When Isengard stood once more in its restored glory, the warriors looked around in disbelief. The towers rose tall and unbroken, the walls gleamed as though newly built, and the air smelled of stone and spring grass.
If not for the Dragon corpses strewn across the fields, they might have thought the entire battle nothing more than a nightmare.
Sylas lifted his wand again. With a series of graceful flicks, piles of shattered timber and stone floated up, reshaping into long wooden tables and smooth stone benches.
Across the vast plains surrounding Isengard, there was now space enough for tens of thousands to sit and feast.
Then he raised the Golden Cup, its surface gleaming in the firelight, and murmured an ancient incantation.
At once, the tables filled themselves with wine and delicacies, glistening goblets of deep red mead, roasted meats steaming with spice, and baskets of golden bread.
Gasps and murmurs of awe swept through the crowd. Even the most battle-hardened soldiers stared as though witnessing a miracle.
And Sylas was not finished.
He gestured toward several of the slain Dragons, each stretching dozens of meters in length. Their scales still glimmered faintly with lingering magic.
"These wyrms," Sylas declared, his voice carrying easily across the crowd, "shall feed you tonight! Eat and celebrate, Isengard stands victorious!"
And so, for the first time in recorded history, men feasted on dragons.
The moment Sylas gave permission, cheers erupted. The Dunlending warriors and the Rohan cavalry rushed toward the carcasses, their blades flashing as they carved through the tough scales and sinew.The air filled with laughter and the smoky scent of roasting meat.
For every man there was a story to tell:
We fought a Dragon. We survived. We tasted its flesh.
Sylas did not forget his companions.
Smaug, proud and unbothered, had no reservations about devouring the lesser wyrms, tearing into the carcass with relish.
Thorondor, pecked neatly at roasted chunks offered by Sylas himself, while Aslan, the griffin, shared a smaller dragon with Cerberus.
As for the Three-Headed hound, he alone took the poisonous wyrm flesh, immune to the toxins that would fell any other. He ate heartily, each of his three heads feasting in turn, tail wagging in open delight.
Among all Sylas's beasts, Cerberus earned the largest share, perhaps even more than Smaug himself.
From his perch, he looked immensely pleased, puffing out his chests and howling in satisfaction.
The Basilisk Herpo, still in deep hibernation, missed the feast entirely.
Not that he would have cared, Herpo had always preferred giant spiders, and the secret vault still contained an ample supply of their remains.
At the central table, Sylas sat between Brog, Chieftain of the Dunlendings, and King Fengel of Rohan.
Before them lay plates piled high with meats of every kind, and at the center, roasted Dragon meat, glistening gold-red beneath the firelight.
It was Sylas's first time tasting Dragon flesh. It took hours to roast properly; the meat was so dense and heat-resistant that only magical flame could sear it through.
Thankfully, this wyrm was of the cold-blooded Frost lineage, less resistant than a Fire Dragon would have been.
He sliced a strip of it, skewered it on a silver fork, and took a bite.
The flavor surprised him, rich and hearty, with a texture somewhere between venison and beef. As he swallowed, he felt heat surge through his veins, a rush of energy washing away the weariness of battle.
Sylas's eyes glimmered.
Brog and Fengel felt it too. Their faces flushed crimson; their hearts raced as though set alight from within.
Sweat glistened on their brows as the Dragon's vitality coursed through their bodies, mending wounds, filling limbs with newfound strength.
They laughed, exhilarated, and soon abandoned the bread, the mead, and every other dish, devouring Dragon meat like starving men.
Around them, the warriors followed suit, each eager to claim their share of the miraculous feast.
Sylas merely chuckled. There was no need to restrain them.
After all, dozens of wyrms lay slain across the plains, each weighing tens of tons. Even ten thousand warriors could not exhaust such abundance.
But as Sylas surveyed the field of carcasses under the moonlight, he couldn't help but feel slightly overwhelmed.
"Even with all the Extension Charms in Middle-earth," he mused quietly, "it would take a dozen chests just to store what's left… and keeping them fresh is another matter entirely."
Feeling far too lazy to deal with the mountain of wyrm carcasses himself, Sylas simply enlisted the help of the ten thousand warriors gathered on Isengard's plains.
Under his direction, the work began, dozens of Dragons laid open beneath the moonlight as men harvested their remains for materials of untold value.
Dragon hearts, livers, blood, and brains, all precious ingredients for alchemy and potioncraft, were carefully packed into enchanted barrels, stacked so high they looked like hills of gold and crimson.
As payment for their effort, Sylas raised his staff and spoke with an easy smile.
"For your aid today, each of you shall take a Dragon scale as your reward, a token of valor and proof of what we achieved here together."
The warriors roared in gratitude.
Each scale gleamed faintly in the torchlight, smooth, polished, and almost indestructible, impervious to blades and arrows alike. Many of the scales were large enough to fashion into shields or armor plates.
The soldiers held them as if they were sacred relics. Some wept openly.
Long after that night, many would carry those scales home, passing them down as family heirlooms, proof that their forefathers had fought beside the Dragon-Slayer of Isengard.
Even after eating their fill, the warriors still laughed and celebrated around the bonfires.
Despite the enormous quantity of meat, they managed to consume only two wyrms in total. The rest lay untouched, countless tons of dragon flesh beyond what any mortal could hope to eat.
By the time the last plate was cleared, bellies were round, faces flushed, and sweat dripped from every brow.
"Ugh… I'll never eat again…" one Dunlending groaned, slapping his stomach, only to reach for another skewer moments later.
Laughter rippled through the crowd.
But beneath the merriment, a strange power stirred in each of them.
