Sylas took the bundle from Arwen's hands and carefully unfolded it.
Inside lay a cloak as black as the void between stars. It devoured light rather than reflected it, its surface so dark that even the faintest gleam was swallowed whole.
Across that fragment of night shimmered countless tiny runes, each shaped like a tadpole and delicately embroidered with Mithril thread. They gleamed like constellations scattered across a sky of shadow, arranged in perfect symmetry to form a vast and intricate web of magic circles.
The cloak had been woven entirely from the silk of Shelob, the great Acromantula of the Mountains of Shadow. Mithril threads were entwined throughout the weave, and Arwen had even woven strands of her own silver hair into it to stabilize its magic and purify the darkness within the spider silk.
It had taken her nearly a year to finish.
Under Arwen's delicate hands and impeccable skill, the cloak had become a work of both art and enchantment. Each of the thousands of star-like runes pulsed faintly with their own magic, and together they breathed with an energy that seemed almost alive.
The Invisibility Cloak was impossibly light. When Sylas held it in his hands, it felt as though he were holding air itself.
Joy lit his face as he looked upon Arwen, his eyes warm with tenderness.
"Thank you, Arwen. Without you, this cloak could never have been made, nor completed so swiftly."
He knew how difficult the weaving had been. Every single rune had to be sewn with precision; one wrong stitch, and the entire cloak would have to be undone and started anew.
Even a master weaver could complete only one rune per day.
The cloak required over ten thousand.
At a normal pace, it would take three years of flawless, tireless labor to finish.
Arwen had completed it in less than one.
Her craftsmanship surpassed even the finest artisans of Númenor.
Arwen only smiled, her eyes bright as starlight.
"There is no need for thanks between us," she said softly. "It makes me happy to help you."
Her voice was like a melody, and the gentleness in her words melted the last of Sylas's restraint.
He pulled her into his arms, burying his face in her hair. "I do not know when Gandalf will return," he murmured against her ear. "But I can't wait to marry you."
Arwen flushed slightly, but her smile only deepened. Her slender fingers traced the lines of his back, and her voice was tender and steady.
"I have always belonged to you, Sylas. We have all the ages ahead of us; there is no need to rush."
They lingered together for a long while before parting reluctantly.
Carrying Arwen's masterpiece, Sylas returned to Isengard.
At the top of the Orthanc tower, he drew a seven-pointed star array across the black stone floor, using the blood of a dragon as his ink. At the array's center, he laid the cloak, letting it rest in the convergence of the lines.
Though woven, the cloak was not yet awake.
It still needed to be "charged," infused with living magic to awaken its invisibility.
This process required an immense reservoir of energy.
But Sylas was undaunted. He had the Philosopher's Stone, the pinnacle of alchemical mastery, and many other vessels of power besides.
He brought forth the enormous heart of the Frost Dragon, still faintly glowing with pale blue veins of frozen light, and placed it at the array's edge.
The heart pulsed weakly, then steadied as Sylas activated the array.
Lines of red light surged outward from his wand, and the array came alive. The dragon's heart began to thrum violently as its vast reservoir of magic was drawn forth, coursing through the sigils.
The Philosopher's Stone floated above the heart, glowing with golden fire as it filtered and refined the unstable energy, channeling it into the cloak's runes in perfect balance.
At the same time, Orthanc itself responded. The tower's ancient enchantments amplified the ritual, drawing in natural magic from the air, the earth, and the rivers that flowed beneath Isengard.
Each rune on the cloak began to shine, one after another, until the entire surface was covered in glimmering starlight.
The Invisibility Cloak looked as though a thousand constellations had been stitched upon it, a galaxy woven into cloth.
For seven days the array burned, the air around Orthanc shimmering with raw magic.
On the seventh day, the final rune flared to life. The Frost Dragon's heart, drained of every last trace of its power, crumbled to ash and scattered on the wind.
The cloak now pulsed with its own rhythm, its network of runes forming a living circuit. It absorbed ambient magic from the world around it, constantly renewing itself.
Even if torn or burned, it would mend. Even after a thousand years, it would not fade.
When the light of the runes finally subsided, Sylas cleaned the floor with a Scourgify Charm and stepped forward.
The cloak rose gently into the air, unfolding like a black tide.
One side shimmered with countless runes, faint and silvery like a night sky scattered with stars.
The reverse side of the cloak, however, was utterly invisible. Even when Sylas held a lantern to it, the light passed straight through, illuminating the stones beyond as if the fabric did not exist at all.
He could not resist. Excitement stirring within him, he swept the cloak around his shoulders, turning the invisible side outward.
The moment he fastened the clasp at his neck, his entire body vanished. Only his head remained visible for a heartbeat, then even that faded from sight.
Sylas glanced down and saw nothing but empty air.
