Sauron's suspicions had crystallized into conviction. The Black-Robed Wizard, Sylas, was hiding something, perhaps the One Ring itself. And since that same wizard already possessed the Philosopher's Stone, another treasure Sauron long coveted, the matter had become one of absolute priority. From the shadows beside the throne, Saruman the White listened in silence. When he heard mention of the Ring, a sharp gleam of greed flickered in his eyes. But aware of Sauron's penetrating gaze, he quickly lowered his head, schooling his face into calm submission while thoughts churned like stormclouds within. Meanwhile, Sauron's attention turned back to the withered creature at his feet. With a single thought, the air around Gollum grew thick and black. Dark tendrils of energy streamed into the pitiful form. In an instant, the twisted flesh began to knit itself back together. Bones straightened, wounds sealed, and the faint shimmer of vitality returned, though the corruption spreading through his veins deepened tenfold. Gollum stared down at his restored body in disbelief. Then, overcome with terror and gratitude, he fell to his knees, bowing again and again before the Dark Lord. "I can spare your life," said Sauron, his voice as smooth as molten iron, "and even grant you freedom. But in return, you will find the One Ring for me. Can you do that?" Gollum's pale eyes went wide, then brightened with feverish eagerness. "Gollum can do it! Gollum will find the Precious!" he croaked, nodding frantically. Sauron waved his hand. Two towering Black Guards emerged from the shadows, seized Gollum, and dragged him away. Saruman watched the pitiful creature being hauled off with visible disdain. He folded his arms, his lip curling. "Is it wise," he asked, "to trust that wretch with so vital a task?" But Sauron was unmoved. "He bore the Ring for centuries," he said slowly. "Its shadow still binds him. Wherever the Ring goes, he will feel it… like a whisper in his bones. He will be drawn to it, and when he finds it, he will lead us there." His burning gaze turned westward. "The last battle at Isengard cost us dearly, a Frost Dragon lost, and dozens of drakes slain. This time, there must be no failure. Let the creature scout ahead. Once the Ring's location is confirmed, we will strike with thunder and fire, and reclaim what is mine!" "Even if he finds it, will he hand it over? I saw greed in his eyes, the same madness that consumed him once. He may vanish into the mountains again, clutching the Ring like a beast in the dark." Sauron did not answer. With a gesture, he summoned the shrouded forms, the Ringwraiths. "Follow him," he commanded, "from within the Shadow-Realm. Do not reveal yourselves. Watch, and wait." The Wraiths bowed as one, their hollow voices whispering assent before dissolving into mist. When Gollum was cast out through the Black Gate of Mordor, he collapsed upon the scorched ground. The guards turned away without a word, leaving him trembling and bewildered. "Gollum… free?" he muttered, eyes wide. "Smeagol… we are free!" But his joy lasted only a moment. The distant roar from behind the Gate made him flinch, and memories of pain and fire returned. He fled westward at once, his limbs carrying him without pause. When he found a half-wild horse on the ash plain, he leapt upon its back and clung desperately as it galloped across the dark lands. For days and nights they ran. When the beast finally collapsed from exhaustion, Gollum's hunger overtook him. With a feral snarl, he sank his teeth into the horse's neck. When it lay still, he feasted, raw flesh, warm blood, and all. And afterward, full and trembling, the two voices inside him began to argue again. The timid Sméagol whimpered, terrified by Sauron's wrath, longing to flee to the safety of the Misty Mountains. But the vicious Gollum mocked him, snarling that they must reclaim the Precious, and this time, never let anyone take it again. For all Sauron's commands, Gollum had never once intended to bring the Ring back to him. He had overheard enough in Mordor to know where to start. The Dark Lord's servants had mentioned that the Black-Robed Wizard's stronghold was at Weathertop, and that the Shire lay further west. Bilbo Baggins had said, long ago, that the Shire was his home. Thus, Gollum's path was set. He would travel to Weathertop, sneak close, and see for himself whether the Ring truly lay in Sylas's hands. For Sauron had spoken of a power, an Oath, that prevented even Gollum from revealing the Ring's name. If the Black-Robed Wizard had cast that Oath, then he must have seen the Ring. When Gollum and his companion had first discovered the One Ring, he had murdered the other without hesitation, claiming the treasure for himself. Now, projecting his own cruelty onto others, he was convinced that the Black-Robed Wizard, Sylas, must have done the same, killing to possess the Ring alone. And even if the Ring was not in Sylas's hands, Gollum told himself, then the wizard surely knew the whereabouts of Bilbo Baggins, the thief who had once taken his Precious. Time flowed quietly in the West. Months had passed since the day of the Phoenix's Nirvana. Sylas's Animagus form had grown beyond its downy infancy, its feathers now a full blaze of gold and crimson, its body large and majestic, like a swan wrapped in fire. His human form, too, had matured. Without the aid of an Aging Potion, he appeared as a boy of twelve or thirteen. He no longer relied on the potion except on special occasions, such as his secret evening walks with Arwen, when he would briefly assume his full adult appearance. To the castle's servants, and to the two Mayors who came regularly to report affairs, Sylas's transformation from man to child to near-immortal being was something beyond comprehension. Their initial shock had long since turned into reverent awe. Recently, Sylas had once again brewed Felix Felicis, the elusive Liquid Luck. He