CHAPTER 130: SETTLEMENT

Luke, now officially appointed as the village chief by Sylas, seized the opportunity to ask a question.

"My lord, our village has yet to be named. Would it be possible for you to grant it a name?"

The other villagers turned their eyes toward Sylas, anticipation shining in their expressions.

Sylas considered for a moment before nodding. "Very well. Let it be called Hogsmeade Village."

Since he had already renamed Amon Sûl Tower to Hogwarts, it seemed only fitting to name the settlement nearby in kind. Thus, the village of Hogsmeade was born, a name destined to become one of the most renowned in all of Eriador, and eventually, throughout Middle-earth.

As their new lord, Sylas knew it was only proper to offer a gesture of welcome. He raised his wand, and with a few well-placed spells, the earth trembled gently.

Before the stunned eyes of the villagers, stones levitated and stacked themselves into sturdy walls. Timber floated into place, aligning with invisible lines before forming rooftops, beams, and chimneys. One by one, homes took shape, neat and strong. A protective stone wall grew around the village’s perimeter, forming a small fortress.

When the dust settled, a complete village stood where only tents and scattered dwellings had been. Sylas lowered his wand with satisfaction.

This, he decided, would be his one and only magical gift to the villagers. A gesture of protection and goodwill, but he would not encourage dependency. Protection was his responsibility. Providing comfort through magic on demand was not.

As the people stood in awed silence, a tremendous roar echoed from the sky.

Heads turned in unison. A black speck in the sky rapidly grew larger.

Confusion turned to panic.

"A dragon! A dragon is coming!" someone cried.

Screams followed. Faces turned pale. Many began to scatter in search of shelter.

Luke, though frightened, shouted quickly, "Everyone get down! Find cover!" He then turned toward Sylas, who stood unmoving beside Gandalf and the others, all gazing upward with complete calm.

"My lord!" Luke called in desperation. "We should flee!"

Sylas glanced at Gandalf and exchanged a silent nod.

"No need to panic," he said, his voice calm but firm, reaching every ear. "That dragon is mine. He will not harm you."

His words stilled some of the panic, but the villagers remained skeptical. Dragons were creatures of legend, infamous for destruction. Could such a beast truly be tamed?

A great gust of wind swept over them as the dragon descended, wings outstretched. It landed just outside the village, the impact rumbling through the ground.

The beast folded its wings with a theatrical sigh and grumbled, then his eyes glinted mischievously as he glanced at the gathered villagers.

"Are these the snacks you’ve laid out for me, Master?"

A collective gasp rippled through the crowd. The fear returned in full force.

Sylas’s expression twisted with annoyance. "Shut it," he snapped. "Scare them again and I’ll lock away your treasure hoard and have you sleeping on bare stone."

"And these people are mine. You will treat them with respect."

Smaug blinked, then quickly straightened. "Ah! Your people. Understood."

He turned to the villagers and offered a grin that was more unsettling than reassuring.

"I am Smaug the Golden Lord of Wealth and Dragon of Flame. Should you face enemies beyond your strength, call upon me. I shall descend in fire and fury to defend you!"

The attempt at charm failed miserably. Despite his best efforts, Smaug’s fanged smile only made the villagers shrink back in terror.

Sylas sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. His grand image of a wise and noble lord had just gone up in smoke.

If any travelers overheard Smaug’s declaration about "burning and plundering," they might assume Weathertop was ruled by a band of marauders.

With this foolish dragon around, Sylas couldn’t bear to linger any longer. He needed to deal with Smaug first before the creature stirred up more chaos.

After a brief word to the villagers, Sylas and his companions mounted the dragon, and together they took off into the sky.

The villagers stood behind, eyes wide with awe as they watched the beast soar toward Weathertop.

Though Sylas worried his image had been thoroughly ruined, the villagers’ thoughts had taken a very different turn.

Their lord owned a dragon.

A dragon.

Once the shock wore off, excitement replaced fear. The moment they realized the beast was loyal to their lord, the implications settled in like thunder.

Their protector was a Dragon Lord.

That meant strength. That meant safety. Who would dare invade a village guarded by such a creature? From now on, they could hold their heads high, knowing their home was protected by a force that legends barely dared to describe.

Meanwhile, Sylas remained entirely unaware of the wave of admiration his dragon had inspired.

Upon reaching Weathertop, Smaug landed with a contented snort, fanning his wings before folding them neatly at his sides.

Sylas already had a plan for where the dragon would stay.

He hopped onto his broom and flew to the cliffs behind the tower. There, he used an Exploding Bolt Charm to blast open a wide hole in the rocky surface, then began carving a tunnel deeper into the hill. His wand never stopped moving as he steadily expanded the hollow toward the underside of the tower, eventually connecting it to the first basement level’s cellar.

The space had already been enchanted with an Undetectable Extension Charm and was quite vast, enough to accommodate even a dragon of Smaug’s immense size.

Smaug tested the entrance, slithering through the newly formed tunnel until his massive frame emerged inside the expanded cellar.

Once inside, his eyes scanned the empty floor. He turned to Sylas with an imploring gaze. "Master, you wouldn’t expect me to sleep on bare stone, would you? Where’s my bed of treasure?"

Sylas didn’t bother arguing.

He reached for his enchanted money pouch, the one containing a tenth of the Lonely Mountain’s hoard, soared into the air on his broom, and overturned it.

