Elf Forging Technology

Sylas froze in stunned silence as the system's message sank in. Then, with growing wonder, he examined the gift more carefully, and his eyes lit with amazement.

Elven Forging Technology.

In the wizarding world, goblins were famed for their craft: shrewd bankers, yes, but also the undisputed masters of enchantment and metallurgy. The legendary Sword of Gryffindor itself, capable of absorbing venom and reforging itself against dark powers, was their creation. Yet what Sylas now held in his mind was something different, something greater: the craft of Elves, akin to the smith-lore of the Eldar and the dwarf-smiths of Khazad-dûm.

Where goblin-made blades were eternal, unchanging, elves imbued their works with growth. Their weapons resonated with the world's living magic, absorbing power and essence as the centuries passed. A sword, a staff, even a ring could become stronger the longer it endured, never weakening, never fading, growing alongside its wielder.

If dwarves sought permanence, and goblins mastery, the elves sought harmony: a living bond between weapon and bearer.

Sylas clenched a bar of mithril in his palm and gasped softly. He could feel it, the thrumming pulse of its hidden veins, the sleeping potential waiting to be drawn forth. The new sensitivity granted by this gift allowed him to sense magical resonance in metal itself: which way its enchantments leaned, how best to coax it into song.

His heart raced. "With this," he whispered, "I'm not just a wizard. I'm a smith of a third kind, between dwarf, goblin, and elf."

Overjoyed, he mounted Smaug's scaled back. "Let's go," he said, patting the dragon's neck. "Back to Hogwarts."

The dragon rumbled deep in its chest, then launched into the air with a sweep of its wings, bearing him eastward toward the Wind and Cloud Peak.

Hogsmeade

At the foot of the mountain, life thrived. Once a humble hamlet, Hogsmeade had swelled into a bustling township of ten thousand souls. Its cobbled streets spread outward from the Black Lake, fields of grain and green stretching toward the horizon. The villagers bustled happily, merchants hawked their wares, and travelers of every kind wandered the lanes, merchants, adventurers, even poets.

Some bards gathered near the lake's edge, gazing up at the shining twin-trees wrought of silver and gold that crowned the castle of Hogwarts. They set their words to verse, singing of the towers on the Wind and Cloud Peak with reverent awe.

Merchants, meanwhile, brought goods from every corner of Middle-earth: spices from the South, furs from the North, fine silks from far-off lands. Here the taxes were fair, the coin plentiful, and the trade honest. Everyone prospered.

Even the innkeeper of Bree, Barliman Buttercup, had seized the chance, opening a branch in Hogsmeade and placing it in his son's hands.

The friendship between Hogsmeade and Bree had grown closer with each passing season. Though the two mayors secretly competed with each other, the people themselves cared little for such rivalries. Whether they lived beneath the shadow of the Weathertop or along the crossroads of Bree, all cheerfully called themselves Sylas's folk. They traded freely, laughed together, and shared news as if they were one town.

Even Bree, once feared to be overshadowed, remained prosperous. Its location at the meeting of the North and South Roads kept commerce alive, and its taverns thrived on travelers and Hobbits alike. With the dark magic of the Barrow Downs drained away by Sylas, even the Hobbits of Buckland began to wander more boldly. Brandybucks and Tooks could often be found in Bree, waiting tables, trading pipeweed, or selling wine from their fields.

Hogsmeade, meanwhile, was bursting with life. Poets painted word-pictures of Hogwarts on the Weathertop. Artists set up easels at the lakeshore to capture the twin trees of silver and gold shimmering above the castle. Laughter rang through the markets.

Then the sky darkened.

A painter, brush in hand, looked up just in time to see a massive shadow sweep overhead. His face drained of color, and his brush clattered to the ground. "D-dragon! A dragon!" he cried in terror.

Strangers in the market froze, their instinctive fear of the great dragon surging to the surface. Mothers clutched their children. Merchants looked for cover. Yet the villagers of Hogsmeade? They cheered.

"It's Sylas! Our lord has returned!" they shouted, waving their arms, beaming with pride. For them, Smaug was not a terror of the skies, he was their protector, their symbol of strength.

