[Successful sign-in: Congratulations, you have obtained the alchemical process of the Ravenclaw Diadem!]

Sylas froze for a moment, then his eyes lit with delight.

The Ravenclaw Diadem?

He had not expected this reward.

The Diadem of Rowena Ravenclaw, one of the four legendary relics of the Hogwarts founders, and the ancient treasure of Ravenclaw House. It was said to bestow greater wisdom upon whoever wore it. For centuries, countless scholars and ambitious witches and wizards had searched for it, hoping to gain a fraction of its brilliance.

But the story of the crown was also one of sorrow.

Helena, Rowena's daughter, grew jealous of her mother's wisdom. Believing the diadem itself was the source of such brilliance, she stole it and fled to the wild forests of Albania. When Rowena fell ill, longing for her child, she sent the Bloody Baron, who loved Helena, to find her. Yet when he did, Helena refused to return. In rage and heartbreak, the Baron slew her, then took his own life. Rowena died soon after of grief.

Helena became the Grey Lady, ghost of Ravenclaw Tower. The Baron, forever stained by his crime, wandered Hogwarts as the Slytherin ghost.

A thousand years later, Tom Riddle coaxed the truth from Helena. He found the hidden diadem and made it his fifth Horcrux, locking it away in the Room of Requirement. Centuries of tragedy had been bound up with the crown. In the end, it was destroyed by Crabbe's cursed Fiendfyre during the Battle of Hogwarts, before it had ever shown its true power.

At least, that was what history recorded.

But now, through the system's gift, Sylas had obtained the true alchemical process of the Diadem. And he instantly knew: the legends were no mere fables.

Rowena Ravenclaw, famed for her unmatched intellect, had not only been a great witch but also a master alchemist. The diadem was her creation, an artifact woven with alchemy and enchantment, designed not to grant wisdom but to unlock the mind's potential.

Its power was subtle, not absolute. The crown did not turn fools into geniuses. Instead, it sharpened thought, quickened memory, and made the mind more agile, helping the wearer grasp knowledge more swiftly and analyze more deeply.

This was why Ravenclaw herself had engraved on the band: "Wit beyond measure is man's greatest treasure." It was a warning: wisdom could not be stolen, nor handed down. It had to be earned. The diadem could open the door, but only one's own labor could walk the path.

Sadly, not even her daughter understood this truth, and so the relic's legacy became one of envy, blood, and loss.

Sylas, however, could hardly contain his excitement. An artifact that makes study itself easier… this is the greatest treasure a wizard could ask for.

With the diadem, his research into elven lore, Númenórean history, and the secrets of both alchemy and spellcraft would advance at a staggering pace. Knowledge would compound upon knowledge, and true wisdom would grow.

Unlike the fleeting effects of potions such as the Bafe Brain Elixir, used by nervous students before their O.W.L.s and N.E.W.T.s, the Ravenclaw Diadem had no side effects, no dizziness or confusion, no risk of collapse after the clarity faded.

Sylas felt the journey had been worth it after such a reward from the sign-in.

Having completed his purpose, he prepared to take his leave of Annúminas. He bid farewell to the Dúnedain and turned to summon Thorondor, only to pause in surprise.

The great eagle was circling lazily above Lake Nenuial, not returning at once. Below him wheeled a flock of immense white birds, their wings spread wide like drifting snow. They played with the eagle as though he were their king, darting and swooping about him in gleaming arcs of white. From time to time, one would plunge into the lake and rise with a wriggling silver fish, which it promptly presented to Thorondor in tribute.

Sylas murmured, startled. "What in the world are those?"

At first glance, he thought them swans, but on closer inspection he realized they were owls, enormous owls, far larger than any he had ever seen. Each had a wingspan of four or five meters, and their feathers were pure white, like the first snow of winter or clouds drifting across a bright sky.

"What kind of owls are those? I've never heard of such creatures," he asked Talmir, who stood beside him.

The elder Dúnadan followed his gaze and smiled faintly, untroubled.

"They are the Great Snowy Owls. Long ago they dwelt upon Númenor itself, and when our forefathers sailed east to Middle-earth, some followed the ships. Their numbers dwindled, and so they are little known. Few living now have seen them."

"Then they belong to you? You raise them?" Sylas asked.

Talmir shook his head.