A torrent of gold and silver rained down in a brilliant cascade. Coins, goblets, necklaces, and gemstones of every kind poured from the pouch like a shining river.

Smaug’s eyes gleamed with delight. He lifted his head into the downpour, letting the treasure clink and clatter around him with unmistakable ecstasy. "Music," he sighed, curling his tail beneath the rising pile of gold.

Sylas watched in amazement. He had heard of dragon greed before, but seeing it firsthand made him wonder what exactly Morgoth had been thinking when he crafted these creatures.

The coins eventually formed a magnificent, glimmering mound that blanketed the entire floor of the cellar.

But Smaug remained unsatisfied.

He turned his massive head and sniffed the air suspiciously. "Master," he said, narrowing his eyes, "you’re holding out on me. I smell more treasure."

Sylas groaned.

Grudgingly, he retrieved the loot from Goblin Town and added it to the pile.

Still not enough.

Smaug’s eyes never left him.

Sylas muttered under his breath, then emptied the rest of his storage, treasure plundered from the Troll Forest and riches recovered from the Barrow-downs.

Only once the final coin tumbled to the floor did Smaug finally stretch out atop the golden hoard with a satisfied groan.

"Much better. You can leave now, Master. I shall guard this treasure with my life. Not a single coin will vanish under my watch."

"I’m sure," Sylas replied dryly.

He exited the cellar and sealed the heavy door behind him with a flick of his wand. Then he etched a warning on the stone surface in crisp lettering:

"Sleeping Dragon. Do Not Disturb."

With that dealt with, Sylas ascended to the top of the tower.

At the center of the observation deck sat a large, circular stone platform. In its middle lay a shallow depression, the exact place where the ancient Kingdom of Arnor once kept their Palantír.

From within his cloak, Sylas drew out the crystal sphere and carefully placed it into the depression.

Beside it, he set a small vial containing the light of Eärendil.

The vial’s soft silver glow spilled across the surface of the Palantír, casting gentle radiance over the dark stone.

It wasn’t just for illumination.

It was protection.

If Sauron ever reached out to seek through the Seeing-stone, the light of Eärendil would shine against him.

Sylas released the large nest and gently settled it on the opposite end of the observation deck. Nestled inside was the young eagle, Thorondor, who immediately perked up, flapping his still-growing wings to test the high winds around the tower.

Great Eagles, by nature, favored high places, and Thorondor seemed delighted with his new perch. He turned to the open skies, let out a clear, echoing cry, and faced the wind with youthful pride.

Sylas approached and gently stroked his soft feathers, his eyes warm with affection.

"This will be your home from now on," he said softly. "When you’re strong enough to fly, you’ll soar across the sky by day and return here to rest at night. Do you like it?"

The young eagle chirped happily and rubbed his beak against Sylas’s arm in response, his eyes gleaming with trust.

"I’m glad," Sylas chuckled, pulling out a strip of jerky and offering it as a treat. Thorondor snapped it up gratefully.

Thanks to Elrond’s careful healing, Thorondor’s previous ailments were now gone. With steady care and time, he would grow into a majestic Great Eagle, just as his namesake had once been.

After spending a few more moments with the young eagle, Sylas descended from the observation deck.

On one of the tower’s middle floors, he had confined the two Giant Spiders he had captured earlier. Using reinforced iron bars and layer upon layer of containment spells, he had ensured they wouldn’t escape.

He looked around the tower thoughtfully.

"A dragon in the cellar, an eagle on the roof, spiders in the middle..." he muttered. "Am I building a magical zoo?"

The realization made him pause.

It really did feel like one.

Shaking his head to clear the thought, Sylas exited the tower and made his way to an open patch of land. The area was well exposed to both sunlight and moonlight, ideal for what he intended to do next.

He drew his wand and began turning over the soil. The earth shifted easily beneath his spellwork, softening under the loosened enchantment.

From within his satchel, he drew two seeds, one golden, one silver.

The golden seed was that of a mallorn tree. The silver one, however, was far more precious: the seed of a White Tree, descended from Telperion itself.

This silver seed had been soaked for three days in the sacred waters, becoming radiant and full of life. Afterwards, Sylas had continuously exposed it to the light of Eärendil, a captured reflection of the light of the Silmaril, which itself held the light of the Two Trees.

The glow now emanating from the White Tree seed was subtle but unmistakable, as if it had absorbed the memories of Valinor.

He dug a small pit in the center of the clearing and planted the White Tree seed with care. Then he uncorked the silver flask Galadriel had given him and let the water trickle gently onto the soil.

This was no ordinary water. It was imbued with the power of Nenya, the Ring of Water.

Satisfied, Sylas moved about a hundred meters away and repeated the process with the mallorn seed. Though the mallorn would grow tall and wide, suitable for tree-homes and platforms, he wanted to give both trees room to thrive in their own light.

After the seeds were set and watered, Sylas raised his wand again and cast several layers of protective magic over the ground, repelling enchantments, concealment charms, and gentle nurturing wards to ensure that no beast, bird, or storm would disturb the tender beginnings.

Then he stepped back.

Now, it was only a matter of time.

He looked upon the soil, heart swelling with hope.

One day, two majestic trees, one golden, one silver, would rise above Weathertop. They would stand tall against the skyline, reflecting the grace of the Elves and the wonder of the old world, transforming this ancient hill into a sanctuary of beauty and power.