Confused, the foreigners blinked at the locals who were cheering for the beast. They had heard rumors that the Lord of Weathertop rode a dragon, but seeing was different. Now they stared at the massive form of Smaug circling above, awe-struck and trembling at his overwhelming presence.

High above, Sylas saw the cheers and felt warmth swell in his chest. To be welcomed home like this… A smile tugged at his lips. Smaug, sensing his rider's mood, loosed a triumphant roar that echoed across the valley before descending to the castle at the peak.

Smaug landed with a thunderous beat of wings, the grass bowing beneath his weight. Edward, the steward of the castle, was already hurrying forward, bowing deeply with joy shining in his eyes.

"My lord, welcome home!"

Sylas slid from Smaug's back, laughing lightly as he raised a hand. "No need for formality, Edward. Tell me, has anything happened while I was away?"

"All has been well, my lord," Edward replied. "The townmasters Luke and Graeme report regularly. No troubles of note."

"Good." Sylas nodded, relieved. He dismissed Edward with a wave, then turned back to Smaug, who was pawing impatiently at the ground. The dragon's golden eyes gleamed with barely restrained hunger, not for meat, but for treasure.

Sylas chuckled. "Alright, alright. Let's see if we can make some space."

He walked into the vast underground vault and muttered an expansion charm, the walls groaning as the stone corridor stretched wider and deeper. Then, with a flick of his staff, he tipped the contents of his enchanted satchel.

Gold poured forth like a river. Coins, jewels, and gems thundered down in a glittering cascade, filling the cavern with a brilliant glow. Smaug rumbled in sheer delight, eyes narrowing with pleasure as he rolled his massive body into the treasure, sending waves of gold clinking against the walls.

The treasury of Moria now lay here in Hogsmeade, nearly rivaling the Lonely Mountain's hoard. Smaug's body vanished beneath the shimmering pile, only the tip of his tail flicking back and forth like a cat rolling in cream.

Smaug, even half-buried in mountains of gold, was not satisfied. His golden eyes gleamed as he fixed them on Sylas.

"Master," the dragon rumbled, his voice dripping with expectation, "bring out the mithril. Don't think I can't smell it, the dwarves must have given you some!"

Sylas glared at him, hands on his hips. "You're like a hound sniffing after scraps! Fine, here, you greedy beast!"

With a flick of his wand, he summoned a dozen iron-bound chests brimming with mithril ingots and crafted relics, Balin's tribute.

The dragon's pupils flared. With a sweep of his tail, Smaug dragged the mithril hoard into a neat pile beside him, guarding it jealously. This, he valued even above gold.

But then, with eyes still shining, he stretched his head forward again, as if to say more.

Sylas shoved against the scaled snout with both hands. "Don't even think about it. What I've kept back is mine, and I've got plans for it. You'll live."

Smaug gave a low grumble but, sensing his master's decision was final, finally curled his neck upon the treasure heap. In moments, his eyelids drooped, and soon he was snoring, smoke curling from his nostrils.

Sylas sighed. "Unbelievable. Rolls in gold like a pig in mud, then sulks himself to sleep when he doesn't get what he wants." Too weary to scold further, he turned and left the vault.

Next, he visited the secret chamber where Herpo lay coiled. The great snake had fought the Balrog alongside him and bore the scars of flame across his scales. Herpo needed long rest, so Sylas left him to recover among stores of giant beasts and magical rations prepared for that purpose.

Nearby stood the petrified giant guardian, a massive figure frozen by Herpo's gaze. No ordinary counter-curse could restore him; only Mandrake potion would undo the petrification. Sylas sealed him back into a stasis chest until the potion could be brewed.

Finally, Sylas turned to the most dangerous prize: the Balrog's corpse.

The blackened husk still smoked faintly, twisted and hideous, reeking of brimstone. Yet Sylas's eyes gleamed with excitement. This had been a Maia, godlike once, even if corrupted. Studying such a body promised secrets few wizards could dream of.

As he inventoried the remains, he found shards of crimson crystal lodged near where his divine spear had pierced the Balrog's chest. Carefully, he gathered each fragment, sealing them in a glass vial.

"He whispered, holding the vial up to the light, "I won't waste a single grain."

...

Stones Plzz