The sudden outbreak of the wolf startled Sylas, but it did nothing to halt his pursuit.

"Thorondor, after it!" he commanded.

The giant eagle gave a piercing cry and beat his vast wings, surging forward like a shadow on the wind.

Thorondor closed the distance in moments, stooping with talons outstretched to seize the beast.

The wolf moved with uncanny speed, twisting aside as though it had eyes in its back. The eagle's claws struck only earth and shattered stone.

"Avada Kedavra!" Sylas cried from Thorondor's back.

The streak of green light shot true, catching the fleeing wolf across its flank. The creature let out a shriek like tearing iron, and several wraiths were torn violently from its body, dissolving into nothing.

For a heartbeat it staggered, then, impossibly, it leapt forward and kept running.

"He's not dead?" Sylas muttered, eyes widening.

The realization dawned almost at once. The wolf had devoured too many spirits, its body a host to countless stolen souls. The Killing Curse worked by sundering soul from flesh, yet here there were many souls, overlapping, shielding the core spirit that held dominion. His curse had stripped away only the weaker shades, while the true essence endured.

Sylas lowered his wand slightly, lips thinning. "So. The Killing Curse won't work."

The wolf, sensing pursuit, raised its head and howled. The sound rolled through the dark valleys of the North Downs like thunder.

An answering chorus rose from the forests. A dozen voices, wolfish, deep, and dreadful.

Sylas frowned. "So… you've brought your kin."

From the shadows of the woods, more wolves emerged, each the size of a great ox, their eyes burning with malice. They gathered swiftly at the side of their chieftain, Skul.

Sylas wasted no time. With a sweep of the Brisingr, he sent a blazing arc of fire through the air. The blade of heat cleaved into the nearest wolf, severing it cleanly. Its body ignited at once, flames racing along its fur. A shriek of both beast and spirit rang out as the wraith inside was ripped from its shell.

Without a host, the dark spirit writhed like smoke in the wind, and then began to fade. The wolf's body, bereft of the parasite, collapsed into ash.

But before the spirit could vanish, Skul lunged. The Wolf-king snapped his massive jaws and swallowed the drifting shade whole.

The power around him swelled, black vapors writhing from his fur, his body seeming to swell larger before Sylas's eyes.

Sylas's brow furrowed. "So he feeds on the spirits and grows stronger. Wonderful."

Already, the wolf's muscles rippled with new strength, its eyes alight with a fiercer crimson glow. Yet Sylas noticed something else, a hitch in its movement, a faint discord in the way its limbs responded. Its strikes were heavier, yes, but slower, less precise.

Understanding came quickly. The wolves were vessels meant to house a single dominant spirit. The hundreds of petty shades Skul had devoured before were weak enough to be crushed beneath his will. But now he had taken in a spirit of equal stature, one meant to command its own body.

Though Skul's own spirit still held the upper hand for the moment, the intruder writhed and resisted within

Sylas grasped the situation in an instant.

A cold smile tugged at his lips. "So, you crave more spirits? Very well, I'll feed you until you choke."

Raising his wand in one hand and the sword in the other, he unleashed his power without restraint. With a flick of his wand, barriers of stone and thorn sprang up to hinder the wolf's flight, while the sword in his grip flared, sending searing arcs of fire and burning wind slicing through the darkness.

Thorondor, no less relentless, stooped from the skies with a shriek like thunder. His talons sank into the wolf-flesh, his iron beak striking like a spear, tearing through one wolf after another. Screams echoed across the Downs as the lesser beasts fell, their corrupted spirits shrieking free in clouds of black smoke.

And as Sylas had foreseen, the Skul, his mind already torn by the rival spirits within, snatched up every wraith he could. He devoured them madly, his aura swelling with each soul, until the night itself seemed drowned in ink-black shadow.

But power came at a cost. Skul's once-cunning eyes burned with madness, his movements jerking as though half a dozens of spirits fought for control. His body writhed, filled with a dozen greater spirits and hundreds of lesser shades, each clawing for dominance.

