Beyond the dragons themselves, the farm held herds of cattle, sheep, and horses, fodder meant only to keep the beasts satisfied. Alongside them were more than a dozen Wargs and Orcs who had fallen into Sylas's grasp.
He bent their wills with the Imperius Curse, chaining them to his service. They tended the livestock, cleaned the pens, and, when needed, risked their lives tending the dragons. Inevitably, some became meals. The dragons sometimes devoured a handler whole when their hunger grew sharp. Sylas never mourned them. The Misty Mountains teemed with Wargs and Orcs, if more were needed, he would simply capture another pack.
On this visit, Sylas went in search of the first dragon born in his care.
It was a hybrid, forged from Smaug's bloodline crossed with a monstrous lizard. Its scales shimmered black like forged obsidian, its eyes burned yellow, and two bronze-colored horns curled from its skull. Its tail bristled with jagged spines, more like a war-mace than a natural limb.
Dragons matured swiftly. Within a week of hatching, they grew threefold in size; by a month, they were the height of a small house. By a year, they could soar into the sky, their bodies stretching longer than a war-wagon.
Now, the dragon Sylas had dubbed Number One had just felled a wild ox. Its fangs pierced the animal's neck in a single snap. As the rest of the herd scattered in terror, the young beast exhaled a plume of fire over its prey, roasting the carcass until the smell of seared flesh filled the valley. Only then did it begin to feast.
Sylas approached, studying the creature's movements.
The dragon noticed and snarled, wings half-spread in warning, its meal clutched close.
He did not slow his steps. These were not bonded creatures like his gryphons or Cerberi. He had forged no contracts with them, Smaug alone kept them in check. Sylas bred them as resources, not companions: dragon liver for rare potions, scales for enchanted armor, blood for alchemy, hide for spell-threaded garments.
Attachment would only cloud his purpose.
Number One interpreted his advance as a challenge and reared back, fire gathering in its throat.
"Imperio!"
Sylas drew close, withdrew a mithril needle as long as a dagger, and fitted it to a runed glass syringe. He slid the needle between scales, piercing flesh, and drew out blood, a bucket's worth, dark and hot, each drop laced with power.
Once finished, he released the spell and moved on. One by one, he subdued the other dragons, drawing blood from each until his flasks were brimming. The creatures staggered, weakened, their eyes dull.
Only then did Sylas relent. With a flick of his wand, he ordered the Orc thralls to bring more livestock, restoring the beasts' strength before they collapsed entirely.
Satisfied, he departed, leaving Smaug's brood to recover.
Back at Weathertop, within the alchemy halls he had reforged from the ruins of Amon Sûl, Sylas laid his prizes before him.
On the stone table rested the three primal essences: Mercury of Spirit, shimmering faintly in its flask; Soul Sulfur, black and acrid, drawn from the tears of the dead; and Salt of Flesh, crystallized from the life-soil of Hildórien. Now, with the dragon's blood, the set was complete.
Beside them waited a mithril furnace, its runes glowing faintly, and a double-necked crystal flask etched with wards to prevent the escape of power.
To complete the Philosopher's Stone, he would also require the four elemental forces: Earth, Wind, Water, and Fire.
For Wind, Water, and Fire, Sylas had already planned his approach, Elrond, Galadriel, and Gandalf, each bearing one of the Three Rings of the Elves.
For the element of earth, Sylas produced a small, rune-locked casket. When he opened it, light spilled out like a star trapped in stone. Within lay the Arkenstone, the Heart of the Mountain. More than a jewel, it was the crystallized essence of the deep earth, heavy with power. With this, the circle of elements was complete.
Satisfied, Sylas unfurled a brittle scroll of astronomical charts, an heirloom salvaged from Saruman's hoard at Orthanc. Upon its vellum were traced the movements of constellations, eclipses, and planetary alignments, set against the lore of Middle-earth. By these, he could calculate when to harness the heavens themselves, bending the stars into the service of his alchemy.
The Philosopher's Stone was no mere trinket. To forge it demanded not only the primal essences and four elements, but also precise celestial alignments, incantations older than Númenor, and vast ritual circles traced in mithril dust. One mistake, one faltering note in the long symphony of its making, and everything would collapse into ruin.
