From the lair, Sylas had already harvested the crystallized flames and cooled the molten river. Yet his eyes wandered still, drawn to the black boulder that loomed upon the central platform.

The stone bore the scars of claw and fire alike, its surface charred yet unbroken. It was clearly the place where the Balrog had made its den.

"Gandalf," Sylas said, stepping closer with curiosity, "don't you think that rock is strange? Even under the Balrog's fire, it hasn't melted."

The wizard tapped his staff against the ground, his grey eyes narrowing. "Aye," Gandalf murmured gravely. "Not even mithril could endure such flame forever. For this stone to remain unmelted… it is no ordinary rock."

Raising his staff, he struck the boulder. A shudder rang through the chamber, and cracks spread like veins across its surface. At once the blackened crust peeled away in plates, falling like eggshells and revealing beneath it a gleam of argent light.

Sylas blinked, leaning forward. "Is that… silver?"

But Gandalf's face had gone pale with both awe and fear. "No, my friend. Not silver. Not even mithril. This… this is the Mother of Mithril."

"The… Mother of Mithril?" Sylas repeated, wide-eyed.

Gandalf's voice was hushed. "It is the source of all veins in Khazad-dûm, the living heart from which mithril flows. As long as it endures, the dwarves' lodes will never run dry. Even the fires of the Balrog could not destroy it. Indeed, the creature's flame has only tempered it, made it purer still."

Sylas' jaw dropped. "So… this thing is worth more than all the mines of Moria combined?"

"Far more," Gandalf said softly. "It is a wonder of Arda itself."

Sylas' eyes gleamed mischievously. "Well then… if I just chip off a tiny piece or two, it won't hurt anyone, right?"

The wizard gave him a weary look, but at last sighed. "A few fragments, no more. But remember, Sylas, greed here would be a sin to make even dragons tremble."

Grinning, Sylas unslung the divine spear and carefully pried loose three fist-sized shards from the shining core. Each piece blazed like captured starlight, hot to the touch, thrumming with a deep, living power.

But as he reached for a fourth, Gandalf's staff cracked sharply against the stone floor. "Enough!" he thundered. "Another blow, and you risk wounding the Mother itself. Should its strength falter, the veins of mithril in all Moria would wither, and such a loss would rest upon our heads forever."

Sylas pulled his hand back sheepishly.

Sylas did not argue further. He carefully pried off three fragments of the Mother of Mithril: one he kept for himself, another he handed to Gandalf, and the last he intended for Balin.

This time, Gandalf accepted his shard without protest, but when Sylas mentioned giving one to Balin, the wizard frowned deeply.

"The Mother of Mithril is no ordinary treasure," Gandalf said gravely. "It is the very foundation of Khazad-dûm. Even a dwarf as wise as Balin would find it nearly impossible to resist such a lure. Recall how Thorin was consumed by the mere thought of Erebor's hoard. Once Balin knew of this fragment, he and his kin would never rest until they uncovered the Mother itself. And that… would be the beginning of disaster. Not only for them, but for Moria's veins of mithril, which could wither away entirely."

Sylas fell silent. Gandalf's words rang true. However noble Balin's heart, no lord of dwarves could hear of such a treasure and remain unmoved. And if the secret were discovered, greed or desperation would surely follow. The Mother of Mithril could become a curse rather than a blessing.

"So then… what shall we do with the last piece?" Sylas asked.

"Keep it," Gandalf replied. His eyes glimmered with wisdom. "And I would counsel you thus: find a barren mine near the heights of Wind and Cloud. Bury the shard there, along with some of the crystallized flame you gathered. In time, years, perhaps centuries, the shard will transform ordinary veins into mithril. Slowly, yes, but surely. A year's work may yield only an ounce, but that ounce will shine with the purity of the stars."

Sylas' eyes widened. "You mean… I could plant my own mithril mine?"