The vitality of the Dragon had seeped into their blood.Old wounds faded. Aches vanished.
Men who had carried scars or limps for years now stood taller, their eyes bright with vigor. Their blood burned with new strength, they felt as if they could fight ten battles without rest.
King Fengel of Rohan rose from his seat, his face flushed and steaming as though fresh from a forge.
"Thank you, Wizard Sylas," he said sincerely, gripping his knee and laughing. "I've suffered this ache for years, but now, it's gone! By the Valar, it's truly gone!"
Sylas smiled. "Then take these, King Fengel, the leg bones of the very wyrms you feasted upon. Let them be a reminder of this night's victory."
Fengel bowed deeply, visibly moved by the gift.
Turning next to Brog, Sylas presented him with a Dragon's rib bone, still etched with traces of ancient runes. "And for you, Chieftain of the Dunlendings, may this serve as the pillar of your hall, a symbol of strength for your people."
Both men accepted their gifts with joy.
When the feasting and laughter at last waned, King Fengel rose and clasped Sylas's forearm in farewell.
"Wizard Sylas, Rohan owes you more than words can express. But I must return. Mordor's armies may yet regroup, and my people need their king."
Sylas nodded, his expression solemn.
Fengel bowed once more and turned to his cavalry. The riders of Rohan mounted their steeds and set off toward the horizon, their golden banners streaming in the dawn light.
Beside him, Brog and the Dunlending warriors also made ready to depart, saluting their lord one last time before riding north toward their homeland.
But before he departed entirely, Fengel looked southward, his brow furrowed in thought.
"I wonder how Gondor fares," he murmured. "Our ancestors swore loyalty to its kings… yet we could not aid them this time. I only pray they still stand."
Sylas looked at King Fengel, who stood with a troubled expression, gazing southward toward the distant White Mountains.
"Are you planning to ride to Gondor's aid?" he asked gently.
Fengel nodded. "We were attacked by Mordor before, and I couldn't go to support them in time. But now that Rohan's crisis is over, I must honor the oath of our forefathers. Gondor helped us once, now it is our turn."
He paused, his brow furrowing. "I only hope we are not too late."
Sylas smiled reassuringly. "Don't worry too much. Mordor attacked on all fronts, but their main target was Isengard. Now that their plan has failed, their forces elsewhere should begin to retreat.
And remember, Gandalf has already gone to Gondor. With his wisdom and the Ring of Fire, he'll rally them. If Minas Tirith truly falls, he carries a Portkey that will bring him back to me instantly. Since he hasn't used it, the situation can't be hopeless yet."
Fengel let out a long breath and nodded slowly. "I hope you're right, Sylas."
Still, he could not rest easy. Determined, the King decided to lead his Rohan cavalry south to aid Gondor.
The White Mountains divided their two kingdoms, and if Gondor fell, Rohan's end would soon follow.
Sylas didn't try to dissuade him. He simply waved his hand, conjuring a Mithril chest large enough to contain Fengel's entire host.
"Put your riders inside," Sylas instructed. "It's enchanted with an Extension Charm, they'll be safe. My Dunlending warriors will carry you across the mountains."
Under Sylas's orders, the Rohan cavalry entered the chest in orderly ranks. A Dunlending warrior mounted a Hippogriff, carrying both the chest and King Fengel eastward at breathtaking speed toward the land of Gondor.
When their silhouettes disappeared into the distance, Sylas turned back to the work that still awaited him.
There was no time to rest.
He herded the few surviving wyrms back to their pens and began the monumental task of salvaging the remains of the dead.
Dragon hearts, livers, brains, and blood were carefully stored for potion-making; scales and hides were tanned into thick, magic-resistant leather, while fangs and claws were polished into gleaming weapon cores.
Even the ash from their bones would be valuable for enchanting steel.
Isengard's open plains became a workshop of alchemy and industry, with Dunlending warriors assisting in the processing.
The air shimmered with spells, the ground glittered with scales, and barrels of dragonblood steamed under preservation charms.
Meanwhile, in Gondor...
Far to the south, Gandalf was fighting a desperate battle.
The Wizard of the West possessed both immense power and indomitable will. With the Ring of Fire, Narya, he rekindled courage wherever he walked. His presence alone stirred the hearts of men, drawing them out of despair and back to hope.
When he arrived in Gondor, he found chaos, soldiers fleeing, commanders broken, the white banners of the Stewards trampled in mud.
Through sheer will and words that burned like fire, Gandalf rallied the men of Minas Tirith. He reorganized the shattered battalions, set captains in order, and restored a measure of discipline.
But even he had not expected what followed.
From the black mists of Mordor's army came more than a dozen cold-born Dragons, massive, wingless wyrms bred for siege and slaughter.
They crawled like mountains come alive: some with crocodilian jaws, others long as serpents, armored in frost-scaled hide.
They breathed no fire, but their bodies were weapons enough , crushing walls, overturning towers, and sweeping aside entire companies of men.
The gates of Minas Tirith shuddered under their assault. Stone cracked; soldiers were crushed like insects beneath the wyrms' bellies.
Even the bravest of Gondor's knights faltered.
The army of Mordor surged forward behind the beasts, advancing inexorably toward the White City.
On the high court of the Citadel, Regent Turgon stood before the withered White Tree of Gondor, gazing down from the walls.
Below him, the shadow of Mordor spread like a tide across the Pelennor Fields. The ground trembled beneath the Dragons' advance, and the cries of men echoed against the marble towers.
Turgon's hand tightened around his sword hilt. His face was pale, his eyes hollow.
He had lived long enough to see the light of Gondor dim, and now, before his weary gaze, it seemed ready to vanish forever.