"The Lord is getting engaged!"
This joyful cry spread from Hogwarts Castle on Weathertop down through Hogsmeade and Bree City like wildfire.
Within days, the entire realm was alive with celebration.
For Sylas's subjects, it was more than a festivity, it was the promise of legacy and peace.
If their Lord took a wife and someday produced an heir, the line of Weathertop would continue unbroken, and the realm would enjoy lasting stability.
Lanterns were strung across the streets of Bree and Hogsmeade; ribbons fluttered from rooftops. Merchants offered celebratory discounts, taverns overflowed, and every hearth glowed bright as Midsummer Eve.
Meanwhile, news traveled swiftly along the merchant roads of Eriador, carried by peddlers and travelers until even distant lands buzzed with talk of the Lord's engagement to the Evenstar of Rivendell.
Yet up in Hogwarts Castle, all remained serene.
After returning from Rivendell, Sylas immersed himself in preparations.
He sat at his oak desk beneath the tall windows of the library, quills and scrolls piled high, writing dozens upon dozens of invitation letters.
According to Elven custom, the engagement ceremony would be held at the bride's home. Thus, Sylas would travel to Rivendell with a retinue of friends and allies befitting his station.
Naturally, Gandalf and Bilbo were first on the list.
Then came Legolas, prince of the Woodland Realm; Balin, the Dwarf Lord of Moria; Beorn, the skin-changer of the Anduin Valley; and Bard, Lord of Dale.
He even wrote to Thorin Oakenshield of Erebor, to his old Dwarf companions from the mountain expedition, to Dáin Ironfoot, the Lord of the Iron Hills who had once gifted him dragon armor, and to Calenmir, the Elven lord of the Far East.
The invitations also went to the Blue Wizards, Rómestámo and Morinehtar, and to Radagast the Brown.
The Owl Tower entered a frenzy of activity. Great snow-white owls launched into the skies day and night, bearing letters sealed with Sylas's sigil, a silver dragon coiled around a tower.
When he wasn't drafting invitations, Sylas worked alongside Gandalf on a new magical creation: the Thunderbird's Magic Circulation System.
Gandalf was immediately intrigued. The idea of a creature that could control storms, call down rain, and release lightning fascinated him.
"If such a being is ever born," Gandalf mused, "Manwë himself will surely take notice. It would be a creature in perfect harmony with his domain."
Indeed, Manwë, King of the Valar, ruled the airs of Arda, master of winds, clouds, and weather. A Thunderbird's power seemed the very echo of his breath.
Having already designed the Phoenix's magic circulation system, Sylas and Gandalf thought the Thunderbird would follow easily. But while the Phoenix embodied flame, the Thunderbird belonged to storm and lightning, a wholly different force.
Their progress stalled at the core circuit, the heart of the transformation.
Gandalf, bearer of Narya, the Ring of Fire, understood flame intimately, but lightning, raw, chaotic, and unyielding, was beyond his element.
One afternoon in the Transfiguration Chamber, Sylas stood before a shimmering containment circle, an Acromantula trembling within.
"Ready?" Gandalf asked, leaning on his staff.
Sylas nodded, wand poised. "Let's see if this one survives longer than ten seconds."
With a flash, the Acromantula's body warped under the Transfiguration spell. Chitin cracked and stretched; feathers sprouted from its limbs. In moments, it resembled a massive, eagle-headed spider, four wings spreading wide.
But then;
CRACK!
Blue lightning surged from the creature's chest. The magic circuits clashed violently.
"Protego!" Sylas shouted.
A burst of lightning engulfed the room, scattering feathers and ash. When the smoke cleared, only a few twitching spider legs remained.
Gandalf coughed through the haze. "Well… at least it didn't explode as spectacularly as the last one."
Sylas wiped soot off his face and grinned. "Progress."
And so the experiments continued.
Each attempt produced strange and often horrifying results, feathered spiders, eagles with too many eyes, or winged monstrosities whose screeches cracked the glass windows.
