"What happened?! What happened?!"
The thunderous impact had jolted everyone awake inside the yurt. Blankets flew, weapons clattered, and sleepy faces turned to panic.
"Stand guard! We're under attack!" Gandalf sprang to his feet, gripping his staff tightly. The gem at its tip blazed to life, casting a radiant white light across the interior and banishing the lingering shadows.
The Dwarves scrambled up, instinctively drawing axes, hammers, and blades. Some still had bed hair.
Bilbo, wide-eyed and startled, leapt to his feet, fumbling with the dagger Sylas had gifted him. He had never witnessed a scene like this before, his hands trembled, but he stood firm, mimicking the Dwarves' stance as best he could.
Sylas had already been awake. The moment the barrier had been struck, his magical senses had triggered. He now raised his wand and shouted, firm and steady, "Don't panic! I've placed a magic barrier around the camp. They can't break through, at least not easily!"
With that, he burst through the tent flap, Gandalf close behind, the others rushing out after them.
"It's a Wight!" someone gasped as they emerged into the mist-shrouded night.
There, not far from the barrier, stood a towering figure cloaked in deathly black, its hollow eyes gleaming with malice.
Sylas froze. That wasn't supposed to happen.
He remembered this journey vividly, there were no Wights in this part of the tale. This was new. A ripple in the story. A consequence, perhaps, of his presence in this world.
The Wight shrieked as it spotted the group and surged forward like a black arrow, eyes gleaming with hatred.
"Ready yourselves!" Thorin shouted, lifting his sword. The Dwarves braced, weapons raised and feet planted, ready to meet the charge.
But before anyone could act—
"Petrificus Totalus!" Sylas's voice rang out sharply.
A beam of silvery-blue light struck the Wight mid-leap, freezing it in place like a statue. A heartbeat later, a dagger shot from Sylas's waist with a metallic whistle, streaking straight through the air and burying itself in the creature's skull.
It wasn't just any dagger, it had been forged long ago by the last Prince of Cardolan, in defiance of the Witch-king of Angmar. A blade imbued with light and ancient power. Against a creature of darkness, it struck like lightning.
The Wight let out a guttural, echoing howl as black mist erupted from its form. The shriek pierced the night like a banshee's cry, and then, silence.
Its body crumbled to the earth in a heap of pale bones. The mist above it shimmered and dissolved into the sky.
For a moment, there was nothing but quiet awe.
Then cheers erupted.
The Dwarves roared in triumph, clapping one another on the back and turning to Sylas with newfound admiration. Even Thorin's eyes lingered on him, now mixed with respect.
But Sylas remained grim.
He raised a hand to silence them and pointed to the dark mist still swirling at the edges of the barrier.
"Stay sharp. That wasn't the only one. There are more out there."
The laughter and cheer died at once.
Around them, the mist thickened like smoke from a dying fire.
Gandalf narrowed his eyes at the swirling fog. Without a word, he raised his staff and slammed it into the ground with a deep, resonant crack. A powerful pulse of magic surged outward, radiating in all directions like a shockwave of light.
Wherever the wave touched, the creeping mist dissolved into nothingness, until the entire field, for miles around, was clear once more.
But the relief was short-lived.
As the mist retreated, the shapes hidden within were revealed, and what they saw made everyone freeze.
Wights.
Dozens? No- hundreds.
Pale and shriveled, clad in decaying armor and clutching rusted swords, the Wights stood shoulder to shoulder like a silent army of the dead. Hollow eyes gleamed with malevolence as they let out an eerie chorus of howls and surged forward.
Sylas's face turned grim. "That's... the whole nest," he muttered.
The ground trembled under the charge as the Wights collided with the shimmering magical barrier Sylas had raised earlier. Thunderous impacts sent ripples through the shield, but it held, for now.
Kíli and Fíli, the youngest of the company, exchanged a glance and began taunting the Wights beyond the barrier, clearly trying to keep spirits high.
But the Wights had no patience for games.
With unnatural speed, they raised the ancient blades they had been buried with, blades forged in forgotten ages and cursed with dark enchantments. These were no ordinary weapons. With each strike against the barrier, dark runes on the swords flickered, and glowing cracks began to spread across the shimmering shield.
