The next instant, the Thunderbird Thorondor swept over Bree City, his vast wings slicing through the storm. Lightning coiled around his body, flickering across every feather until his whole form blazed like living thunder.

He let out a piercing cry. The clouds above shuddered, and a blinding bolt, thick as a tree trunk, split the night sky.

The flash turned darkness into daylight. Every hair on the defenders' heads rose; sparks danced on the battlements. The next moment, the lightning struck the Wights below.

The explosion shook the ground. The front ranks of the undead were reduced to ash; others were blasted apart, their bones blackened and smoking.

Awe spread across the city wall. The defenders, who moments ago were on the brink of despair, now looked skyward in reverence.

Thorondor did not stop. With each beat of his wings, thunder rolled. He drew power from the storm itself, gathering every spark in the clouds and hurling it downward. Each strike tore through the ranks of the Wights, the pure lightning burning away the evil spirits that animated them.

The defenders erupted in cheers. "Look! The Lord's Thunderbird has come to save us!"

Panic turned into pride. Even the merchants and travelers hiding in Bree looked up with wide eyes, stunned by the sight of the giant bird wreathed in lightning.

Outside the walls, the storm became a tempest of divine wrath. The ground was pitted with craters, glowing with residual electricity. The ranks of the Wights were collapsing, until a sudden, dark flash streaked from the horizon.

A black arrow, wreathed in shadow, cut through the rain. It moved so swiftly that even Thorondor saw it only when it was upon him.

He twisted midair, but the arrow was too fast.

Just before it could pierce his chest, a shimmering scale-like shield appeared, a protective barrier forged by Sylas himself from a Frost Dragon's scale through alchemy. The arrow struck it and shattered in a burst of darkness.

The protection held, but the near miss filled Thorondor with rage. His eyes glowed like stormfire as he scanned the battlefield.

There, hidden among the ruins, stood a figure cloaked in black armor, a longbow of shadow in his hands.

Adûnaphel the Quiet, one of the Nine.

Lightning burst from Thorondor's wings, striking straight toward the Ringwraith.

Adûnaphel raised his bow again, chanting words of the Dark Tongue. His ring of power flared with a cold, unholy light. Another Morgul Arrow shot forth, colliding head-on with the lightning.

The explosion tore the sky apart. A shockwave rippled outward, nearly toppling the defenders from the wall.

Thorondor cried out, summoning the full fury of the storm. The clouds thickened, churning black and violet, and the heavens opened in a torrential downpour.

Rain poured over Bree in sheets, but Thorondor was in his element. He rose into the clouds, vanishing into the heart of the storm.

Then the world turned white.

Thousands of bolts of lightning fell like rain, each drop carrying deadly power. The deluge became a net of light, striking the Ringwraith from every direction.

Adûnaphel tried to retreat, but even the earth beneath him crackled with energy. He raised his ring, dark power bursting outward to form a shield, but the lightning swallowed him whole.

The battlefield blazed as light and darkness clashed. The ground split, stones melted, and the Ringwraith's armor shattered into fragments.

When the storm light dimmed, only a burned silhouette remained. But the Ringwraith still stood. The ring of power pulsed faintly on his finger, protecting the corrupted spirit within.

Thorondor's cry shook the heavens again. Electricity surged around him, brighter and hotter than before, as he prepared to unleash his full strength and finish the fight.

The Ringwraith immediately sensed danger. He tightened his grip on the bow and focused all his attention on the Thunderbird's next strike.

But before he could act, a dagger appeared from thin air and plunged straight into his spirit form.

Sylas stepped out from under the Invisibility Cloak behind him, his expression calm and cold. The dagger in his hand was one of the Númenórean blades taken from the Barrow-downs, ancient weapons made to slay the Wraiths and sever their link to the darkness.

The blade pierced through the Ringwraith's back, and a shriek like tearing metal burst from his mouth. His body twisted violently, shadows writhing and scattering before bursting apart in a thunderous blast that nearly threw Sylas off his feet.

When the air cleared, the Ringwraith was gone, only a blackened ring of power lay on the scorched ground.

Sylas waved his wand, levitating the ring into a mithril box and sealing it with a charm. He glanced down at the shimmering cloak draped over his shoulders and smiled faintly.

The Invisibility Cloak had truly lived up to its name as a Deathly Hallow, it concealed him even from the eyes of the undead, allowing him to strike the Ringwraith unnoticed.

Satisfied, Sylas turned to Thorondor, who was still clearing the remnants of the Wight horde. "Finish the rest," he ordered.

Then, with a flicker of movement, he Apparated to the Barrow-downs.

He surveyed the area, his brow furrowing. The Witch-king of Angmar, the true master behind the Wights, was nowhere in sight. Instead, the battlefield showed signs of dark rituals and recent movement.

He had come ready to confront the Witch-king under the cover of the Cloak, but only found traces of another Wraith, Adûnaphel the Quiet, and no sign of Angmar himself.

That absence made Sylas uneasy. Still, he couldn't leave Adûnaphel alive; the Wraiths were all linked. Once one vanished, the others would sense it.

Then, suddenly, his gaze shifted east. A sharp intuition tugged at his senses.

"Something's wrong... Gollum?"

Without hesitation, Sylas vanished.

——

In the Weathertop Hills north of the Castle, Gollum was hiding once again. For days he had been hunted, first by men, then by unseen presences watching from the shadows.

He had escaped each time using the ring's invisibility, but the constant fear gnawed at him. Finally, he found an underground cave and decided to stay near Weathertop.

He still refused to give up. The golden ring in his hand, Sylas's enchanted copy, was identical to his precious One Ring. That could only mean the Black Robed Wizard had once seen the real one, perhaps even held it.

Fear and obsession warred in his heart. He remembered the pain, the torture, the Dark Mark that crawled beneath his skin like a living curse. But the desire for the precious never left him.

He stared at the ring, whispering, "My precious… my precious…"

Then his expression twisted. Hatred flashed in his eyes. He knew this was a fake, no matter how real it looked. He wanted to throw it away, but the glowing mark on his arm burned faintly in warning.

He had tried everything, scraping, burning, even cutting, but the mark would simply move elsewhere on his body, mocking his efforts.

Smeagol, the timid half, was terrified of Sylas and dared not defy him. But the darker side, Gollum, still schemed in secret, waiting for a chance to break free.

At that moment, a blast shook the cave. The entrance exploded open, scattering rock and dust. Gollum fell backward in terror, clutching the ring to his chest.

At the mouth of the cave stood a tall, robed figure, white beard gleaming faintly under the moonlight.

Saruman.

His lips curled into a sneer. "Gollum," he said coldly, "I know you're in there. Hand over the ring."

Gollum's eyes widened in horror. Without hesitation, he slipped the ring onto his finger and vanished.