Sylas sent the failures to Herpo's Chamber, where the Basilisk welcomed the occasional "snack."
Fortunately, Acromantulas bred faster than rabbits. Even after repeated experiments, the tower was overrun with them despite multiple Undetectable Extension Charms.
So Sylas felt no remorse in sacrificing a few hundred for research.
Days became weeks, weeks became months.
At last, one stormy morning, success.
Sylas finally succeeded in transforming an Acromantula into the likeness of a Thunderbird.
/
This was no longer a simple act of external Transfiguration, but a genuine metamorphosis, a true transformation into a Thunderbird.
Even when Sylas cast a counter-spell, the creature's form held firm; it remained a Thunderbird through and through.
When it spread its wings, faint arcs of blue lightning crackled along its feathers. Yet Sylas only frowned, unsatisfied.
This was still far from the Thunderbird of his imagination.
Forget calling down storms, its lightning wasn't strong enough to pierce even a simple Shield Charm.
"Don't be disheartened, Sylas," Gandalf said kindly, his tone patient. "We've never had a real Thunderbird to study. Creating one that can even spark after only a few months is no small feat."
He tapped his staff lightly, his eyes twinkling. "Work like this requires more than skill, it takes luck and inspiration. We have both time and patience, my friend. No need to rush."
Sylas paused, then slowly smiled. "Luck and inspiration… You're right, Gandalf. Once the Felix Felicis finishes brewing, we'll attempt it again. I'll let luck lend us a hand."
Gandalf chuckled. "I look forward to it. A potion that grants luck itself, truly, that's magic more wondrous than any spell."
"Once it's done, I'll give you a bottle as well," Sylas promised.
For now, the two wizards set aside their experiments to prepare for the engagement day.
By this time, nearly all of Sylas's invitations had received replies.
Legolas of the Woodland Realm, Bard of Dale, Beorn of the Anduin Valley, and Balin, Lord of Moria, had all gladly accepted.
However, Thorin Oakenshield, King under the Mountain, and Fengel, King of Rohan, regretfully declined, citing the burdens of their kingdoms. Both promised to attend the wedding in person.
From the Far East, the Blue Wizards Rómestámo and Morinehtar sent their apologies, the Easterling tribes were restless again, and they could not leave.
And from the western shores, Círdan the Shipwright sent word that he too would miss the event; the Elves of the Grey Havens were setting sail for the West. Still, he sent a precious gift: a box of pearls formed from the tears of Merpeople, shimmering with gentle blue light.
September 20th, Third Age 2947, the day before the Harvest Festival, and the eve of the engagement.
From the fireplaces of Middle-earth, friends and allies began to arrive at Hogwarts Castle on Weathertop.
Legolas, Bard, Beorn, and Balin were the first to emerge from the swirling green flames, brushing soot from their cloaks with laughter.
Then came the local dignitaries, Luke, Mayor of Hogsmeade; Greame, Mayor of Bree City; and Brog, chieftain of the Dunlendings, each bringing delegations of citizens as representatives of their people.
Soon the Castle's great halls were alive with voices.
In the banquet hall, Men, Elves, Dwarves, and Hobbits gathered together, old companions reunited in the golden glow of chandeliers.
The original Erebor expedition team, minus Thorin, met again for the first time in years.
Among them was Kíli, who arrived with his beloved Tauriel, the Elf-maiden who had once served in the Woodland Guard. Since leaving Erebor, the two had journeyed across Middle-earth, eventually settling among the Blue Mountains, reviving an abandoned Dwarven hall.
When Legolas saw Tauriel again, radiant, joyful, and at peace, his heart filled with quiet pride.
The Dwarves, for their part, greeted their former allies with booming laughter and bone-crushing hugs, never forgetting the days when they had faced Smaug and the Battle of Five Armies together.
Even Bilbo, though older now, was swept up in their reunion, reminiscing over mead and roasted pheasant.
