"What kind of request is that?"
Sylas was momentarily speechless.
A wand… in exchange for the Elfstone? That's not a trade. That's a gift with strings dressed as a favor.
Before he could formulate a more tactful response, Lady Galadriel raised her hand gracefully. Her fingers slid through her shining golden hair, and with a motion like plucking moonlight itself, she severed a small strand.
The delicate locks shimmered with a silver glow, cascading like starlight into her palm.
"Elrond mentioned the components required to craft a proper wand," she said softly. "Let these serve as the core material, for Arwen, and for her brothers."
Sylas received the strand of hair with both hands. The moment it touched his skin, it was as if the stars had descended into his palm. The brilliance, the weightless warmth, the sacred aura, it made his breath catch.
Even Fëanor, the greatest craftsman of the First Age and the creator of the Silmarils, had once begged Galadriel for a single strand, and been refused.
Yet now, without hesitation, she had entrusted him with not one, but five strands.
'She truly is the mightiest of the Eldar in Middle-earth… bathed in the light of the Two Trees…'
Among the five hairs, Sylas quickly calculated the possibilities. One for Arwen, two for Elrohir and Elladan… another could serve as the long-awaited core of Gandalf's wand…
And the final strand, perhaps, was meant for him.
He didn't say it aloud. But deep inside, he knew he had been granted a favor few in all the ages of Middle-earth could claim.
With great care, he plucked a green leaf from a nearby vine and, using a soft Transfiguration spell, turned it into a fine silk cloth. Gently, he wrapped the shimmering hairs, then tucked them close to his chest as if sealing a promise against his heart.
He straightened and bowed deeply.
"My Lady Galadriel," Sylas said solemnly, "I will craft staves worthy of the ones you entrust me to serve. I vow upon my magic, they shall not disappoint."
Galadriel's smile was radiant, her eyes kind, but knowing.
Yet the peaceful moment was short-lived.
A voice like creaking stone, dry, cold, and tinged with pride, cut through the night air.
"Gandalf. Why bring a stray into our council? Have you no sense of the occasion anymore?"
Everyone turned.
Descending from the path beyond the garden was a tall, sharp-eyed figure in immaculate white robes. His long beard flowed like a waterfall of frost, and he walked with a deliberate, commanding stride, his staff tapping lightly with each step.
Saruman the White.
Gandalf's warm expression instantly cooled. Still, he forced a polite smile.
"Saruman. It has been some time."
Then, gesturing to Sylas, he said, "This is Sylas, the Black Robe Wizard. He is not irrelevant. I invited him here for a purpose—"
"Black Robe Wizard?" Saruman's tone oozed disdain as his sharp gaze raked over Sylas. "So you've taken to naming hedge mages with grand titles now, Mithrandir?"
He looked Sylas up and down.
"Learn a few parlor tricks and dare to call yourself a 'Wizard'? Black Robe? A foolish color. A meaningless title."
Gandalf took a long breath, then turned to Sylas with an apologetic glance.
Saruman's hostility had always been predictable, but this time, Sylas had become collateral damage.
Yet Sylas only shook his head lightly, unfazed. He met Gandalf's look with calm assurance, as if to say, 'Don't worry. He doesn't matter.'
He stood tall and steady, eyes fixed on Saruman without an ounce of fear.
'After all, I already know your end,' he thought to himself.
Yes, Saruman the White. The highest of the five Istari, the proclaimed leader of the White Council, clad in pristine robes and regal contempt. Yet behind that grandeur festered envy and ambition. Sylas knew this wizard's pride would one day betray him.
It had already begun.
Ever since Círdan the Shipwright gave Narya, the Ring of Fire, to Gandalf instead of Saruman, the White Wizard had grown colder. Jealous. Inwardly resentful. And that jealousy festered into obsession.
'You tried to forge your own Ring of Power. You sought the One Ring in the waters of the Anduin. And when you found nothing, you turned your eyes to the Eye of Mordor.'
Though Saruman had not yet fallen completely into shadow, Sylas could already sense it, how the Palantír in his possession whispered with Sauron's deceit.
So why should he care about the disdain of a doomed man?
Saruman's eyes narrowed, clearly displeased that this "Black Robe Wizard" dared to meet his gaze so directly. But constrained by formality, he gave no further insult, only a cold dismissal.
"You are irrelevant. Leave this place. This is not where you belong."
Sylas didn't flinch, but before he could respond, Gandalf stepped forward.
"Saruman," he said firmly, "Sylas was invited by me. He has more right to be here than most, he has witnessed the return of the Nazgûl, and fought beside me. He is no mere onlooker. He is a witness and a warrior."
Saruman sneered. "Nazgûl? Is this a jest? The Nine vanished with Sauron's fall. Surely even you, Gandalf, do not believe bedtime tales."
But Gandalf's voice sharpened.
"This is no tale. Near the Barrow-downs, we encountered a wight possessed by the Witch-king of Angmar himself. And Radagast, too, has sent word of shadows stirring in Dol Guldur. A necromancer. And more."
From within his cloak, Gandalf drew a long, slender object wrapped in linen. He laid it upon the stone table in the center of the gathering, unwrapping it slowly.
A jagged black blade gleamed in the moonlight.
Even before its wrappings were fully removed, the shadow it carried had begun to weigh on the air.
The Morgul-blade.
A weapon of the Nazgûl.
The gathered Elves stirred.
Elrond's eyes tightened with ancient memory. Galadriel's expression, once radiant, darkened like a moon passing behind clouds.
She stepped forward, her voice quiet, yet firm.
"This blade was forged for the Witch-king of Angmar," she said, her gaze lingering on the weapon. "After the fall of Angmar's dark kingdom, his body and all his cursed relics were sealed beneath the rocks of Rhudaur. The Men of the North entombed him deep in the High Downs, never meant to rise again."
Elrond's brow furrowed deeply, his voice tinged with disbelief.
"That's impossible. That tomb was sealed with powerful spells. It should never have been opened. How did this sword escape its binding?"
All eyes turned to Gandalf.
The old wizard spoke gravely, "The seal wasn't broken. But what if he was summoned? You and I both know the will behind the Nine. If that dark master desires it, he can draw them back, no matter how far they were sealed."
Saruman scoffed loudly, his voice brimming with contempt.
"Utter nonsense! Sauron was defeated, his spirit scattered, his dominion broken. He cannot rise again."
He jabbed his staff lightly against the stone floor for emphasis.
"The One Ring he relied on was lost in the River Anduin. Perhaps it's long since drifted out to sea. It's gone, beyond reach. There's no path left for him to return."
But Gandalf's eyes sparked with frustration.
"Then how do you explain what we saw? The Witch-king of Angmar walks again. Sylas faced him in the Barrow-downs, and later we both witnessed an army of wights under his command on the East Road. I saw it with my own eyes, Saruman. I do not mistake shadows for substance."
"That is merely your account," Saruman said coldly, brushing an invisible speck from his robe. He cast a disdainful glance toward Sylas. "And the words of a Black Robe wizard with no standing? It amounts to little more than idle storytelling."
Being mocked repeatedly wasn't something Sylas could ignore forever. His patience had limits, after all.
"If Master Saruman finds our word insufficient," Sylas said evenly, stepping forward, "then perhaps I can offer a different kind of proof."
At those words, the entire gathering turned toward him in surprise. Even Gandalf blinked, taken off guard.
...
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