"Silence!" he roared, voice ragged and terrible. "Submit, or we all perish!"

For a heartbeat, the spirits faltered. But Sylas gave them no chance to unite. His wand flashed.

"Eximo Animam!"

The spell struck home. Skul stiffened, then convulsed as the fragile balance inside him shattered. The spirits rioted, tearing at one another. His eyes rolled, his limbs flailed, each muscle pulled by a different will. The Wolf-king stood frozen, trapped in his own chaos.

"Now!"

Sylas leapt from Thorondor's back. He landed with a roll, rose, and drove the sword down with both hands straight into the beast's skull.

The blade erupted. Basilisk venom seared. The Light of Eärendil blazed pure. Even the breath of the Ring of Air whispered its power into the strike.

Skul convulsed once, a dozen voices screaming in despair, and then the fire guttered from his eyes. His body sagged, lifeless.

Sylas wrenched his blade free and leapt aside. A moment later, the wolf's corpse burst open, vomiting forth clouds of wraiths. The air rang with their shrieks as they writhed, desperate for a new host.

But Sylas was ready.

"Expecto Patronum!"

Silver light flared. The guardian owl spread vast wings, forming a radiant barrier that trapped the fleeing spirits within its glow.

From his satchel, Sylas drew forth the crystal phial of Eärendil. He uncorked it, and starlight poured forth like liquid dawn. Holy radiance flooded the barrier, burning through shadow. One by one the wraiths dissolved, their screams fading to silence, until not a trace of darkness remained.

Sylas lowered the phial, its glow diminished. He frowned; the Light of Eärendil was not infinite, and each use drained its precious strength. But leaving the spirits free would have meant ruin for all Eriador.

When he turned back, the body of the Wolf-king was nothing but ash, scattered in the flame.

Although he had won, there was little joy on Sylas's face.

The battle had been grueling. These were not ordinary foes, whether the restless spirits or the wolves they possessed, they were unlike any enemies he had faced before. Ordinary spells passed through them as if striking mist, and simple blows of steel did nothing. It had taken fire, venom, starlight, and cunning to bring them down.

The thought weighed on him. If such was the struggle here, what awaited him on the Road of the Dead? There he would face not a handful, but a host of spirits, an entire army of oath-breakers. And unlike Aragorn, he bore no claim as Isildur's heir; the dead would not treat him with deference.

Ghosts could not be undone by simple curses, Avada Kedavra meant nothing to those who had already died.

Sylas shook his head and pushed the thought aside. Better not to dwell on it now. He would face that trial when the time came.

Mounting Thorondor once more, he returned to the goblin dens.

The caves were a maze of twisting tunnels, now silent but for the echo of dripping water. Every goblin had already perished in the fierce fire he had unleashed; nothing remained but soot and silence.

At last, he found their so-called treasury. But the sight made him snort with disdain.

Broken armor, rusted blades, a few dented boxes of copper and silver coins, and a pitiful scattering of gold and trinkets. Hardly worth the effort.

"Wretched misers," he muttered, tossing the meager hoard into his enchanted satchel. "All that trouble for a pile of scrap."

The wolves' lair yielded even less, only a heap of bones picked clean.

Disappointed, Sylas left the North Downs behind and turned Thorondor's wings westward.

His next destination was Annúminas, once the proud capital of Arnor. Though it had long since fallen into ruin after the realm was divided into Arthedain, Cardolan, and Rhudaur, he intended to mark it on his journey before continuing southwest to the Grey Havens.

Thorondor carried him tirelessly, soaring over hill and plain. At last, the glimmer of water caught Sylas's eye. A vast lake stretched across the valley below, gleaming like dusk itself.

This was Lake Evendim, Nenúial in Elvish, the cradle of Annúminas, and the source of the Brandywine River that wound its way south past the borders of the Shire.