Sylas was overjoyed at the sight of the newborn dragons.
Though they lacked the full wisdom of true dragons, and their magical strength and physical might were far inferior to Smaug's kin, they were still dragon-kin, and not creatures to be underestimated.
As the hour neared, Sylas raised his staff and awakened the circle. Orthanc itself lent its strength, magnifying the spellwork a thousandfold.
The air howled with power. Winds twisted into a storm, and raw magic roared through the night like a hurricane. The very stars seemed to waver. Silver moonlight and distant starlight bent downward, streaming into the furnace.
Flames erupted within, first golden, then red, then blood-bright. The fire grew so hot it birthed the image of a dragon within the blaze, clawing and snapping, wings spread wide as it breathed fire into the crucible.
Sylas cast in the dragon's blood. The flames flared crimson, fiercer still.
He uncorked the obsidian bottle and poured the Death-matter into the fire. Darkness oozed forth, chilling the very marrow of the air, and the flames hissed as black mist clung to them. The spectral dragon in the fire struck at the shadow-stuff, swallowing it whole. Within its belly, a single black shard began to glimmer, hard and solid as stone.
"The lives of the damned, offered in sacrifice, may purchase life anew," Sylas intoned, his voice steady as iron.
From one enchanted pouch, seven petrified Orcs tumbled forth, their eyes wide with terror as his spell released them.
They struggled, shrieking, but Sylas's expression was as cold and implacable as a Judge of the Dead. With a single gesture, he swept them into the furnace.
Their screams split the night as the fire consumed them, until at last there was only silence, and ash.
The moment the last soul perished, the bells of time struck midnight. The old year crumbled, and the new was born.
A power unseen yet undeniable stirred in the deep. Across the stones of Orthanc, the world itself seemed to waver. A shadowed realm bled through like a reflection in darkened glass, the veil of the Netherworld.
This time no summoning circle was needed. The Otherworld rose around him like a mirage, vast and cold, pressing against the mortal world.
The yin-laden power of the Netherworld poured endlessly into the furnace, feeding the ritual with its cold breath.
Within the flames, the draconic shape of fire coiled and writhed. In its belly, the obsidian seed, once smaller than a grain of rice, swelled visibly, its form hardening into something like translucent black crystal.
"The wicked souls lingering in the world, exchanged as offering, shall grant the dead their return!" Sylas intoned, his voice carrying the weight of both command and ancient taboo.
He lifted another enchanted pouch and scattered its contents into the blaze. Thirteen Orc-spirits shrieked as they tumbled forth, phantoms he had seized during his ventures into the Netherworld, each one still steeped in malice and hatred.
The moment they fell into the fire, the flame-born dragon devoured them. Their howls were swallowed whole, their essence fused into the obsidian core in its belly. With each spirit consumed, the gem darkened, until it pulsed like a black hole, greedily pulling at every thread of energy in the air, as though hungering for all life itself.
Hour after hour, Sylas repeated the cycle. Seven Orcs of flesh. Thirteen Orcs of shadow. A handful of dragon's blood powder to stoke the fire, crimson sparks flaring brighter each time. Again and again, he fed the furnace, until the night blurred into day and day into night.
The ritual was nothing less than the darkest of enchantments. Once, long ago, Cadmus Peverell, the second of the three brothers, had forged the first Resurrection Stone. Obsessed with calling back his beloved, he had offered an entire village in blood and gathered countless wandering shades. But what he summoned was no true return, only a hollow shade, a pale echo, and the failure shattered his mind. In despair, he took his own life, seeking her in death.
Sylas, unlike Cadmus, would not squander human lives. Orcs were his sacrifice, beasts steeped in darkness, bred for cruelty. And in the Misty Mountains, he had found more than enough prey.
The circle continued its ceaseless work, drawing in the powers of heaven and earth. The furnace burned on, flames roaring as though fed by the marrow of the world itself.
