Gandalf didn't know exactly what Sylas was planning, but he chose to trust him.
With a powerful swing of his staff, Gandalf struck down the Wight that had been possessed by the Witch-king of Angmar. The creature crumpled, stunned.
"Expelliarmus!" Sylas shouted, casting his spell just a heartbeat later.
The flash of red light struck true, and an ancient brooch was blasted free from the Wight's chest, spinning through the air before landing softly at Sylas's feet.
The moment he laid eyes on it, Sylas knew: the brooch was steeped in dark power, tainted by the Witch-king's presence. It pulsed with malice, reeked of ancient curses, and was exactly what he needed.
Without hesitation, Sylas knelt and unwrapped the black silk bundle in his hand.
Inside was a small voodoo doll, crudely shaped, but crafted with care. It was made from a living Mandrake, its magic pulsing faintly, its roots wrapped in silver thread, its limbs stitched from woven willow and thorn.
He pressed the brooch against the doll.
The instant it touched, the doll shuddered.
A sickly black aura surged from the brooch, wrapping itself around the doll and soaking into its body. The transformation was swift, the doll began to change, its wooden face contorting until it faintly resembled the crown-wearing Wight standing before them.
Far across the clearing, the Witch-king's burning eyes widened.
A faint, eerie connection tugged at him, something dark, twisted, and dangerous. He tried to pull his spirit away, to flee the Wight's body and escape whatever Sylas had created.
But it was too late.
Pain like he had never known exploded within him.
A shriek, cold, piercing, inhuman, ripped from his mouth as he staggered. His shadow flickered violently.
Sylas stood firm, his face expressionless. In one hand, he held the doll. In the other, a dagger crafted from the fang of a venomous serpent.
He drove it straight into the doll's chest.
The Mandrake doll writhed in agony, its tiny mouth opened in a voiceless scream, its eyes bulging with pain. At the same moment, the Witch-king's host body twisted unnaturally, clutching at its chest as if stabbed through the heart.
Everyone stood frozen, too stunned to move.
Even the Dwarves, brave and battle-worn, couldn't help but swallow hard. Their eyes flicked between the writhing Wight and the silent, focused young wizard calmly driving a cursed dagger into a doll.
Sylas's expression didn't waver. His magic flared, raw and furious.
Curses required more than knowledge, they demanded focus, intent, and power. And Sylas had all three.
He raised the dagger again and plunged it deep into the doll's forehead.
CRACK.
The doll screamed.
And then, with a final wail, it crumbled into ashes in his hands.
Sylas staggered slightly, surprised by the sudden disintegration, but the result came swift and decisive.
The Wight possessed by the Witch-king let out a howling cry of pain and fury. Its form trembled, cracked...
And then exploded in a burst of black ash, scattering across the ground like soot in the wind.
The remaining Wights, once brimming with dark malice, suddenly froze in place. Their eerie glow faded, their limbs stiffened, and one by one, they collapsed into heaps of lifeless white bone.
Silence fell.
Everyone stared at Sylas in stunned awe.
But Sylas didn't notice the looks. His eyes were fixed on the pile of ash in his hands, what was left of the Mandrake-based voodoo doll. His heart ached.
He had spent weeks nurturing that Mandrake, and the doll had just lasted a single curse.
'Voodoo dolls aren't supposed to be single-use!' Sylas thought bitterly. But then again… the Witch-king of Angmar wasn't your average undead puppet. He was the Lord of the Nazgûl.
Sylas sighed.
"Such a waste…"
As he muttered under his breath, Gandalf approached, staff in hand. His keen eyes glanced down at the ashes still humming faintly with residual dark energy. He frowned.
"Be cautious, Sylas," the old wizard said softly. "Power like this… it's a double-edged sword. The more you wield it, the more it watches you in return."
Sylas looked up. For a moment, he said nothing. Then he gave a solemn nod.
"I know. Thank you… I'll be careful."
Gandalf patted his shoulder. "Good lad. Just don't let the shadows whisper too sweetly."
...
Far away, in the blackened heart of Mordor, a piercing scream shattered the night.
In a stone fortress built on jagged cliffs, the Witch-king of Angmar reeled backward, his armor clattering as he staggered to one knee. His spectral form flickered like a dying flame. A dark crack split across his helmet, and his voice echoed hollow and twisted with pain.
The other Nazgûl, drawn by the sudden disturbance, rushed to his side, but even they didn't dare touch him.
"What happened?" one rasped, eyes narrowed beneath his hood.
No answer came, only a sudden shift in the air.
Then, it appeared.
A massive, flaming Eye, wreathed in smoke and molten fury, blazed across the dark sky.
The Eye of Sauron.
The vertical slit of its pupil glowed with hatred. Within it, a towering figure of shadow stirred, a presence so powerful, so dark, that even the Nazgûl trembled.
A voice echoed through the air, deep, and heavy with malevolent command.
"A new Wizard stirs in Middle-earth… Find him. Learn his name. No unknowns may remain before my return."
Each word carried the weight of fire and corruption.
The Nazgûl bowed, kneeling before the Eye, their voices unified in reply:
"Yes, my Master."
...
Back in the Barrow-downs, the expedition party remained unaware of the distant storm gathering in Mordor.
While most of the company busied themselves gathering scattered trinkets left behind by the fallen Wights, silver pendants, and rusted brooches, others began carefully burying the bones.
As Gandalf had said, these Wights were once valiant warriors, noble men of old who had fallen in battle. Their bodies had been twisted and defiled by the Witch-king's foul magic, robbed of peace. Now, at last, they could rest.
Nearby, Sylas approached Gandalf, a troubled look on his face.
"Gandalf," he said quietly, "could you… check me for anything unusual? When the Witch-king spoke, he said I was marked. I don't even know when it happened."
Gandalf turned, his expression darkening slightly with concern.
"Do not resist," the wizard said gently. "I'll examine you with a bit of light magic."
He raised his staff and touched it lightly to Sylas's chest. A soft radiance spread outward, wrapping around him like a warm spring breeze. Sylas felt a strange comfort, as though the light reached into his very soul, washing away tension he hadn't realized was there.
But when Gandalf pulled back, his expression was more serious than before.
Sylas's heart skipped a beat. "Is it bad?" he asked quickly. "Is something wrong with me?"
Gandalf shook his head. "Not dangerous… but inconvenient," he said with a small sigh. "You've been marked by a lingering curse. It's not fatal, but it makes you more appealing to dark creatures."
"Appealing?" Sylas repeated, frowning. "You mean like… bait?"
"More like dessert," Gandalf said dryly.
Sylas didn't laugh.
"Can you get rid of it?"
The wizard smiled at that. "For most, it would be difficult… but luckily, you've got me."
He raised his right hand. Upon it gleamed a magnificent ring: a band of silver-gold, set with a ruby so vivid it seemed to burn like a caged star.
Sylas's breath caught.
"That's—" he whispered.
Gandalf gave a little nod. "Yes. Narya. The Ring of Fire."
The warm red light pulsed from the stone, washing over Sylas in waves. It burned away the dark residue of the curse like sunlight clearing away morning frost. Sylas gasped softly, feeling his body lighten, his senses clear, as if a great weight had been lifted from deep within him.
"There," Gandalf said, "you're cleansed."
"Thank you," Sylas said with deep gratitude, bowing slightly.
Gandalf chuckled and patted his shoulder. "Glad I could help."
He turned to leave, then paused and looked back with a playful glint in his eye.
"Oh, and let's keep that ring between us, shall we?" He tapped his lips in a mock secretive gesture. "The fewer who know, the better."
...
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