The troll cave wasn't far. Thanks to the Palantír, he led the group straight to its entrance without needing to search.
The interior was as foul-smelling as ever. The air was thick with the stench of rot, stale meat, and troll filth. As they ventured deeper, their torchlight revealed a crude hoard, scattered piles of gold coins, goblets, and assorted trinkets glinting among bones and broken furniture.
But Sylas wasn't here for treasure.
He moved past the glimmering loot with focused intent, scanning every corner. Then, in a web-shrouded alcove at the back of the cave, something caught his eye, three blades, partially buried in dust, resting in a forgotten niche.
There were three swords: two long and elegant, and one short and compact. The long swords were housed in intricately carved scabbards inlaid with gemstones that shimmered faintly in the torchlight. The shorter one rested in a sturdy leather sheath, aged but remarkably well preserved.
Though cloaked in dust and cobwebs, not a single trace of rust marked their steel. Even the leather looked supple, untouched by time or decay.
"Elven craftsmanship," Sylas murmured with awe. "No doubt about it."
"Found something again, have you?" came Gandalf's voice behind him, amused.
The others, Bilbo, Thorin, and the rest of the company, had gathered curiously behind the wizard, drawn by the glint of the newly uncovered relics.
Sylas turned with a grin. "Just some very old blades that refused to fade with time."
He gently laid out the three swords for all to see.
Gandalf stepped forward and picked up one of the long swords. He admired the ivory scabbard with its graceful carvings and the luminous gem set into the hilt. Then he slowly drew the blade, which gleamed like moonlight on a lake. Even in the dim cave, it shimmered with a cold, silver-blue light.
There was an inscription in Sindarin etched along the fuller.
Gandalf traced the runes with his finger and translated softly, "Glamdring… 'Foe-hammer.' This was an Elven blade forged in Gondolin, lost since the fall of the city."
His voice grew reverent. "This sword once belonged to the King of Gondolin. I had heard tales, but to hold it in my hand…"
He trailed off, clearly moved.
Next, Gandalf turned to the second long sword. He drew it carefully, revealing a narrower, slightly curved blade. Its edge gleamed with a predatory sharpness, and another set of Elven runes adorned the steel.
"Ocrist," Gandalf read. "Goblin-cleaver. A deadly blade against the spawn of the Misty Mountains. Also forged in Gondolin."
He examined the hilt, inhaling softly. "It's faint, but I can sense the essence of a dragon in its making… Dragon bone or tooth, perhaps?
Gandalf looked genuinely astonished. Dragons were ancient and mighty creatures, beings of immense power, some said close in nature to the Maiar themselves. To see a sword hilt fashioned from dragon tooth or bone meant only one thing: that a dragon had been slain by Elves, and its remains forged into this weapon. The implication sent a subtle chill through the group.
The other adventurers gathered around curiously. After all, their journey would soon bring them face-to-face with a dragon, and any weapon with such a history felt both ominous and promising.
At last, Gandalf lifted the short sword that had been tucked quietly among the others. It bore no inscription and lacked the same grandeur as the long blades, but its craftsmanship was unmistakably Elven. Smooth, balanced, and oddly warm to the touch, it hummed with subtle enchantment.
Sylas caught Gandalf eyeing the first sword, Glamdring, the Foe-Hammer. He chuckled to himself.
Stepping forward, Sylas offered it with a quiet smile. "You've been fighting without a blade worthy of your name, Gandalf. Take this, Glamdring belongs with you."
Gandalf hesitated only for a moment before accepting it, his eyes alight with something between reverence and relief. "Then I am in your debt," he said solemnly.
Sylas shook his head. After all they had been through, fighting trolls, rescuing captives, wandering the wild, he no longer saw Gandalf as merely a guide or ally. He was a friend. Sylas hadn't offered the sword out of obligation, but because it felt right. Like restoring a relic to its proper place.
