Only after the Wights' remains were respectfully buried did the group return to the yurt to sleep.
"Hmm? What's going on? What happened?" Bombur mumbled as he drowsily sat up, rubbing his eyes, clearly just waking up.
Everyone paused.
In the chaos of the battle, they'd assumed all were awake, but apparently one dwarf had slept through it all.
Gandalf chuckled quietly, and Sylas couldn't help but smile.
Thorin sighed deeply, pinching the bridge of his nose in frustration. "Nothing, Bombur. Go back to sleep."
"Oh. Alright then." Bombur nodded and promptly curled back into his sleeping bag like a great bear returning to hibernation. Seconds later, thunderous snores filled the yurt once more.
No one said a word. They simply looked at one another, both bewildered and oddly comforted.
And with that, everyone, worn from the night's battle, slid back into their sleeping bags, letting sleep take them.
Morning came slowly, the sunlight faint through the misty sky. One by one, the group awoke.
Sylas stood outside, wand in hand. With a gentle flick, the enormous yurt shrank back into a simple carriage. The once-plush carpets, bedding, and enchantments faded into nothingness, as if it had all been a dream.
Yet before setting off, there remained one last matter to settle: dividing the spoils.
The night before, the destruction of the Wights had left behind a trove of treasure, bags of ancient jewelry, rusted rings of silver and gold, and dozens of intact swords.
Gandalf, ever the voice of fairness, proposed they divide the treasure equally.
But Thorin stood firm, arms crossed. "We did not strike down the Wights," he said, not unkindly but with dwarven pride. "We stood behind while others fought. We have no claim to this."
The other dwarves nodded in agreement. They were greedy for treasure, as all dwarves were, but their honor ran deeper still.
Gandalf, understanding their stance, chose not to argue. He selected one pristine sword from the pile, slender and engraved with old runes, and left the rest to Sylas.
Sylas stared at the mound of treasure now entirely in his possession. He blinked. "Well then…"
But instead of hoarding it, he turned to the group with a sudden gleam in his eyes. "We wounded the Witch-king badly. His power over the Barrow-downs is fading. Why not press our advantage? If we go deeper into the barrows now, we might recover the rest of the treasure buried with the Wights."
That got everyone's attention.
Even Thorin, normally focused solely on reclaiming Erebor, hesitated. The others looked to him. And though he didn't speak, the fire in his eyes said enough.
They had turned down charity, but this was opportunity.
Especially with their company still in modest straits. Thorin had been forging tools and weapons to keep their people fed, trading with nearby human settlements. And he had offered a portion of Erebor's gold just to fund this very journey. A chance to claim additional treasure without bloodshed was too good to ignore.
Gandalf, though uninterested in riches, gave his approval with a slight nod.
So the company turned, not toward the east and the Misty Mountains, but westward, back into the mist-choked hills of the Barrow-downs.
The air was grim and gray, the wind dead still. Long shadows stretched across the rolling hills. Yet Sylas immediately noticed something strange: the ever-present fog was thinner now, and the oppressive clouds overhead seemed lighter.
They journeyed deeper into the downs without incident. No ghostly whispers. No chilling wind. No Wights.
It was quiet...eerily quiet.
"The Witch-king's power is fading," Sylas murmured to himself, though his grip on his wand remained tight.
They arrived at the ancient burial field.
Gandalf stopped and tapped the earth gently with his staff, eyes narrowed. Pale light danced from the crystal at its tip.
After a long pause, he nodded. "They sleep. The Wights are dormant, and the darkness that once stirred them is distant. But take care not to disturb their slumber."
Upon receiving Gandalf's confirmation that the Wights would remain dormant, the Dwarves grew visibly excited. With no looming threat, the buried treasures of the Barrow-downs were now ripe for the taking!
And so, they began what could only be described as an enthusiastic excavation operation.
No one was better suited for such work than the Dwarves. Masters of mining, tunneling, and unearthing the earth's secrets, they made quick work of the ancient barrows.
The Barrow-downs, as it happened, held the tombs of fallen Dúnedain princes and noble warriors, many long-forgotten by time. The wealth buried with them had lain untouched for centuries.
Under dwarven diligence (or, perhaps, dwarven greed), the treasures were swiftly and systematically unearthed, gold circlets, silver goblets, ornate weaponry, jeweled brooches, and crowns encrusted with emeralds. No inch of ancient masonry was left unexamined.
Whenever a lingering Wight stirred, Sylas or Gandalf intervened, either sealing the threat or purging it with magic before it could awaken fully.
Three days passed.
By the end, over a hundred burial chambers had been visited, each a vault of lost splendor. The dwarves would've stayed longer, but their provisions had dwindled. A dwarf could dig on ale and pride, but not without supper.
Still, the final tally made it all worthwhile.
Even Bilbo had a bulging pack of baubles. Thorin, usually stoic, actually smiled when counting the gold, and the other Dwarves beamed like children.
Gandalf, true to form, refused a share. "I travel lightly," he said, accepting only the satisfaction of a job well done.
Before they left, Gandalf raised his staff and performed one final act of cleansing, a powerful purification spell that swept across the Barrow-downs. The dark influence left by the Witch-king of Angmar was pushed back, sealed deep below. The mists lifted further, the sunlight a little stronger.
"The shadow cannot be destroyed," Gandalf said gravely. "Not while the Witch-king endures. But for now, the dead may rest."
With that, they departed.
They returned to the main road, and by noon, the hill of Bree rose before them.
Nestled at the crossroads of the East-West and North-South Roads, Bree was a bustling outpost in the wilds of Eriador. Rangers passed through often, as did wandering traders and even Elves journeying westward toward the Grey Havens.
Their first stop? Naturally, The Prancing Pony.
The famed inn was warm, lively, and filled with the scent of woodsmoke, roasted meat, and pipeweed. For a band of travelers fresh from tombs and curses, it was heaven.
"We've got gold now!" roared Bifur, slapping a coin pouch on the counter. "Innkeeper, bring your best! We'll drink till our beards turn silver!"
The innkeeper didn't need to be told twice. Dwarves were rowdy but profitable guests.
Soon the Dwarves were toasting, clinking mugs, and telling wildly exaggerated stories about how they personally held off ten Wights apiece.
Amid the revelry, Sylas sat quietly in the corner, savoring his mulled cider.
Suddenly, a familiar voice echoed in his mind.
[Hogwarts Sign-In System: Location recognized—Bree, The Prancing Pony. Would you like to sign in?]
Sylas didn't even blink. Yes, he thought.
[Sign-in successful. Reward: Floo Powder Manufacturing Method and Floo Network Application!]
His eyes widened as the knowledge poured into his mind.
Floo Powder?
...
STONES PLZzz