"No. Great Snowy Owls are proud. They are not hostile to men, but neither do they bow to us. They crave freedom above all. At best, if you win their regard, you may visit their roost for a short while, as a guest might visit a house, but they will never truly serve. Their eyries lie in the pine forests north of these hills, and they often come here to fish."

Hearing this, Sylas's eyes lit with mischief. 'So they're masterless, are they?'

A wizard without an owl was like a knight without a sword. And these owls were magnificent, snow-white from wingtip to talon, their toes pale as carved jade. They looked less like beasts and more like white-feathered elves.

He had long thought of finding messengers, especially after seeing how the Dwarves used ravens. Thorondor, for all his might, was far too great to bear letters. But this was perfect.

With a grin, he shifted form, feathers rippling across his skin. Before Talmir's widening eyes, Sylas transformed into a snowy owl and launched himself into the air.

The wind carried him toward Thorondor and the flock. In owl-form, their speech was clear as any tongue, and he caught the words being crooned to the eagle.

"King, King," they cried, circling him with reverence. They laid fish at his talons like offerings.

Sylas nearly laughed aloud. 'These are the proud, untamed owls Talmir spoke of? They look more like sycophants at court!'

He fluttered before Thorondor, amusement in his eyes.

"Made new friends, have you?"

The eagle tilted his vast head proudly, recognizing his master's Animagus form.

"Master! These are my little brothers now!" Thorondor answered, his tone filled with boyish pride, like a child showing off to a parent.

The snowy owls froze mid-air, their wings faltering. Their wide golden eyes grew wider still as they realized what had just been said.

The great eagle, lord of the skies, had called this smaller owl, this stranger, Master.

One owl dropped the fish it carried with a startled squawk.

"You… you mean to say… you're the master?!" it stammered, so shocked it could barely speak.

The stunned looks on the snowy owls' faces nearly made Sylas laugh aloud. Amused, he deliberately teased them, "Well? What's the matter? Don't we look alike?"

The owls felt as though they had been struck by lightning.

'Great heavens! What kind of upside-down world is this? An owl… master of a giant eagle?!'

After he had toyed with them long enough, Sylas fluttered back onto Thorondor's broad back and shifted smoothly into his human form.

The snowy owls nearly collapsed with relief.

'Ah, so he's a man!'

'Wait, was he an owl? Or a human? Which one is he?'

They were left entirely bewildered, heads swiveling, wings fluffing in confusion.

Sylas, meanwhile, wore the easy smile of a trickster dangling sweets before children. With Thorondor vouching for him, winning them over would be no trouble.

And so, with a silver tongue and a few grand promises, Sylas lured the owls into service. He spoke of warm, spacious owl-houses atop Weathertop, of endless food and comfort, and of a new roosting ground where they could thrive.

The naïve snowy owls, awed by the giant eagle's approval, allowed themselves to be convinced. They pledged to follow Sylas.

Soon enough, the entire tribe, more than three hundred strong, took wing. Families came as well: proud parents carrying chicks, others balancing nests in their talons, some even bearing eggs not yet hatched. It was a comical procession, like a feathery migration led by Thorondor himself.

The Dúnedain could only stand, wide-eyed, as the snowy parade streamed across the sky.

That evening, as night drew close, Sylas chose to remain in Annúminas for the night. Thorondor would guide the owls back to Weathertop first, and then return for him.

Of course, taming the owls was only the beginning. If they were ever to become true messengers, with the uncanny ability of wizarding owls to find any recipient no matter the distance, they would need something more. A special potion could sharpen their minds, grant them human-like intelligence, and awaken a magical sense of direction. Only then could they carry letters across all of Middle-earth.

But Sylas was still traveling, and there was no rush. He would brew the potion once he returned home.

The next morning, Thorondor returned on the dawn wind, and in his claws he bore a letter.

It was from Arwen.

Sylas unfolded the parchment with uncharacteristic care. At once his eyes softened at the sight of her graceful hand, every stroke full of longing. She had fallen in love with the pure white owls, and had already settled them into a tall tower at Weathertop, promising to see their new roost made beautiful and worthy of them.

Smiling faintly, Sylas tucked the letter into his satchel. He turned and clasped forearms with the Dúnedain, bidding them farewell.

Then, mounting Thorondor once more, he rose into the bright morning air and set his course southwest, towards the Grey Havens.