In the morning, everyone woke up and packed their belongings, preparing to set off.
"Where's Gandalf? Hasn't he come out yet?" one of the dwarves suddenly asked, looking around.
"And Sylas, he's gone too!" Bilbo added, eyes scanning the now-empty tower hall.
At that, the rest of the group paused. Indeed, neither the wizard nor their young magical companion had been seen since the previous evening.
Thorin's brows knitted. "Search around," he said, gesturing to his company. "It's nearly time to leave, and we can't delay."
But just as the dwarves began to scatter, a whoosh of green flame burst to life in the fireplace.
Gandalf stepped calmly from the fire, adjusting his cloak as if nothing were amiss. "Ah, good morning, everyone!" he greeted with a twinkle in his eye.
A moment later, Sylas followed, slightly soot-streaked but grinning, arms full of steaming bread and bundles wrapped in cloth. "Perfect timing! You're all up. Breakfast's here, fresh loaves and sausages, still hot!"
The company froze in place, eyes wide, mouths agape.
They had just stepped out of the fire.
Thorin stepped forward first, studying Gandalf and Sylas carefully before his gaze settled on the food. Steam still curled from the crusty loaves and sizzling meat.
"Where did you go?" Thorin asked.
Gandalf chuckled, clearly enjoying the moment. "We took a little morning stroll, popped over to the Prancing Pony for a pint. Thought we'd bring back something more filling than dry rations."
"The Prancing Pony?!" exclaimed Bombur, dropping his pack in shock. "That's days away!"
"But you were just…" Bilbo trailed off, looking from the fireplace to the food to Sylas's soot-smudged cheeks. "You were in the fire."
"Magic," Kíli whispered, eyes gleaming.
The dwarves all turned to Sylas and Gandalf with a mix of awe and envy, murmuring amongst themselves.
But Thorin wasn't content with just sausage and spectacle. He stepped closer again, his voice lower, more serious this time.
"If you can use this kind of magic to reach Bree in moments…" he said slowly, eyes fixed on Sylas, "could you take us all the way to the Lonely Mountain?"
Sylas shook his head. "Teleportation magic doesn't work that way. The fireplaces have to be connected first. Without a designated hearth at the Lonely Mountain, I can't open a portal to it."
Thorin's face darkened with disappointment. His thoughts had been singular ever since the journey began, reclaiming Erebor from the dragon that had stolen his people's home. A shortcut would have been a miracle.
After everyone finished the warm breakfast Sylas had brought from the Prancing Pony, they didn't linger. It was time to press on.
Before departing, Sylas stood at the base of the tower and sealed the entrance with a series of wand movements. Stones shifted and melded until the great doors disappeared completely into the surrounding wall. Then, he cast a Muggle-Repelling Charm and layered a Confundus Ward around the perimeter. Anyone approaching would simply turn away, confused and discouraged. Only then did he feel comfortable leaving Hogwarts Tower behind.
Their next stretch of the journey would take them across the vast and untamed wilderness of the Lone-lands. To the east lay the Last Bridge crossing the River Mitheithel, called Hoarwell in the common tongue, and beyond it, the dark and tangled Trollshaws. From there, they would reach the Misty Mountains, marking the halfway point of their expedition to Erebor.
This desolate land between Weathertop and the Last Bridge was sparsely populated. Only a few Rangers patrolled the rugged paths in secret. But danger had returned to the wild. In recent years, Orcs had grown bold, creeping down from the Misty Mountains to raid and hunt in the open plains.
The group trudged on for a week through this quiet, eerie expanse without sight of the bridge or any signs of habitation.
That night, just as they stopped to rest and Sylas raised his wand to conjure a tent, a sharp hiss cut through the silence.
Thwip! Thwip! Thwip!
A volley of arrows flew from the darkness.
"Ambush!" Gandalf roared, spinning around. He thrust out his staff, deflecting some of the arrows midair with a burst of force.
Sylas reacted instantly. Instead of summoning shelter, he flicked his wand sideways, and casted a transfiguration charm.
The deadly rain of arrows all turned into flowers, falling onto everyone.
There was a stunned silence as petals drifted to the ground.
"Whew… That was close," Balin muttered, brushing a lily off his beard.
"Well done, Sylas!" Dori called, now drawing his axe.
The dwarves were on their feet in moments, weapons in hand, surrounding Bilbo and preparing for battle.
Bilbo stood beside Sylas, gripping the small dagger.
From beyond the shadows, they emerged.