And, of course, they showered Sylas with gifts befitting a lord about to wed the Evenstar herself.
Balin, now Lord of Moria, stepped forward with a chest lined in Mithril and unveiled a magnificent suit of Mithril armor, its surface gleaming like moonlight over still water.
Everyone toured Hogwarts Castle.
/
They wandered through the castle, marveling like children at a dream come to life.
They saw the ever-burning eternal flame blazing crimson in a silver cauldron; candles floating in midair, shedding gentle, flickering light; and a ceiling enchanted to mirror the open sky outside, where clouds drifted across a painted dawn.
They climbed moving staircases that shifted and reconnected with soft mechanical grace, leading to rooms that were never quite the same twice.
In the gardens, they found a herb sanctuary that seemed like a miniature world, lush green terraces filled with singing flowers and shimmering dew.
In the hearths, Fire Salamanders flickered in the flames, playfully spitting sparks.
And along the corridors, magical portraits hung on the walls, living, breathing likenesses of past lords, mages, and scholars.
The guests stopped before them in astonishment, speaking curiously to the figures within the frames.
To their surprise, the portraits replied, each with its own distinct personality, some courteous, some grumpy, some overly talkative.
It was as if the castle itself were alive, welcoming its visitors.
But what left everyone utterly speechless was the sight in the garden.
There, side by side, stood the Golden Tree and the Silver White Tree.
Bathed in the light of sunset, their branches shimmered, one in purest gold, the other in argent silver, and their mingled glow enveloped the entire castle in radiance.
The air was filled with a sweet, intoxicating fragrance carried by the evening breeze, so refreshing that all fatigue melted away.
Even the Dwarves, who prided themselves on the beauty of their underground halls, stood silent and reverent before such splendor.
Many lingered long after dusk, unwilling to leave the sight behind.
Then came morning, the day of the engagement.
The Castle awoke under a crisp blue sky, its towers crowned with sunlight.
Guests donned their most splendid attire and gathered before the marble fountain at the banquet hall's entrance, their faces bright with excitement and anticipation.
And then, with a rustle of wind and wings, it appeared, a golden carriage, gleaming like the morning star, drawn by twelve magnificent white winged horses.
Each horse was tall and strong, its feathers silver-tipped, its harness adorned with Elven runes that glowed softly.
Gasps of wonder rippled through the crowd. Even the proud Dwarves could not help but murmur admiration.
"By Durin's beard… they're beautiful," Balin whispered.
"Alright, everyone, quickly now!" Gandalf called, his voice booming with energy. "We mustn't keep our hosts waiting!"
Today, Gandalf had traded his grey for pure white robes, gleaming with faint light, looking every bit the White Wizard he would one day become.
At his words, the guests quickly adjusted their clothes and lined up in good order.
One by one, they stepped into the carriage, twenty-three in total:
the twelve Dwarves of Erebor including Balin, Fíli, and Kíli; the Elves Legolas and Tauriel; the Hobbits Bilbo and Drogo Baggins (Frodo's father); Beorn, the mighty skin-changer; Lord Bard of Dale and his young son Bain; Brog, chieftain of the Dunlendings; Luke, Mayor of Hogsmeade; Greame, Mayor of Bree City; and, of course, Gandalf and Sylas himself.
Counting the two coachmen, the total came to twenty-five souls.
"Is there only one carriage?" grumbled Bombur, eyeing his broad belly with dismay. "Won't it be… a bit tight?"
He stepped up, ducking through the golden doorway, and froze mid-step.
"By Aulë's hammer…" he breathed, eyes wide as saucers.
Inside stretched a vast interior, shimmering with light like a starlit hall.
A crystal chandelier hung from a domed ceiling painted with constellations; soft couches lined the sides, and the air smelled faintly of roses and cedar.
Even with twenty-three people inside, the space would feel roomy, indeed, even ten times that number could fit comfortably.