The barrier groaned under the assault.
Just as Sylas stepped forward, wand in hand, Gandalf gently placed a hand on his shoulder.
"Let me handle this one," the Grey Wizard said, eyes gleaming beneath his wide-brimmed hat. "We can't have you solving every problem for us."
Sylas nodded without hesitation. If anyone could face a tide of darkness, it was Gandalf.
The moment the barrier shattered with a sound like breaking glass, Gandalf stepped forward, raising his staff high into the air. His voice boomed like thunder across the plain:
"Begone, servants of darkness!"
He slammed the staff into the ground.
A blinding halo of radiant light exploded from the impact, engulfing the battlefield. Holy fire crackled in the air as arcs of lightning lanced through the ranks of the Wights. They screamed and hissed, some vanishing in clouds of ash before they even touched Gandalf's cloak.
Sylas's eyes widened in disbelief. The sheer magnitude of Gandalf's power stunned him. 'When... when will I ever reach that level?'
But before he could dwell on the thought, a heavy shadow swept over the field like a storm.
A wave of dark speech echoed through the air, harsh, guttural, and twisted. The temperature dropped violently. Everyone felt their blood run cold, their hearts squeezed as if by an icy fist. Dread pierced their minds like a black arrow, seeding terror, hopelessness, and madness.
From the far end of the darkness emerged a towering Wight unlike the others. He wore a jagged crown of black iron, and from beneath his hood burned twin coals of baleful light. His presence oozed death, despair, and domination.
Everyone stood frozen, on the brink of collapse.
Then, light.
A radiant warmth washed over the camp. It wrapped around them like the sun after a long night, melting the frost in their souls. Alongside it came a melody, golden notes fluttered through the air, alive and defiant, dancing in glowing arcs around the group.
Music.
The ethereal notes danced from the tip of Sylas's wand, weaving a protective charm that pulsed with courage and joy. Its song pushed back the creeping madness, helping everyone regain control of their hearts and minds.
All eyes turned to Sylas.
But Sylas wasn't focused on them. His gaze was locked on the crowned Wight, brow furrowed with deep concern.
He recognized that aura. And the fear it carried was worse than before.
"Gandalf!" Sylas shouted, voice sharp. "That's him—the Witch-king of Angmar! He's possessing the Wight!"
Gandalf's face turned grim. He stepped forward, planting his staff and raising it high. His voice thundered through the air, wrapped in wind and storm:
"Nazgûl. Dark spirit. This land is not yours. Return to the shadow that spawned you!"
For a moment, the Wight hesitated.
Then it answered in a voice like shattering ice, full of hatred and decay. The Black Speech rumbled from its hollow chest:
"You cannot stop me, Wizard."
With a flash of fury, Gandalf raised his staff and loosed a bolt of silver lightning.
The bolt struck true.
The Wight's body exploded in a burst of ash and smoke.
But only for a moment.
Another corpse twitched. A nearby Wight, fallen earlier, rose to its feet, eyes igniting once more with hateful fire. Its mouth twisted into a sneer as it spoke in that same mocking tone:
"You cannot kill me, Wizard. I am not here. I walk in shadow, leagues away. What can you do?"
Gandalf's jaw tightened. He said nothing.
Instead, he blasted the possessed corpse again with another bolt of radiant force, scattering its bones.
But again, the Witch-king returned. A third Wight stood, now bearing that same crowned visage, his burning gaze turning to Sylas.
"Young wizard," he hissed, his voice slithering through the air, "I told you I would remember you. You are marked. You cannot escape me. In time, you will fall, and you shall be mine."
A chill crawled down Sylas's spine.
'Marked? When had it happened?' Why hadn't he noticed?
His skin crawled. The Witch-king's cruel certainty struck something deep inside him. That arrogant claim of ownership, it made his blood boil.
"Marked, am I?" Sylas growled under his breath. "We'll see who gets the last laugh."
He flicked his wand, and a small wooden case zipped out from the storage pouch strapped to the side of the cart. It landed neatly in his hand. He opened it, revealing something wrapped in black silk.
"Gandalf! Don't destroy the body just yet! Make him lose his resistance!"