Both Sauron and Saruman felt a twinge of disappointment when they realized the newly hatched brood, though descended from Dragon, had not inherited Hrívemir's frost-breath.
Yet with hundreds of dark hatchlings born, their numbers alone brought satisfaction.
These were no ordinary beasts. Each egg had been infused with evil spirits, sharpening their minds and darkening their wills. The hatchlings could understand complex commands, scheme with cunning intelligence, and even cooperate in battle. Already their eyes gleamed with malice, but also with recognition: Sauron was their master. As one, they bowed low in submission.
Seeing their obedience and keen awareness, Sauron inclined his great shadowy head and spoke:
"Raise them swiftly, Curunír. I shall pour dark power into their veins, hastening their growth. In less than a year they shall be ready for war. Then we march, a host of winged fire, to scour Rohan and Gondor… and to win back Isengard for you."
Saruman's heart leapt. The thought of reclaiming Orthanc and casting down his rivals, Sylas, Gandalf, Elrond, Galadriel, sent fire through his veins. Yet suspicion soon followed. He frowned and asked carefully:
"Why such haste, my lord? Always you have counseled patience, building strength in secret, striking only when all is certain. Why now do you pour out your own might to ripen this army? Why strike at Gondor, at Rohan? And why aid me in reclaiming Isengard?"
For he knew Sauron was no generous ally. If the Dark Lord had truly wished to restore Isengard to him, he would have done so long before, and not with such urgency.
But Sauron did not veil his intent. His voice rumbled like thunder from the void.
"My true aim is not Rohan, nor Gondor. It is Orthanc itself."
"Orthanc?" Saruman's face paled. "What treasure lies there that you desire so greatly?"
For a moment, he wondered if the One Ring had returned. Surely that alone could restore Sauron's form in full.
But the Dark Lord's answer shattered his assumption.
"It is not the Ring," Sauron said, his tone burning with hunger. "It is something newly wrought, not yet fully born. The starlight that falls upon Orthanc is its cradle. Galadriel sought to bar my sight, but I glimpsed enough, a jewel, crimson as blood, radiant with undying power.
"I know it will give me form again, a body unending, unyielding. With it, I will regain my strength, and then the Ring will no longer elude me. I shall feel it, wherever it hides."
Saruman stiffened, disbelief written across his features. Could such a thing truly exist? Yet as one Maia gazed upon another, he knew such premonitions were rarely false.
"The Black Wizard…" Sauron hissed the words like venom. "Sylas has meddled too far. He has conjured a prize that belongs to me alone. This time, Curunír, we strike without delay. That jewel will be mine, at all costs."
...
Meanwhile, atop Orthanc, the ritual entered its next stage.
High above, elenmirë shone like a silver flame in the heavens. Its light poured down like a pillar, caught and bent by the seven-pointed array drawn in dragon's blood upon the stone. Starlight streamed into the mithril furnace, where the raven-dark substance, the "Crow's Head", awaited its transmutation.
Though dragon's blood still burned beneath it, the flame no longer gave heat. Instead, the furnace glowed with a biting chill, as though winter's breath had replaced fire.
At the same time, Galadriel raised her hand. Upon her finger the Ring of Water, Nenya, gleamed like starlight reflected in a fountain. Waves of pale-blue essence welled up, flowing into the array.
The black mass within the flask absorbed both the celestial light of elenmirë and the pure waters summoned through Nenya. Slowly, the corruption dissolved, and the blackness softened into crystalline whiteness. Powder like snow began to gather, shining faintly within the glass.
And from the sealed flask, defying stone and rune alike, a fragrance drifted out, delicate, sweet, and strange, like the breath of jasmine carried on the night wind.
As soon as Sylas breathed in the fragrance, a wave of tranquility washed over him. His weary spirit felt nourished, and even the old wounds torn into his soul during the forging of the Horcrux began to mend.
The effect surpassed even the fruits of Hildórien, the birthplace of Men, for this perfume acted not on flesh but directly on the soul, strengthening it, healing it, making it whole again.
Astonished and delighted, Sylas inhaled deeply, letting the ethereal scent drift through him.
He was relieved to see that the outer seven-pointed star array contained the fragrance within its bounds, preventing even a trace of the essence from leaking away or being wasted.
Yet the star of Elenmirë, mercury, was fleeting. Its rising lasted no more than two hours, and as the sun crested in the east, the starlight faded back into the daylit sky.
Even so, the seven-pointed star array still glittered faintly, its patterns etched with enough of Elenmirë's light to sustain the work. Under the steady fuel of dragon's blood, the blackened matter within the flask began slowly transforming, yielding crystalline whiteness that glowed faintly like snow under starlight. With each change, the jasmine fragrance grew stronger.
Sylas drew in that perfume, his soul quietly strengthening, but with it came temptation. A whisper rose from deep within his heart, urging him: Open the furnace. Take the flask. Drink it in, all of it. Grow stronger, now.