At last, as dawn broke on the third day, the rising sun spilled its first ray upon Orthanc's black stone. The flames guttered, faded, and finally died, leaving only smoke curling into the pale morning sky. The runes beneath Sylas's feet dimmed, their work complete.
He stepped forward and opened the furnace. From its heart he drew a gem of midnight glass.
The Resurrection Stone.
It was no larger than a fingertip, smooth and translucent, but at its center ran a jagged crack, blacker than black, like the vertical slit of a cat's eye. Peering into it felt like gazing upon a doorway to some world beyond, a place not meant for the living.
Sylas's breath caught. A flicker of triumph lit his eyes. He rolled the stone thrice between his fingers.
The air chilled. Shadows thickened.
Before him, a tall figure shimmered into being, an Elven spirit, radiant yet insubstantial. He seemed too vivid to be a ghost, yet too ethereal to belong among the living. A silver circlet rested upon his brow. His hair, black as a raven's wing, marked him of the Noldor, and his noble bearing was unmistakable. Grey-blue eyes gleamed with wisdom as deep as starlight.
The Elf looked around in wonder, then fixed his gaze on Sylas. Surprise colored his voice as he spoke:
"Did you summon me? Who are you?"
Sylas bowed in the manner of the Noldor, his voice solemn as he answered in the flowing tones of Quenya.
"Master Celebrimbor, forgive me for disturbing your rest," Sylas said respectfully, bowing his head. "I am Sylas, the Black-Robed Wizard. I summoned you with the Resurrection Stone."
The Elven figure before him was none other than Celebrimbor, master smith of Eregion, grandson of Fëanor, and the one who had forged the Three Rings of the Elves along with many of the other Rings of Power.
"Resurrection Stone?" Celebrimbor's keen eyes fell upon the gem in Sylas's hand. His expression shifted, and he exclaimed, "Did you forge this?"
Sylas nodded, though a trace of embarrassment flickered across his face. "It bears the name Resurrection Stone, yet in truth it can only call forth the shadow of a soul, never restore true life. Its use is limited, please forgive my inadequacy."
But Celebrimbor, with the vision and wisdom of one who had once crafted the Rings themselves, immediately discerned the weight of what lay in Sylas's palm. His hand lifted instinctively, reaching to touch the gem, but the spectral fingers passed straight through both Sylas's hand and the Stone.
The Elven smith froze for an instant, a faint shadow of remembrance crossing his noble features. The truth settled upon him: he was indeed among the dead. Yet swiftly he mastered himself, the clarity of a Noldo's spirit returning to his gaze.
He shook his head at Sylas's modest words.
"Sylas, you undervalue yourself. To call back the departed, even if only as a fleeting ech, is a marvel beyond reckoning. You stand upon the threshold of the laws of the soul itself. Apart from Námo Mandos, the Doomsman of the Valar, I know of none who could command such power."
A faint, meaningful smile curved his lips. His eyes, wise and piercing, rested upon Sylas.
"It may not restore the dead to life, but consider its true strength: to summon those long departed, like me, and draw forth secrets or lost knowledge buried by ages. That is its greatest worth. Now then, Black-Robed Wizard… tell me, what is it you seek in summoning me?"
Sylas opened his mouth to answer, but in that instant, the world itself froze.
The wind ceased to stir. The drifting clouds halted in the heavens. Even Celebrimbor's image, noble and still, remained locked in place, unmoving.
Sylas's heart leapt. He struggled, but found his body utterly paralyzed, as though it had ceased to exist. Only his consciousness remained aware.
And then it came.
An unseen will descended, a vast, sacred, and irresistible majesty.
Sylas felt his very soul quake, gripped in awe and terror. For a moment, he thought he stood before the true Master of Souls himself. His will was not his own; he was nothing but a trembling mote beneath a gaze older than time.
That unfathomable presence turned toward the Resurrection Stone… then, slowly, toward Sylas.