A horde of Orcs, at least fifty strong, stepped into the moonlight. Twisted, snarling faces. Beady red eyes. Jagged fangs. They wore mismatched scraps of leather armor and carried crude weapons, bows, rusted swords, cleavers, and clubs. Their very presence seemed to poison the air.
"Orcs!" Gandalf called out, his voice thunderous. "Steel yourselves!"
Thorin's eyes burned with fury. The memory of Azanulbizar, where his grandfather Thrór had fallen, and of his father's mysterious disappearance, surged in his blood. The sight of Orcs was enough to reignite every flame of vengeance within him.
"To arms!" Thorin bellowed, raising his sword high as he charged headlong into the swarm of Orcs.
The other dwarves were quick to follow, brandishing axes and hammers with fierce determination. Though short in stature, they moved with surprising agility and strength, fighting in perfect unison. Their weapons hacked low, targeting knees, shins, and ankles, toppling the hulking Orcs with precision and ferocity.
Gandalf, too, was swept up in the surge of battle. Something about the dwarves' raw spirit must have ignited an old flame in the wizard. With a cry, he leapt into the fray, wielding his staff not with solemn dignity, but like a seasoned warrior, bashing Orcs left and right with wide, crushing sweeps.
Sylas blinked from the edge of the skirmish, watching in amazement as his companions transformed into berserkers.
"Are they always this intense?" he muttered, tempted to unsheathe the enchanted flameblade hanging at his hip and dive in alongside them.
But common sense caught up to him just in time. He was a wizard, after all, soft-skinned, unarmored, and embarrassingly bad with swords. More importantly, he had someone to protect.
Bilbo stood by his side, dagger in hand. He looked nervous, but to Sylas's surprise, not afraid. His grip on the hilt was steady, his eyes alert.
"Typical protagonist behavior," Sylas thought fondly, eyes scanning the battlefield, wand ready.
He didn't expect to stay out of the action for long.
As if summoned by fate, or sheer Orc stupidity, a group of five snarling brutes suddenly broke from the chaos and charged directly at Sylas and the small, isolated Hobbit.
"Oh? So I'm the easy target now?"
Sylas raised an eyebrow and scoffed.
He flicked his wand. "Protego Maxima!" A shimmering shield enveloped Bilbo.
"Stay close," Sylas said calmly, his voice low and focused.
Then he stepped forward, wand in one hand, sword in the other.
"Petrificus Totalus!"
A powerful bolt of magic surged forth, catching the lead Orc mid-stride. The creature froze instantly and toppled like a statue.
Sylas didn't stop there.
He raised the flame-forged sword and, with a cry, brought it down on another Orc. The blade sliced cleanly through its neck. Flames erupted from the wound, incinerating the body in seconds.
For a moment, Sylas stood still, breathing heavily, heart pounding. The rush was incredible. No fear, no hesitation, just power and fire in his hands.
"So this is why Gandalf does it," he thought, a grin tugging at the corners of his mouth. "Swords really do feel different."
By the time he looked up again, the other three Orcs were already down, felled by follow-up spells and a flash of swordplay.
Elsewhere, the battle still raged.
Gandalf fought like a storm, his staff cracking against skulls and ribs with uncanny force. Each strike sent another Orc crashing to the ground.
The dwarves, led by Thorin, were relentless. Despite being outnumbered, they held their own with grit and fury, often engaging two Orcs at once, and winning.
Before long, the tide turned.
The surviving Orcs began to retreat, snarling in defeat. But the dwarves weren't about to let them flee.
"Don't let a single one escape!" Thorin shouted, eyes burning with vengeance.
They pursued the stragglers into the rocky shadows and, one by one, struck them down.
At last, the battlefield fell quiet.
Bodies lay scattered across the clearing. The group regrouped, bloodied and breathless but victorious.
"We got 'em all!" roared Dwalin.
"One tried to bite my beard," grumbled Bofur, wiping slime off his axe.
What surprised everyone most was that Bilbo had managed to take down an Orc of his own.
During the final moments of the pursuit, just as one of the fleeing Orcs was about to vanish into the darkness, Bilbo raised the dagger, took a deep breath, and hurled it with all his might.
The blade struck true, burying itself in the creature's back. The Orc stumbled forward, let out a grunt, and collapsed face-first into the dirt.
For a long second, the dwarves just stared. Then, one by one, they broke into cheers.
"Well done, Bilbo!"
"Not bad for a Hobbit!"
...
STONES PLZzzz