Behind the Elven City, on the western edge of Middle-earth, a new castle rose where forest once ruled. Its towers were young stone, pale and sharp against the ancient trees. Built through cooperation between humans and elves under Rowan Mercer's guidance, the structure echoed the spirit of Hogwarts without copying its bones. It was a new academy, born for a new age. Rowan served as its headmaster.
Inside the headmaster's office, Prince Finrod stood by the window, his expression weighed down by a long breath.
"Thingol still refuses," he said at last. "He will not send troops. Nor will he allow the Grey Elves to come here for instruction or exchange."
The rest of their plans had moved with surprising grace. Scattered human survivors had answered the call of Bregolas and Barahir, gathering in the Elven City to rebuild their lives. The central defensive line against Angband had been restored. Even the dwarven clans of Firebeards and Broadbeams from the Blue Mountains had sent envoys, eager to work with elven smiths on arms capable of resisting balefire.
For the first time in years, humans, elves, and dwarves were preparing to meet the armies of Balrogs and the shadow of dragons without standing naked before them.
Yet the largest elven realm on the continent, the Grey Elves of Doriath, remained unmoved.
Thingol's reasons were old wounds that had never healed. The slaughter of the Sea Elves still burned in memory. The abduction of his daughter Lúthien by one of Fëanor's sons was a scar time had not softened. He would not aid the Noldor in their war against Morgoth, nor lift a finger for the Silmarils.
Rowan listened, fingers steepled, then spoke with calm certainty.
"If the mountain won't come to us," he said, "then I'll go to the mountain."
Finrod turned. "You mean to visit Doriath?"
"I do," Rowan replied. "I want to meet Thingol myself."
During these months, Rowan had not been idle. He had studied elven magic alongside the Noldor and learned its internal logic. Unlike the Vanyar, who pursued spellcraft for its own sake, the Noldor favored the marriage of power and craft. Their strength lay in binding magic into forged objects, not in raw sorcery alone. Their bodies themselves carried echoes of the light of the Two Trees.
The dwarves, shaped by Aulë's hand, matched and sometimes surpassed elven craftsmanship, yet they lacked the Noldor's ease in weaving magic into steel and stone.
Rowan's own studies in alchemy had benefited greatly from elven techniques, but Doriath held something rarer.
Three figures, in particular.
Galadriel, destined for queenship, bore the blood of the Vanyar and had studied their arts in the West. Lúthien's magic had once lulled Morgoth himself into sleep. And above all, Melian.
A Maia.
Unable to reach Valinor, Rowan knew Melian was the only divine being he could hope to observe directly. Her Girdle, an unseen boundary of folded space and will, had shielded Doriath for nearly four thousand years. Her power stood just beneath that of the Valar themselves.
"Rowan," Finrod said slowly, "even my brothers and I failed to persuade Thingol. Galadriel herself spoke for us. What makes you think you'll succeed?"
Rowan smiled, not arrogantly, but as one who had turned the problem over many times.
"I don't think those reasons you mentioned are the real ones."
Finrod's eyes sharpened. "Go on."
"We never asked him to march on Angband or reclaim the Silmarils. We asked him to defend the land, to drive back the Balrogs already ravaging Beleriand. And Fëanor's sons are scattered and broken. There is no unified cause left there."
Finrod nodded, understanding dawning.
"Doriath has known peace for four thousand years," Rowan continued. "Under Melian's protection, its people have never truly known war. To fight the Balrogs would cost lives, and Thingol will not pay that price lightly. And even if they succeed, what does Doriath gain?"
He paused.
"As for coming here to exchange magic, he sees no reason. He has never seen what human magic can do. To him, we are newcomers with nothing worth learning."
Elves, like all thinking beings, weighed gain against risk. Even the Valar were not immune to such instincts. Thingol, as king, chose safety first. His decision was understandable.
It was also, Rowan knew, a mistake history would punish.
Doriath's long isolation and total reliance on Melian's protection would one day leave it untested and brittle. When Melian departed, the kingdom would fall with shocking speed. Peace had preserved them, but it had also softened them.
"So," Finrod said at last, "you plan to show him your magic."
"Yes," Rowan answered. "Once he understands its value, he'll reconsider. Even if he still refuses to send troops, he may agree to send scholars. That alone would change the future."
Finrod did not hesitate. "I'll inform my sister. She'll meet you at the edge of Doriath's forest and guide you in."
Though Doriath barred outsiders, blood still mattered. Thingol was their kin. A few guests could pass the border.
And this time, the mountain would be forced to look up.