needed more for himself, but also to repay Arwen and Gandalf, who had spent their doses aiding his and Thorondor's miraculous transformations. The potion's shimmering gold liquid was like condensed sunlight. Its effects, tilting fate toward perfection, averting disaster, and inspiring genius, were nothing short of divine. Yet even miracles had their price. Too much Felix Felicis could bring dizziness, reckless confidence, or addiction, and its magic dulled with every use. Even the great Professor Slughorn had dared to drink it only three times in his life. Sylas had already used it twice. His Phoenix body could perhaps endure two or three more draughts, no more. By the time the latest batch was complete, the year 2948 of the Third Age had reached midsummer. Only three months remained before his long-awaited wedding with Arwen. To his beloved, Sylas gifted a vial capable of sustaining twelve hours of perfect fortune. To Gandalf, he sent a six-hour dose, carefully packed and dispatched by enchanted owl, as the wizard was away in the East. Thᴇ link to the origɪn of this information rᴇsts ɪn 𝙣𝙤𝙫𝙚𝙡⚑𝙛𝙞𝙧𝙚⚑𝙣𝙚𝙩 For the first time in months, peace seemed to settle upon Weathertop. But peace rarely lasts in Middle-earth. Under the moon's pale light, far below the mountain, a thin, crooked figure slinked through the reeds beside Black Lake. He crouched in the shadows, eyes glowing like twin moons, staring across the still waters at the fortress rising upon the mountaintop. The castle's towers gleamed faintly, haloed by torchlight and starlight. At the foot of the hill, a single bridge led to the castle gate, heavily guarded by armed militiamen. Gollum's throat clicked in frustration. There would be no way across by land. For several nights he lingered, hiding in a damp cave during the day and creeping out after sunset to listen to the townsfolk's gossip, his mind ever turning, searching for a path inside. At last, he found one. He noticed that even at night, a few fishermen ventured onto the lake, their boats drifting silently beneath the stars. When clouds swallowed the moon, plunging the shore into darkness, Gollum moved. Silent as smoke, he crept to the wooden pier where several boats were moored. He glanced around, no one. The houses nearby were dark; all were asleep. Grinning with jagged teeth, he untied the smallest skiff, slid it into the water, and climbed in. Mist coiled over the surface of Black Lake, blurring the boundary between water and sky. The world was silent, save for the faint drip of oars slicing through the stillness. Gollum hunched low in the little boat, every motion deliberate, every breath shallow. His wide eyes darted nervously across the shimmering fog. One wrong ripple, one splash too loud, might awaken something best left sleeping. At first, all seemed peaceful. But when he had paddled halfway across, a sudden chill ran through him. Somewhere below, in the black depths, something moved. He froze, heart pounding, eyes wide and unblinking as he stared into the lake's mirror-dark surface. The silence stretched. No movement. No sound. After a long, trembling wait, Gollum mustered his courage and resumed paddling, his strokes cautious and quiet as whispers. The far shore drew closer. The faint glow of torches from the castle above shimmered like stars reflected in the water. Hope flickered in his eyes. And then, the boat began to drift backward. Slowly at first, then faster, sliding away from the shore as if caught in some invisible current. Gollum froze. His knobby fingers clutched the sides of the skiff, and his enormous eyes glistened with panic. Below him, a giant tentacle had coiled around the hull, toying with the tiny craft as though it were nothing more than a leaf. Ripples widened. The water trembled. Then several massive tentacles surged from the lake, wrapping around the boat and lifting it high into the air. Water cascaded down in sheets as an enormous shadow rose from the depths; A Kraken, its monstrous eyes gleaming with alien amusement, gazed upon the trembling intruder. Gollum's scream was swallowed by the mist as the creature's grip tightened. The small wooden boat groaned and cracked, then shattered into splinters under the pressure. He was caught, crushed in the rubbery coils, his thin body twisting in agony. The Kraken opened its maw, a black pit lined with teeth like spears—ready to swallow him whole. A shriek tore through the night as the beast convulsed. A deep-blue ichor burst from its side, staining the waters like ink spilled in the dark. Howling in pain, the Kraken flung Gollum away, thrashing wildly as waves erupted across the lake. Gollum splashed into the water, coughing and sputtering, his survival instinct overwhelming his terror. With the desperation of a cornered animal, he swam furiously toward the shadows of the far shore, slipping away into the darkness. In the castle above, Sylas jolted awake. The distant cry of the Kraken echoed through his soul, resonating with the Phoenix fire within him. Without hesitation, he Apparated to the lakeside. The air was thick with mist and magic. The lake churned violently, and in its heart writhed the wounded Kraken, its tentacles coiling weakly amid a spreading pool of dark blue blood. Sylas's face hardened. With a sharp gesture of his wand, he shouted: The surface of the lake split apart under the force of his spell, forming a hollow circle of exposed water. The full bulk of the Kraken was revealed, an immense, awe-inspiring form now trembling in pain. Sylas strode forward, his robes trailing golden embers as the air around him shimmered with heat. There, across the creature's abdomen, was a deep gash, clean, precise, and unnatural. Blue blood poured endlessly from the wound. The cut was not the work of any blade he knew, it pulsed with dark energy, radiating malice. While continuously eroding the Kraken's body, it was also preventing the wound from healing.