Nicolas Flamel, in another world and age, had labored twenty-one years to create his Stone. Much of that time was spent poring over the Book of Abraham, deciphering its cryptic code, and harvesting essences from the countless dead of the Black Death. His Stone was born from horror itself, unique, unrepeatable.
Sylas, however, possessed advantages that Flamel had never known. The Book of Abraham he inherited bore Flamel's own marginalia, interpretations, and corrections. He had the guidance of Elrond, who pointed him unerringly to the sites where each essence could be claimed: the mercury of spirit from the Elves of Lune Bay, the soul sulfur from the Paths of the Dead, the salt of flesh from the hallowed soil of Hildórien. He had allies who bore the Three Rings, capable of summoning wind, water, and fire at need.
What had cost Flamel decades of hardship, Sylas had gathered in a few relentless years.
Yet the making itself remained perilous.
The three essences were sealed within a double-necked crystal flask, etched with wards to prevent their power from tearing the vessel apart. Into the mithril furnace the flask was set, its surface gleaming with the reflected glow of runes carved by his own hand.
He worked with a precision that left no room for haste. The essences were measured in a perfect ratio: one part mercury of spirit, one part soul sulfur, one part salt of flesh. The flask was closed, its seams bound with silver wire, and set within the furnace.
The silvery mercury of spirit, golden soul sulfur, and snowy-white salt of flesh mingled together in the double-necked flask. As the three primal essences merged, they shimmered with shifting hues, a living Trinity of spirit, soul, and matter. Their fusion birthed a mysterious glow, as if creation itself were taking root within the vessel.
To fuel the reaction, Sylas poured Dragon's blood into the mithril furnace. The blood ignited into searing crimson flames, their light casting eerie shadows across the stone chamber. Fed by this primal fire, the three essences within the flask began to churn and dance, their reaction quickening as if life itself were awakening inside.
The Book of Abraham warned that the Dragon fire must burn without ceasing for forty-nine days, neither faltering nor flaring beyond control. Even a moment's lapse could shatter the work and waste all. Sylas, cautious and calculating, had prepared more: a dozen brimming buckets of Dragon's blood, harvested at no small cost from his hidden farm.
So began the vigil.
Day after day, Sylas kept his post beside the furnace. He replenished the blood-fuel with steady hands, ensuring the flames remained constant, never too fierce, never too faint. When hunger gnawed at him, he ate the soul-healing fruits gathered in Hildórien; when thirst weighed heavy, he drank from the golden chalice at his side. And always, always, he returned to meditation, binding his mind to the shifting alchemy within the flask.
In those moments of inner sight, Sylas perceived not liquid and fire but the birth of a cosmos. The essences swirled like galaxies colliding, merging, and breaking apart, until slowly they began to settle into harmony. The Trinity formed a complete cycle, spirit, soul, matter, circling endlessly like the Music of the Ainur echoing through the void.
As he watched, Sylas felt his own power surge. His mental citadel, the inner Hogwarts Castle he had painstakingly built in the depths of his mind, grew taller, its towers stronger, its wards brighter. Day by day, its foundations solidified, becoming less dream and more reality.
At last, on the twenty-first day, the transformation came.
The three essences congealed into a black, tar-like mass. A putrid stench seeped from the flask as the substance smoked, hissed, and collapsed into decay. Ash-like soot clung to the glass, and thick black vapors coiled toward the ceiling. To untrained eyes, it would have seemed a failure.
But Sylas only smiled faintly. He had been expecting this.
The notes of Nicolas Flamel had prepared him: this was the "Crow's Head", the stage of Blackening. The death of form, the putrefaction of all that was base, so that higher truth might be born. Only by descending into corruption could the matter ascend again in purity.
And so, far from a disaster, it was the first true triumph. The foundation had been laid.
Now began the second stage: the "White Rose", the Whitening. In this trial, the blackened mass would be purified, sublimated, and refined into the first glimmer of the Stone itself, the fabled Primary White Stone.
...
STONES PLEASE
Read chapters ahead @/Keepsmiling818