Gandalf smiled faintly. "Indeed. The Mother of Mithril radiates a power that transforms the earth itself, and in doing so creates a field of natural magic that strengthens the land around it."

At this, Sylas' thoughts leapt elsewhere. Beneath Hogwarts, the dwarves had once uncovered a small, worthless iron vein at the mountain's base. At the time, it had been dismissed as useless. But now… if the shard were buried there, it could be nurtured into a vein of mithril.

With a sheepish grin, Sylas pocketed the last fragment. "Very well then. I'll not refuse such a gift."

"Good," Gandalf said, dusting his hands. "Now let us finish what must be done. This shard must be hidden, and hidden well. If ever it is discovered, the greed of dwarves, men, and even elves could ruin it, and doom Khazad-dûm to ruin once again."

Together, they placed the Mother-shard upon the black platform. Gandalf lifted his staff and began to chant. Sylas added his own magic, layering concealments: Lightward, Glamour, and Dispersal to mislead the eye, and at last the Ironheart curse to shroud its very essence.

Even Sylas felt reassured: with Gandalf's enchantments and the final sealing blow, not even if the Balrog itself were reborn could it ever find the Mother of Mithril again.

Gandalf raised his staff high, whispered the last words of power, and then, with a thunderous strike upon the stone, drove his magic into the mountain. The cavern rumbled. Cracks split the basalt floor wide, plunging down into darkness so deep the eye could not follow. The Mother of Mithril fell silently into the abyss, and before Sylas could even draw breath, the stone healed itself, sealing as if it had never been broken.

Gandalf leaned upon his staff, pale with weariness but smiling nonetheless. "There. Now the Mother is hidden. No dwarf, no demon, not even time itself will easily uncover it again. Come, we must return, or Balin will think some misfortune has found us."

Sylas nodded, and together they retraced the lava-carved passages. Gandalf collapsed the Balrog's lair behind them with a final gesture, ensuring no trace of the treasure remained. Then, mounting their brooms, they soared upward until daylight broke across the cavern mouth.

At the cliffside, Balin and Arwen were waiting. Relief washed across Balin's face when he saw them. Arwen hurried forward, her eyes scanning Sylas anxiously.

"Sylas! Are you hurt?" she asked, voice soft as silver bells.

He smiled warmly, shaking his head. "I'm fine, Arwen. Truly. You needn't worry."

Balin, meanwhile, turned eagerly to Gandalf. "Well? What news from below?"

The wizard laughed heartily. "Good news, Master Balin. The heat and fire were nothing but the Balrog's lingering wrath. We have quenched it, and the lava has cooled and solidified. Your halls are safe."

Balin let out a booming laugh of joy. "Then Khazad-dûm truly lives again! My thanks, my friends, you have given us more than I could ever repay."

Sylas chuckled. "And there is more still. That lava you feared has hardened into the purest mithril. You'll not need to reclaim new veins for a time. You need only harvest what lies waiting."

The dwarf's eyes shone like diamonds. "Mithril… from the ashes of fire! Mahal bless you, this is wondrous news!"

The celebration lasted two more days, but at last Sylas, Gandalf, and Arwen prepared to depart. Arwen was sent safely back to Lothlórien through the Floo network. Gandalf, ever restless, left by the East Gate, broomstick beneath him, bound for Fangorn Forest to keep wary watch over Saruman.

Sylas, however, chose the West Gate. On the one hand, he wished to rejoin Smaug, who had been keeping vigil there. On the other hand, he had unfinished business.

At the ruins of Aithuí Sandstar, where once great power had been forged, Sylas dismounted from Smaug's back. The dragon tilted his head, puzzled, as Sylas stepped alone onto the scarred ground.

A pulse of magic stirred. The air shimmered. Then, like a voice inside his mind, the system chimed:

[Hogwarts System]

Astrolabe detected. Would you like to sign in?

Sylas' lips curved into a confident smile. "Yes."

[Marking successful. Congratulations, you have obtained the Elven Forging Arts!]