Sylas knew the Kraken could not remain confined to the enchanted chest forever. Leaving the castle behind, he mounted his broom with the chest in hand and flew swiftly down to the black mountain's foot, where the lake stretched wide and dark.

With a word, he released the beast.

The Kraken burst forth, its massive body surging into the water like a shadow returning to its home. For the creature, the lake was life itself. No sooner had it touched the water than its broken tentacles began to regenerate at an astonishing pace. It thrashed with delight, twenty enormous limbs stirring the depths, sending geysers of bubbles crashing to the surface.

Its body was so vast that even the dragon Smaug would have seemed small beside it. Such a monstrous stirring could not go unnoticed.

Across the lake, the people of Hogsmeade cried out in alarm. For a moment, terror gripped them; the sight of a colossal octopus rising from their lake was enough to freeze their blood. But soon their sharp eyes caught another figure hovering above the waters. When they saw Sylas standing calm and commanding, with the Kraken bowing submissively beneath him, their panic eased.

Of course, they thought. 'Our lord already commands a dragon, an eagle, and serpents besides. What's one more giant beast?'

Sylas, ever watchful, raised his staff toward the Kraken. "Hear me well," he commanded. "You are not to attack the humans who live across the lake. Do you understand?"

The Kraken dipped its massive head in obedience.

At that moment, the thunder of hooves broke the air. The town chief, Luke, galloped toward the shore on a swift horse. Yet the Kraken's aura was so suffocating that the beast beneath him balked a thousand meters away. Luke dismounted, heart pounding, and ran the rest of the way on foot.

When at last he stood before Sylas, sweat on his brow, he bowed low. "Lord Sylas."

"You have come about the Kraken," Sylas said coolly.

Luke glanced nervously at the monstrous shape churning the lake. "Yes, my lord. Will this creature… remain here? In our waters?"

Sylas inclined his head. "It will. But you need not fear. It is here as guardian of the lake, bound by my will. It will not harm Hogsmeade's folk. Life will continue as it always has."

Relief washed over Luke's face, though caution lingered in his tone. "Forgive me, my lord… but some of the townsfolk rely on the fish from the lake. With such a guardian here, they fear…"

Sylas cut him off with a wave of his sleeve. "That is no trouble. From this day, half the lake shall be the Kraken's domain. The other half will remain yours. Hunt and fish as you wish, so long as you do not stray too close to its waters."

Luke bowed deeply, voice ringing with relief. "Your Excellency, truly benevolent!" He hurried back to town with the news, and within days the fishermen of Hogsmeade returned to the black lake.

They kept carefully to their half, never daring to cross into the Kraken's waters. For a time, "well water did not disturb river water." Yet fate arranged otherwise, one day a boat overturned, casting its crew into the waves. Just as the men were about to drown, a vast tentacle lifted them gently back to shore.

From that day, fear gave way to familiarity.

The fishermen began to bring offerings to the great Kraken: baskets of fruit, salted meats, even casks of ale, which, to their delight, the beast seemed to adore most of all. In turn, the Kraken often herded shoals of fish toward the town's nets, ensuring the people returned home victorious from their work.

Trust blossomed into friendship. On sunny days, the Kraken would rise from the water to bask on the shore, its immense tentacles draped like ropes over the stones. Bold children would scramble up its slick limbs, giggling as they swung from one to the next. Parents watched without fear, for the monster that once terrified them now guarded their young more faithfully than the lake itself.

Travelers and poets from distant lands came to witness the sight, marveling at the harmony between man and monster. They whispered in awe, but few dared approach too close. To them, it was a miracle, and a reminder of the strange power held by the lord of the mountain.

But Sylas's work did not end with taming beasts.

Back in his tower, a new purpose burned in his mind: the forge. Ever since learning the secrets of Elven smithing, he had longed to put them to use. Fortune favored him, Balin had gifted him several chests of mithril ore, and Moria promised steady supplies in the days ahead. Mithril, the most precious of all magical metals. To master it, he would need to create a furnace worthy of its refinement.

From the dragon Smaug's hoard, Sylas had already claimed unawakened mithril, drawing bitter glares from the dragon's eyes. With these treasures, he selected the thirty-third floor of his tower, reshaping it into a smithy. Yet before construction, he descended into the earth.

