Galadriel rose gracefully and extended her hand. Without hesitation, she lifted the Balrog's heart-crystal from the table. Though it glowed with molten heat, she held it as though it weighed no more than glass, untouched by its searing fire.

Wordlessly, she carried it to the fountain at the center of Caras Galadhon. Sylas and the others followed in silence. The fountain's basin had long been a vessel for light: here, Galadriel gathered the radiance of Eärendil's star, storing it in a crystal phial for times of need. Each night, when the star sailed across the heavens, its light fell upon these waters, and the fountain captured a droplet of its purity.

Placing the Balrog's crystal into the fountain, Galadriel tilted the phial. Liquid starlight poured forth in silver streams, falling onto the demon's heart. The contact hissed like water upon hot iron. Shadows bled out from the crystal, veils of black smoke, twisted and foul, only to be burned away by the light of Eärendil.

"The light of Eärendil is the last memory of the Two Trees," Galadriel said softly, her voice like song. "It holds power to cleanse all corruption."

Yet the phial's contents dwindled quickly. Star-dew is rare beyond measure: a single droplet takes a year to form, and an entire phial requires centuries, perhaps millennia, to fill. Even so, Galadriel poured without hesitation, until the crystal's blood-red hue had softened to pale glass, its inner fire dim and trembling.

Sylas drew his own phial from his cloak. "Lady Galadriel, please, use mine as well."

She shook her head, smiling faintly. "It is enough. Eärendil's light can scour Morgoth's stain, but to restore the fire itself requires patience."

She lowered her hand into the fountain. Upon her finger shone Nenya, the Ring of Water, and as she stirred the basin the waters shimmered like liquid starlight. The tainted crystal sank within, its black fire flickering, dimming, then calming. Slowly, the furnace-heart that had once burned with malice cooled, its flames fading into something almost serene.

"From this day," Galadriel said, drawing back her hand, "I will tend it myself. Each season, I shall bathe it anew in the waters of Nenya, until the immortal flame is purified. In three years, the fire will be wholly restored."

"Three years?" Sylas nearly toppled over, wide-eyed.

Though Sylas had to wait three years for the purification of the Balrog's flame, he was not disheartened. Three years? For the sake of becoming a Phoenix Animagus, he told himself he could endure it. Still, he knew he should not waste the time, this was a chance to strengthen his magic, to recover fully, and to set his sights on the long path toward immortality.

Leaving the crystal heart of the Balrog in Galadriel's care, Sylas stayed in Lórien to rest and cultivate. A full month passed, and slowly the weariness of his soul lifted. The exhaustion of battle, the hollowness that came after spending so much magic, was finally gone.

During his stay, Sylas busied himself crafting new broomsticks to replace the ones lost in the struggle with the Balrog. This time, he chose branches from the Mallorn trees, and the result was extraordinary: swifter, sturdier, almost singing with Elven light. He fashioned three brooms, naming them Light Ring, Comet, and Fire-Arrow.

The Light Ring he kept for himself, the Comet he gifted to Arwen, and the Fire-Arrow he handed to Gandalf.

Just when Sylas was enjoying himself so much in Lórien that he nearly forgot time, a letter arrived in his hands. He frowned, thinking perhaps he ought to train some owls to carry messages properly, then broke the seal.

The letter was from Balin. In clear, heavy strokes, Balin declared that Moria had been reclaimed at last. Most of the Orcs had been slain; those who fled toward the West Gate were met by Smaug and reduced to ash beneath dragonfire. None had survived.

With victory secure, Balin extended an official invitation to Sylas and Gandalf to come as honored guests to Khazad-dûm. Gandalf, too, received such a letter, and even Celeborn and Galadriel were sent word.

Sylas and Gandalf accepted at once. But Celeborn refused. Old wounds still burned in his heart: the memory of Thingol slain by dwarves over the Nauglamír, and of Doriath's ruin. Though ages had passed, Celeborn's mistrust of dwarves lingered, and he would not step foot in Moria. To avoid offense, however, he prepared a gift to send in his stead, and Galadriel agreed with him.

Arwen, however, at Sylas's urging, chose to join them, both as his companion and as Lórien's representative.

The three of them, Sylas, Gandalf, and Arwen, followed the Celebrant River upstream, through forest and mountain, until they reached the Dimrill Dale outside the East Gate of Moria.

There stood Balin, waiting to greet them. His beard gleamed silver in the sunlight, his mail shone bright, and his face was alight with joy.