He turned then to Bilbo, holding out the short sword, Sting, though it was not yet named. "This one suits you. Take it. It's yours now."
Bilbo blinked in surprise and raised his hands in protest. "But you already gave me a dagger, Sylas! I couldn't possibly take this too—"
Sylas didn't let him finish. He pressed the blade into Bilbo's hand with gentle insistence. "The one before was just a tool, this is Elven-forged, keen and true. It will protect you far better. Keep it close."
Bilbo looked down at the blade, his fingers curling around the hilt. Then he glanced up, eyes wide and grateful. "Thank you, Sylas," he said softly. With great care, he fastened it to his belt, hanging it beside his old dagger.
The dwarves, meanwhile, watched with a mixture of admiration and envy. Sylas ignored their stares as he turned back to the final sword. Orcrist, the Goblin-Cleaver.
He sheathed it calmly and tucked it away. That one, he would keep.
Glamdring and Sting had found worthy hands in Gandalf and Bilbo. But the dwarves were another matter. Sylas respected them as companions, but theirs had always been a relationship of barter, not brotherhood. He had no intention of handing out treasures like sweets at a festival.
As for destiny, well, Orcrist might have once been meant for Thorin. But Sylas had found it first.
Thorin's eyes lingered on the curved Elven blade, Orcrist, the Goblin-cleaver, now resting in Sylas's hand. Something about it stirred a deep instinct within him, as though the sword was calling to him. The hilt, carved from what felt unmistakably like dragon tooth, seemed to carry a destiny entwined with his own. It felt almost prophetic, given the dragon that awaited him in Erebor.
Still, Thorin knew the truth: he and Sylas were not close. There was no camaraderie deep enough between them for Sylas to simply hand the weapon over.
He stepped forward and asked plainly, "Sylas… would you be willing to trade the Goblin-cleaver?"
Sylas turned, raising a brow. "Oh? And what would you offer in return?"
Though he already possessed the Flame Sword and had little personal need for Orcrist, Sylas was not one to make decisions without weighing the worth of an exchange. If Thorin offered something truly meaningful, he might allow the blade to return to its fated bearer.
Thorin hesitated briefly, then spoke. "What if I offered you one percent of the treasure hoarded within the Lonely Mountain?"
Sylas shook his head without a second thought. "I have no need for treasure."
After all, per the terms of their original agreement, he was already entitled to a full tenth of Erebor's wealth. With the riches he had secured from the Barrow-downs and the Troll hoard, gold was no longer a driving concern.
Thorin frowned slightly, mistaking Sylas's response for dissatisfaction. "Then what do you want?"
Sylas paused, thoughtful. Then, with a glimmer of amusement in his eye, he replied, "Once Erebor is reclaimed, I want you to build me a castle, on Weathertop. Use the ancient Tower of Amon Sûl as its foundation. I'll provide the plans. You provide the builders."
There was a stillness as the others absorbed this request.
The Tower of Amon Sûl, long a ruin upon the windy hill, was now known by another name: Hogwarts. If Sylas wished to bring that vision to life in this world, he would need builders of extraordinary skill. And none were better suited than the Dwarves.
Thorin's brows furrowed deeper. This was no small ask. Constructing an entire fortress around Amon Sûl would take immense labor, resources, and time, it wasn't just a trade, it was a pledge.
Yet after a long, weighted silence, Thorin gave a slow nod. "Very well," he said through gritted teeth. "Once I reclaim Erebor and my crown, I shall see your castle built. Stone by stone."
And so, the Goblin-cleaver passed once more into the hands of Thorin Oakenshield, just as it had in ages past. Perhaps fate had guided it there all along.
With Glamdring in Gandalf's hand, Sting at Bilbo's side, and Orcrist now carried by Thorin, the three Elven blades from the troll hoard were finally claimed.
As for the remaining treasure in the cave, Sylas ensured a fair division: shared evenly among the sixteen companions.