Outside the array, Arwen saw Sylas frowning in deep concentration, his body taut as though at war with itself. Alarm filled her voice.
"Grandmother, what's happening to him?"
Galadriel's eyes remained fixed on the glow of the furnace. "This is the trial of the Stone. He must resist the greed within his own heart. Only then can his soul endure the change."
"How long must he endure this?" Arwen asked, her brow furrowing.
"Until the substance completes its metamorphosis," Galadriel replied softly. "From black stone to white. Only then will the ordeal be finished."
—
Days passed. The black matter within the flask burned away, replaced by more and more of the white crystalline dust. And with each passing day, the fragrance thickened until it seemed to seep into the bones.
For Sylas, the temptation grew unbearable. Every breath of the jasmine-like air pressed upon him, each heartbeat screaming with desire. It was not an outside corruption, like Sauron's malice, it was his own hunger, magnified and turned against him.
Had Galadriel not quietly sustained him with the waters of Nenya, feeding his body when he forgot food and drink, Sylas might have collapsed long ago.
Finally, on the twenty-first day, the fragrance burst forth like a tide. It filled the array until Sylas seemed to stand in a vast sea of white blossoms, his very soul drinking in the scent.
The fracture left by the Horcrux, the gaping wound in his essence, was filled at last. For the first time in years, his soul was whole again.
But with the healing came peril. Greed struck harder than ever, rising like storm-waves to smash through his defenses and enslave his will. He had to resist not Sauron's voice, but his own.
With Occlumency as his shield, the Crown of Wisdom upon his brow, and meditation as his anchor, Sylas fought to hold his mind steady, refusing to bend.
At last, the transformation completed. The black substance was gone, every grain transmuted into pure white crystal. And with that, the fragrance ceased. Silence returned.
Sylas opened his eyes. With a gesture, he quenched the dragon's-blood fire and reached into the furnace.
The double-necked flask was cool to the touch, though it had endured weeks of flame. Within, silver light shimmered like frozen starlight. The white powder inside glowed softly, still carrying the faint, sweet trace of jasmine.
This was the second stage of refining the Philosopher's Stone, the "White Rose" stage, also called the whitening.
At this point, the White Stone could already cure illness, serving as a potent elixir of life, though it could not yet transmute base metals into gold.
"Congratulations, Sylas," Galadriel said warmly, her lips curved in a rare smile. "Your Philosopher's Stone is halfway complete."
Sylas bowed his head, gratitude shining in his eyes. "Thank you, Lady Galadriel. Without your aid, I fear I could never have completed this stage at all."
For throughout the long ordeal, Galadriel had stood by him, wielding the power of Nenya to draw forth the waters of the world, channeling them into the array. Her presence had been as steady and sustaining as the stars themselves.
She accepted his thanks with grace and added gently, "And congratulations on your soul. It has become purer, and stronger."
At that, Sylas's lips curved into a tired but genuine smile. The joy in his face was unmistakable.
For not only had his soul been made whole again after years of fracture, but it had grown beyond what it had ever been before. Once, his spirit had been only slightly more resilient than that of a common man. Now, after enduring the whitening stage, his soul's radiance rivaled that of Elves such as Arwen or Legolas, souls tempered by millennia of memory and experience.
Sylas had gained in mere weeks what others required centuries to achieve.
No wonder Nicolas Flamel, once unremarkable, had risen to renown after forging his own Stone. It was not the object alone that elevated him, but the transformation of mind and spirit endured in its creation.
At Sylas's side, Arwen noticed the exhaustion etched into his eyes, despite his exhilaration. Concern softened her voice. "Sylas, you haven't slept in nearly a month. The Philosopher's Stone will not vanish if you rest. You must allow yourself time to recover."
But Sylas, still riding the high of success, shook his head, his gaze steady with reassurance. "Do not worry for me, Arwen. I feel no weariness. I can endure a while longer."
Galadriel, however, did not approve. She folded her hands before her and spoke with quiet firmness. "Even if the power of Nenya shields your body from fatigue, your soul will still suffer from such strain. Listen to Arwen. Rest."
And when Galadriel gave counsel as an elder, Sylas knew better than to argue.
After seeing her off with due reverence, he allowed himself to sink into deep slumber, soothed by Arwen's gentle Elven song as his consciousness drifted into darkness.
But before sleep claimed him fully, his thoughts lingered on what came next.
The next stage was the "Sun Wheel" stage, also known as the yellowing.
For this, he would need the rising of Lumbar, Saturn, and the earth's essence to turn the White Stone into yellow.
The Heart of the Mountain, the Arkenstone itself, would provide the earth element. For once, he would not need to seek the aid of others.
According to his star charts, Saturn would not rise again in the proper alignment for three months. Until then, Sylas had time to prepare for the trials of the next stage in the creation of the Philosopher's Stone.