"Welcome, Gandalf! Welcome, Sylas! And welcome, fair Lady Arwen, to Khazad-dûm reborn!" Balin cried, embracing Gandalf and Sylas one after the other with great dwarvish enthusiasm. Then, with a flourish, he led them through the East Gate.

They entered the First Hall, which Balin had made his seat of rule. Though Moria stretched for miles, from East Gate to West, the First Hall now served as their dwelling place and stronghold. And there, beneath the mighty pillars, the dwarves had prepared a banquet more lavish than Sylas had ever seen.

The tables glittered with Mithril, knives, forks, goblets, and bowls, all crafted from the secret silver. Sylas gawked in silence. A single trinket of Mithril could buy a kingdom, and here the dwarves used it as though it were common pewter. Arwen, too, was astonished. She knew, through Galadriel's teaching, the value of the metal: Nenya itself was wrought of Mithril. And yet here it gleamed in every corner, as if a hoard of treasure had spilled out onto their supper table.

But Balin was not finished. At his signal, dwarves heaved forward a dozen iron chests, setting them before Gandalf and Sylas.

The two exchanged puzzled looks. "What is this?" Gandalf asked.

With a wave of his hand, Balin ordered the chests opened. Inside lay Mithril tools, ornaments, ore, and treasures without measure.

"Gandalf, Sylas," Balin said with deep sincerity, "you slew the Balrog and delivered Khazad-dûm from shadow. You gave us back our home. These gifts are but tokens of gratitude. Yet I know they cannot equal your deeds. So I have also written this—"

He raised two parchments, inscribed in moon-runes and dwarf-script alike. "A contract. From this day forth, one-tenth of Khazad-dûm is yours. May you accept it as proof of dwarvish friendship and honor."

Sylas and Gandalf stood stunned.

Before the expedition began, Balin had promised Sylas that if Khazad-dûm were reclaimed, one-tenth of the Mithril would be his. Still, Sylas had not expected Balin to honor that pledge so quickly, nor so generously. Not only did Balin deliver on his word, but he offered the same share to Gandalf as well.

Among the dwarves, who were often accused of greed and possessiveness, such fairness was rare indeed. It only deepened Sylas's respect for Balin as a wise and farsighted elder.

Sylas, of course, would never refuse such a gift. Mithril was one of the most precious magical metals known in Arda, light as a feather, harder than tempered steel, and capable of holding enchantments that few other substances could endure. To have a portion of Moria's wealth secured for his own craft and magic was more than he had dared hope.

With a smile, he accepted the silver pen Balin handed him. The pen itself was forged of Mithril and rare alloys, filled with an ink that would never fade, even after a thousand years. The parchment was made from the hide of great mountain oxen, tough and nearly indestructible, treated with Elven potions so it could endure for ages. These details alone showed how serious and sincere Balin was. Sylas bent down and wrote his name firmly on the contract.

Gandalf, however, shook his head when his turn came. He refused the dwarves' offer of land and wealth, saying only, "I have no need of such riches, Balin. Unlike Sylas here, I've no dependents or menagerie to feed. My needs are simpler."

Instead, he selected from the treasure chest only a finely carved pipe, wrought of silver and inlaid with runes. That was enough for him.

Balin, rather than being relieved, looked almost disappointed. His thoughts were not hard to read, for Sylas, with a quick flicker of Legilimency, saw the truth in the dwarf's heart. Balin's generosity was genuine, born of gratitude. Yet he also hoped that binding Gandalf and Sylas to Moria with wealth and oaths might keep them close. Should Khazad-dûm ever face peril again, it would have two mighty wizards to defend it.

Sylas smiled privately at Balin's cunning. It was not the greed of dwarves that moved him, but their careful wisdom. And for that, Sylas respected him all the more.

When the contracts were signed and the gifts delivered, Balin grew eager to show them further. He led the company down into Moria's great treasury halls. Once, in the days of Durin's folk, the kingdom had been rich beyond imagining, its ceilings sheathed in gold, its vaults brimming with jewels and silver. All that wealth had drawn envy from every corner of Middle-earth. But when the Balrog awoke, much had been lost, plundered by Orcs, or carried away to Sauron's stronghold. Even the golden ceilings had been stripped bare, leaving only dark stone.

And yet, even after so much ruin, what remained still took Sylas's breath away. Mountains of coin and gems glittered in the dim light. Chests of silver and heaps of emeralds shone like frozen rivers of light. It rivaled the hoard of Smaug himself beneath the Lonely Mountain.