Sylas stood beneath the weight of Sauron's gaze, every nerve in his body taut. The Dark Lord's presence pressed in like a storm, and with it came the relentless tide of whispered voices, hissing like a swarm of insects gnawing at the walls of his mind. But Sylas was no stranger to such assaults. He had honed Occlumency to perfection, and within his mind stood an unyielding fortress, its ramparts braced against every probing tendril of corruption. Still, Sauron's might was vast beyond measure. The whispers battered him without pause, and though his walls held, he felt their stones beginning to crack. His face had gone pale; the strain was immense. He knew he could not endure forever. Get full chapters from NoveI(F)ire.net With a flick of his hand, the ring of power on his finger blazed to life, casting a shimmering shield that wrapped around himself, Rómestámo, and the wounded Morinehtar. At the same time, he lifted the Phial of Galadriel, calling forth the Light of Eärendil. The silver flame flared, struggling to hold back the tide of shadow. Against any lesser darkness, the Phial would have been a beacon to scatter the night. Galadriel herself had wielded it to drive Sauron's presence from Dol Guldur. But in Sylas's hands, though the light burned bright, it was but a candle before a storm. The wave of shadow pressed closer, threatening to snuff it out entirely. Sauron's crimson gaze lingered, and instead of anger, amusement colored his tone. "Remarkable. Each time our paths cross, you prove less ordinary than I expected." His eyes shifted, falling unerringly to the ring upon Sylas's hand. The veil of concealment mattered nothing before him. A flicker of astonishment glinted in his gaze. "Ah… so Saruman's ring did not perish after all. But no, this is changed. Refined. Perfected beyond his clumsy beginnings. Such craft… it stirs old memories. There was once an Elven smith whose gift rivaled yours. When I taught him the art, he fashioned nineteen rings of power with flawless hand." The Dark Lord's voice softened into something almost like admiration, though it was twisted by malice. "Wizard Sylas, you are wasted on resistance. You have the talent to stand at my side. Cast aside this futile defiance. Become my apprentice, and I shall teach you the deepest secrets of ring-lore. I will show you how to forge a master ring of your own, your dominion will stretch unchallenged, your name etched in eternity. Together, we will remake the world." The offer hung in the air like poisoned honey, its sweetness nearly enough to mask the venom beneath. Saruman's face darkened as those words echoed through the ruined valley. Bitterness and envy coiled in his heart like serpents. That ring, his work, his pride, had been turned to Sylas's defense, and now Sauron offered what Saruman had desired for centuries: the knowledge of forging a true master ring. And he offered it not to him, but to this upstart "Black Wizard." The insult was worse than a wound. Saruman clenched his staff, his eyes burning with jealousy. For all his cunning and ambition, he had never earned such favor. Saruman's bitterness curdled like poison in his veins. The more Sauron praised Sylas, the sharper the sting became. He had labored for decades to fashion his own ring, drawing on scraps of knowledge stolen and half-remembered from the Dark Lord, only to watch that same craft dismissed as crude when compared to what Sylas held so casually in his hand. Sauron's admiration was no idle flattery either; Saruman knew it. The Dark Lord saw in Sylas something he had never once acknowledged in him, true potential, the touch of a master smith. And that was what enraged him most. For Sauron himself had once been the favored pupil of Aulë, the great Smith of the Valar. Before his fall into shadow, his art had been unmatched, his designs subtle and filled with wonder. The Rings of Power, and the One Ring above them all, were not merely weapons but works of terrifying beauty. Even corrupted, their craftsmanship was flawless. Saruman, though he too had learned under Aulë, had never possessed such gifts. His strengths lay elsewhere, in machinery, engines, and living flesh twisted to his will. His forges produced cunning devices and abominable breeds of Orcs, but when it came to ring-craft, his hand was heavy, lacking the grace and subtlety that Sauron demanded. And now his imperfect work had been refined, perfected, and held up as proof of another's genius. That it was Sylas who wore the ring, and not he, was humiliation enough. That Sauron spoke of teaching Sylas the making of a Master Ring was intolerable. But Sylas only sneered at the offer. "I will not end up like your Nine puppets who traded their souls for power." Sauron, however, only chuckled, his voice carrying like the hiss of serpents through the air. "You refuse me now, little wizard, but refusal is not the end. In Mordor, you will learn obedience. You will learn to desire what I offer. In time, you will beg for it." And with