His pulse, his magical aura, even his scent, every trace of his existence, was gone.
To confirm it, he took up a palantír from his table and gazed within its depths. The seeing-stone revealed nothing. No shadow, no shimmer of light, not even a whisper of his presence. It was as though he had ceased to exist.
A slow smile spread across his unseen face. Relief and awe filled his heart.
So it was true, this cloak truly lived up to its legend as one of the Deathly Hallows, the artifact even Death itself could not find.
A palantír could pierce mountains and distance, could see through walls and oceans to find the one it sought. Yet the cloak defied it utterly.
Sylas's worries dissolved. With this cloak, even Sauron's Eye would find nothing but darkness.
For a fleeting moment, a reckless thought crossed his mind.'If I wore this cloak and slipped into Mordor unseen, I could cast the One Ring into the fires of Mount Doom myself. It would all end in an instant.'
He chuckled softly and shook his head. That would be madness.
Apart from Tom Bombadil, who seemed immune to the Ring's will, only a true Hobbit could resist its corruption for long.
He would gladly lend the cloak for such a quest, but there was no one suited to bear the Ring now.
Bilbo, his dear old friend, was content in retirement; Sylas would never allow him to risk his peace again.
And Frodo, the one destined for the burden, was not yet born.
Finding another Hobbit with both courage and purity was near impossible. Most lived quiet, gentle lives and had no taste for adventure.
Even then, purity was no guarantee. Not all Hobbits were free from greed. Bilbo's own distant relatives, ever coveting his inheritance, would have fallen easily to the Ring's whisper.
After all, Gollum himself had once been a Hobbit, until the Ring poisoned his heart, driving him to murder his companion and hide for centuries in the dark beneath the Misty Mountains.
Even Frodo, the most steadfast of them, faltered at the very brink of Mount Doom. Had fate not intervened, had Gollum not seized the Ring and tumbled with it into the fire, the quest would have ended in ruin.
The closer one came to Sauron, the stronger the Ring's will became.No heart could remain untouched. A single moment of weakness could mean surrender, and the Ring would return to its master.
That would be the end of all things.
For now, though, the Ring rested in safety. Tom Bombadil guarded it, hidden under the protection of the Fidelius Charm that Sylas himself had cast.
No Eye, no spell, no malice could find it.
And so Gandalf, Elrond, and the others felt no urgency to destroy it.
Gathering his scattered thoughts, Sylas glanced once more at the cloak that had rendered him invisible. Then, curious, he turned it inside out and draped it over himself again.
The black fabric, embroidered with countless silver runes like stars, shimmered faintly in the dim light. When Sylas fastened the clasp at his throat, a quiet hum rippled through the air.
In that instant, the cloak seemed to awaken.
The collar tightened gently against his shoulders, the back seams pressed snug to his spine, and the wide hem spread outward like living wings.
Before he could react, the cloak lifted him off the ground.
Sylas rose several feet into the air, weightless and balanced. The cloak moved with the grace of thought itself, tilting, gliding, and turning as if alive.
This was no ordinary enchantment. Sylas had personally added this ability, inspired by the Cloak of Levitation from the Marvel tales of Doctor Stephen Strange. He had woven its concept together with the mechanical principles of a wizard's broomstick and bound them through runic channels of flight.
Yet, unlike a broomstick, the cloak did not pull him through the air, it carried him. Every movement was effortless, as though gravity itself had forgotten him.
Under the cloak's guidance, he soared higher. The wind parted cleanly around him; he felt neither resistance nor drag, only a steady, exhilarating lift.
Within seconds, he accelerated, from stillness to a blistering speed of one hundred and fifty miles per hour. The cloak matched the velocity of the finest Firebolt broom, yet Sylas's hands were entirely free.
He laughed aloud, the sound lost to the rushing air.
Now he could duel, defend, or cast spells mid-flight without the slightest hindrance.
Like a child with a new toy, Sylas streaked across the skies of Isengard, spiraling and diving, tracing runes of light against the clouds.
His movements soon drew the attention of Aslan, the proud griffin who guarded Orthanc's heights. With a triumphant screech, the griffin joined him, and the two raced one another across the sunlit horizon, man and beast weaving through the wind in perfect harmony.
After circling the tower several times, Sylas landed lightly upon the platform once more, his cloak settling around him like a pool of night.
He regarded it fondly. A garment of concealment, flight, and grace, one that fused Elven craftsmanship, mortal ingenuity.
It would never leave his side, serving as both armor and companion in every journey to come.
With the Magic Cloak billowing behind him, Sylas touched the sapphire Portkey pinned to his robe.
He intended to visit the Blue Wizard Rómestámo and also obtain the horns of the Araw Cattle.
...
Stones PLzz
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