've never visited other elven realms."
A smile spread across Luke's face.
"Then get ready—we leave tomorrow."
Beside them, Súlond let out a series of urgent "kree-kree" sounds.
Luke rolled his eyes. "What are you butting in for? You can't even fly yet. Going to Mirkwood would just make you spider food."
Súlond huffed, turning his back on Luke and giving Arwen a pitiful look.
But even Arwen shook her head this time. "Súlond, you're still too young for battle. Stay here and wait for us. When we return, I'll make you Mallorn nut cakes from Lórien."
Somewhat mollified, Súlond eventually quieted down—but only after bargaining for an extra month's worth of lembas.
Watching this, Luke sighed. Spare the rod and spoil the child.
The once pitiful eaglet, nearly abandoned by his kind, was now being utterly spoiled rotten.
The Next Day
After instructing Edward to stay behind and care for Súlond, Luke, Arwen, Legolas, Ellohir, and Elrohir set off for Mirkwood.
Beorn, meanwhile, had long since returned to the Anduin Valley to tend to his livestock.
Before leaving, Luke brought along a small trunk—prompting curious glances, though no one asked.
Traveling via the fireplace network, they arrived one by one in the halls of the Woodland Realm.
Thranduil was already waiting.
"Welcome, Lord of Amon Sûl, to the Woodland Realm!"
Descending from his throne, Thranduil spread his arms in an elegant gesture of greeting. He then acknowledged the three elven siblings with equal warmth.
"And to my kin—Ellohir, Elrohir, and Arwen!"
Clad in resplendent armor for the coming battle, Thranduil exuded both nobility and a sharp, commanding presence.
"King Thranduil, it has been too long. I must thank you again for your previous gift," Luke said, gesturing to the white gem brooch on his chest—a token of the Silvan elves' blessings, enhancing communion with nature and granting the forest's protection.
Seeing the brooch, Thranduil's smile deepened. "No thanks are necessary. If anything, I should be grateful for your guidance of Legolas. He seems far more vibrant—and advanced—than when I last saw him."
His gaze lingered on Legolas with paternal pride, easily discerning the magical prowess he had gained under Luke's tutelage.
Legolas, however, frowned at his father's battle-ready attire.
"Father, are we launching the attack today? Why the urgency?"
Thranduil's expression turned grave.
"The spawn of Ungoliant are cunning. They've sensed our movements and are summoning reinforcements from the southern woods. To prevent them from organizing, we must strike swiftly and decisively."
"Then allow me to fight alongside you!" Legolas declared firmly.
Thranduil agreed without hesitation before turning apologetically to Luke and the others.
"I regret that I cannot host you properly today. Once the battle is won and the forest cleansed, I shall hold a feast in your honor."
Luke shook his head. "No need for formalities, Your Majesty. We came at Legolas' invitation to lend our strength. When you march, we march with you."
Ellohir, Elrohir, and Arwen nodded in agreement.
Thranduil accepted their offer gratefully. This purge of Mirkwood's spiders would benefit from their aid.
At the sound of a horn, the full might of the Woodland Realm's warriors assembled.
Legolas joined the vanguard, while Luke, Arwen, and the twins rode alongside Thranduil.
Luke found himself atop a massive elk—one of Thranduil's own steeds, and the gentlest of the herd. The antlered mount was a novel experience.
"If you fancy it, the elk is yours," Thranduil offered casually.
Luke declined with a laugh. 'My castle's already turning into a menagerie.'
As the king's focus shifted to the impending battle, Luke's attention was drawn to his brooch.
Within the forest, its power awakened. The trees seemed to breathe around him, their whispers revealing the land's secrets—the rustle of leaves, the scuttle of insects, fleeing creatures…
And the giant spider lurking high in the branches ahead.
Before Luke could shout a warning, elven arrows had already found their mark. The spider fell, swiftly dispatched by a blade.
The entire exchange took mere seconds.
No need for my alert, Luke mused. In Mirkwood, the elves are in their element.
Yet as the warriors moved on, leaving the spider's corpse behind, Luke turned to Thranduil.
"Your Majesty, might I claim these spider remains?"
Thranduil raised an eyebrow. "To what purpose? Their kind taints the earth even in death."
"Their venom has uses—potent antidotes, magical enhancements," Luke explained, holding up a vial of eerie green fluid. "And their nerves may serve as wand cores."
In truth, he had greater plans.
These spiders, akin to Acromantulas but deadlier, were a treasure trove of rare ingredients.
He intended to capture live specimens for breeding—before Mirkwood's purge rendered them extinct.
As for the carcasses?
They'd make fine meals for his basilisk, Herpo.
Dark creatures like these, toxic to most, were a delicacy to the serpent. The last two spiders Luke had kept had triggered a growth spurt in Herpo after consumption.
So this trip served dual purposes: aiding Legolas and stocking up on pet supplies.
With a flick of his wand, Luke summoned the spider's corpse, harvesting its venom before vanishing the remains into an expanded pouch.
Ellohir watched curiously. "Planning alchemical experiments?"
Luke grinned. "Among other things."
After all, why waste good ingredients?