that, the air itself turned black. Sauron's power descended like a crushing mountain, slamming against the shield of the ring Sylas wore. The ground split beneath their feet. Even Saruman staggered back, his face tight with fear at the sheer force his master had unleashed. Sylas felt as though he were drowning. The shield buckled and strained, every surge of Sauron's assault draining the magic within the ring faster than water through a broken dam. What might have held Saruman at bay for half a day would not last half an hour against this storm. Worse still, the assault was not only of fire and shadow but of spirit. Sauron's whispers slid past the shield, gnawing at the fortress of Sylas's mind, hunting for cracks. The walls held, but they trembled. He summoned every defense he knew, Occlumency to bar his thoughts, the Light of Eärendil burning in his hand, the lilting nonsense song Tom Bombadil had once taught him, even his Patronus, a stag of silver light bounding against the dark tide. For a moment, these protections bought him breath. But the ring's magic bled away like a flood through broken gates. If nothing changed, he was finished. [Hogwarts Sign-In System: Location, Minas Harad Fortress. Sign in?] The words blazed across his mind like fire in the night. Sylas's eyes lit with sudden, desperate hope. "Yes!" he shouted inwardly. "Sign in!" Sylas only prayed the system would not betray him this time, but grant him something truly useful, something that could turn despair into escape. [Sign-in successful. Congratulations, you have obtained a Portkey!] His eyes blazed with sudden hope. Relief surged through him like water breaking a dam. At last! The system had given him exactly what he needed. Saruman's wards had bound the air itself, smothering any chance of Apparition. No spell of teleportation could pierce those bindings. But a Portkey was different, ancient magic older than such wards. Where Apparition was blocked, a Portkey could still carry its bearer across leagues in the blink of an eye. Without hesitation, Sylas forced his mind to study the charm. The invisible Crown of Wisdom upon his brow flared with light, sharpening every thought until his mind raced faster than any mortal scholar's. Yet the cost was great. His focus wavered from the fortress walls of Occlumency in his mind, and at once Sauron's whispers pressed harder, gnawing at the cracks in his defenses. The Dark Lord was quick to notice. Sensitive to every flicker of thought, every surge of hope, he felt the shift at once. His crimson gaze narrowed. Something had changed. With a roar, Sauron hurled his full strength against the shield of power surrounding Sylas. The barrier quivered like glass struck by a hammer. Each blow devoured the ring's magic in torrents. What should have lasted minutes was bleeding away in seconds. The shield thinned to a trembling veil of light. And then Sylas opened his eyes, the decision made. He ignored the storm hammering against his barrier, ignored Saruman's leering gaze, ignored even Sauron's vast shadow towering above him. Holding high the Phial of Eärendil, he cried the incantation: The crystal vessel blazed blue. Light ran across its surface like quicksilver, and the glass trembled as though alive. "Rómestámo!" Sylas shouted over the roar. "Take Morinehtar, touch the Phial, now!" The Blue Wizard staggered, his face pale, his will nearly spent. He had poured everything into shielding Morinehtar's broken mind from corruption. His strength was gone, but not his loyalty. With the last of his power, he clutched his friend with one arm and reached with the other, pressing his fingers to the glowing crystal. Sylas stretched out his free hand to lay hold of the bison's shaggy mane. The world yanked itself out from under them. A hook seemed to pierce his very navel, dragging him forward with irresistible force. Their feet left the ground. The fortress, the shadow, the very air became a blur. Sauron's roar split the skies. Power exploded from him in a storm of annihilation. Before his fury could shatter the shield, Sylas, Rómestámo, Morinehtar, and the bison vanished from Minas Harad. They were gone. Google seaʀᴄh 𝗇𝗈𝗏𝖾𝗅✦𝖿𝗂𝗋𝖾✦𝗇𝖾𝗍 The Dark Lord's wrath became a cataclysm. His power burst outward in an invisible shockwave, obliterating stone and flesh alike. The fortress of Minas Harad disintegrated in an instant, walls collapsing to dust, towers toppling like stalks of wheat. Haradrim and Orcs screamed once and were gone, shredded by the fury of their master. Even the great mûmakil were torn apart, their cries drowned beneath the storm. The Ringwraiths threw themselves to the earth, prostrate, trembling before his rage. Saruman staggered, his fine robes reduced to rags of dust and ash, leaning hard on his staff to keep from falling. Though he shielded himself with all his power, terror still gripped his heart. He dared not speak, dared not breathe too loudly, lest the fire in Sauron's eyes turn upon him. Read chapters ahead @/Keepsmiling818