Through the tunnels once carved by dwarves, he traced his way to a forgotten iron vein beneath the mountain. What the dwarves had abandoned as worthless was now perfect for his purpose. At the heart of the vein, he embedded the mother of mithril. Splitting it open, he revealed the flame crystal within, then encased it in an eggshell of crystal barriers, imitating the design of the Balrog's lair.

The crystal blazed, releasing unbearable heat. The surrounding iron ore melted into a river of molten red. Sylas, protected by fire-resistance draughts, stood amidst the furnace's birth unharmed. The lava flowed around the silver gourd like rivers around a sacred altar.

He could already feel it, the mithril's mother-stone radiating an unseen power, slowly weaving its essence into the molten ore around it, transmuting it grain by grain.

The transformation was agonizingly slow. But it had begun.

At first, Sylas estimated, it would take a year of the mother-of-mithril's radiation to alter even a single shard of common ore into a grain of mithril. Yet already, the flame crystal within was purifying itself, strengthening the mother-stone and hastening the process. Left alone for decades or centuries, this hidden chamber might give rise to an entire mithril vein.

It would never rival Moria's vast supply, of course. And while Balin's stewardship made trade simple for now, dwarves were not famed for keeping contracts. Once Balin was gone, who could say what promises would be broken? For Sylas, it was enough that this hidden vein existed, a secret reserve that no dwarf could touch.

He resealed the tunnels and ascended again to the thirty-third floor, now cleared and prepared. Here he would raise his furnace, an Elven furnace, unlike anything in this age.

He could not use common stone or steel. The heat of crystallized fire would melt them to nothing. Instead, extravagantly, he turned to mithril itself. Though easily melted in its raw state, once forged and cooled, mithril grew impervious, harder than volcanic stone and almost impossible to dissolve.

With his tools prepared, he laid out the mithril container, expanded its inner space, and placed shards of crystallized flame at its base. Slowly, he poured in mithril ore. The shards ignited, their heat melting the ore into flowing rivers of silver-white lava. Patiently, he purified the molten metal, feeding it into the furnace mold until the great oval belly took shape.

The true work began when he lifted his mithril hammer. Striking in strange rhythms, he sang fragments of incantations, runes old as the Elves of Eregion, each word a thread of power woven into the metal's memory. Sparks leapt from every blow, brilliant arcs of silver and scarlet, while his magic sank deep into the walls.

For the Elves had taught: metal remembers. To forge was not merely to shape but to awaken, to commune. With every chant and every strike, Sylas impressed intention upon the mithril, guiding it to remember strength, purity, and obedience to his will.

At last, drenched in sweat despite his fire-resistance draughts, he took up a mithril carving knife. Carefully, he inscribed runes of binding and flame along the inner wall.

By the time he finished, hours had vanished. His body trembled with fatigue. He raised his staff and summoned a jet of springwater. Steam hissed violently, filling the chamber in a blinding cloud. With a sweep of his hand the mist dispersed, and he beheld what he had wrought.

The furnace gleamed silver, its surface etched with runes. Its form was rounded, almost like a pill cauldron, vast-bellied and steady. When he placed new crystallized fire within, the furnace absorbed the heat, containing it perfectly. To the touch, its surface was cool as stone. But within, space stretched endlessly, flames leaping hotter than dragonfire.

He dropped a piece of mithril ore inside. It melted instantly, impurities vanishing in a flash of pure light. Encouraged, he poured in entire chests of ore. The furnace swallowed them all, expanding within to hold their vastness, and in moments transformed them into rivers of refined mithril.

Sylas rapped his staff upon its side. The great vessel shrank, folding upon itself until it rested in his palm, small enough to carry but still brimming with molten mithril. Not a drop spilled.

This was no ordinary forge.

It expanded and contracted at command. It magnified flame a hundredfold. It purified every metal it touched. And, most wondrously, it absorbed the essence of whatever it smelted, strengthening itself, healing itself, evolving.

Sylas set the furnace down and gazed at it, eyes gleaming.

"With this," he murmured, "the foundation is laid."