On the training grounds of Westward Vale, Sylas and Elrohir were locked in a contest of arms.

Elladan and Arwen stood to the side, watching intently.

Sylas wore a long, fitted Elven battle-tunic, a gift lovingly made by Arwen herself. In his hand gleamed the divine spear Aegols. With speed and reflexes beyond those of ordinary Men, he darted and weaved, deflecting Elrohir's strikes while staying just out of reach.

Though Sylas was still at a disadvantage, his movements carried a newfound sharpness. Blow after blow he parried, and though pressed hard, he refused to fall quickly.

Elrohir fought with his Elven blade, every strike as graceful as it was precise. His face bore the ease of one accustomed to centuries of practice, yet his eyes shone with admiration for his mortal opponent.

Through years of sparring with the twin sons of Elrond, Sylas had unconsciously absorbed the Elves' fighting style. To watch him move now, one might easily mistake him for an Elf, if not for the telltale shape of his ears.

Thanks to the Ent-draughts he had once received from the Shepherds of Fangorn, his strength and stamina were no less than that of an Elf. That, more than anything, explained how he had advanced so swiftly, and why he could hold his own against Elrohir, who had fought for thousands of years.

Elladan folded his arms as he watched. "Sylas is improving quickly. Given time, he may grow into a formidable warrior."

Arwen's eyes softened as they followed Sylas's movements. She shook her head gently. "He doesn't need to be a warrior. Magic is his true weapon."

Elladan smiled at her words. "That's true. Compared to his growing swordplay, wizardry is his true strength. After all, he's known across Middle-earth as the Black-Robed Sorcerer. Were he allowed to use spells, Elrohir and I might well be the ones beaten today."

The contest soon ended, as all expected. Sylas's stamina at last gave out, and Elrohir disarmed him with a flick of the wrist.

Smiling, Elrohir sheathed his blade and returned the spear Aegros to Sylas. "Your skill has grown greatly. Already, many Elven warriors would find you a match. But now simple contests can teach you little more. If you wish to improve further, you must face true battles, where life and death hang in the balance."

Sylas caught his breath, nodded, and accepted the spear. "I understand. And I am grateful, for all the training you and Elladan have given me. Without it, I would still be only a fragile wizard."

He knew well that while the twins sparred with him fiercely, their blows were never cruel. They had fed him countless techniques, teaching him openly rather than withholding secrets. His progress was owed as much to their reluctant patience as to his own effort.

Of course, there lingered some resentment, after all, he had stolen away their beloved sister. But it seemed a harmless grudge now.

The warmth in Elrohir's eyes deepened at Sylas's words, and his bitterness eased, if only a little.

The two descended from the training platform. Arwen moved to meet Sylas, her handkerchief in hand. With a gentle smile, she wiped the sweat from his brow, then pressed a cup into his hand.

"You must be tired. Drink."

Sylas leaned down deliberately, gazing at her with warmth as she dabbed his face. Then he drank deeply from the cup, and at once felt renewed vigor course through him.

"This is dew gathered from the leaves of Nimloth the White Tree," Arwen explained, her eyes bright. "I mixed in a little honey. If you like, I can make it for you again."

Sylas's eyes lit up, and he nodded eagerly. "I would like that very much."

The brothers exchanged glances, their expressions darkening. Whatever jealousy had faded was rekindled in an instant.

Elladan, his voice a shade too brisk, cut in. "Sylas, I heard from Arwen that you recently forged a sword of remarkable craftsmanship. Will you not show it to us?"

Elrohir's nod came quickly.

Sylas sighed inwardly, casting a helpless glance at Arwen. These brothers-in-law always seemed to arrive at the very moment romance bloomed. Arwen met his eyes with an amused, comforting smile, then tucked away her handkerchief without protest.

With no way to refuse, Sylas raised his hand and spoke softly. "Brisingr."

At his call, a radiant silver blade materialized from the air, its crossguard set with a great crimson jewel. The gem pulsed like living fire, and the air itself shimmered with heat.

Elrohir and Elladan both stepped back, eyes wide.

"The heat, so fierce I can feel it even from here!" Elrohir exclaimed.

Sylas chuckled and extended the weapon. "You may try."

Elrohir hesitated, feeling waves of fire washing from the sword. Surely to touch it bare-handed would mean seared flesh. But when his fingers closed around the hilt, he felt no burn, only warmth.

Seeing Sylas deliberately teasing her brothers, Arwen sighed softly and explained with patience, "Brisingr may burn with terrible heat, but once it accepts its master's approval, it harms no one he chooses. There's no danger."

Elrohir and Elladan exchanged a glance of realization, both astonished anew by the weapon's nature.

At that moment, Elrond himself approached across the training ground, Lindir following at his side.

"Father!" cried Arwen, Elrohir, and Elladan together.

"Lord Elrond, Lindir, you honor us," Sylas said in surprise.

Elrond's keen eyes fell at once upon the sword, still glowing faintly in Elrohir's hand. He smiled gently. "I felt the surge of heat even from afar, and so came to see for myself. Is this the reforged sword you spoke of, Sylas? Will you let me look upon it?"

"Of course," Sylas replied, offering the hilt without hesitation.

Elrohir passed the weapon reverently to his father. Elrond weighed the blade in his hand, examining its balance and the runes carved upon its body. His eyes grew thoughtful, then warm with admiration.

"This is extraordinary," he said at last. "A forging technique unlike any I have seen. You have awakened the metal's memory and imbued it with will. The sword is sharp, indestructible, self-healing, and it grows stronger with every essence it absorbs. This is no work of Dwarves or Elves, but something wholly new. Once again, Sylas, you have surprised me."

Then Elrond raised his hand, and upon his finger Vilya, the Ring of Air, shone with a sapphire fire, bright as the evening star. He channeled its power into the sword, blue light mingling with the red flame of its gemmed hilt.

"Lord Elrond, what are you?" Sylas began, startled.

The sword pulsed, drinking in the essence of the Ring. Its fire burned hotter, yet its weight grew lighter. Elrond handed it back with a smile. "Try it now."

Sylas grasped the hilt, and at once felt the difference. When he swung, the blade cut through the air as though the very wind yielded before it. Each strike left afterimages like rippling fire.

He tested with a single great slash into empty space. A blade of compressed air, shimmering with heat, leapt forth from the sword, tearing across the courtyard. It struck a massive boulder with a thunderous crack, splitting it cleanly in two. The rock's edges glowed, melted as if from dragon fire.

Sylas's eyes widened.

The others stood frozen, equally astonished. Arwen's lips curved in quiet pride, while the twins exchanged another look, half-jealous, half-respectful.

Sylas could not contain his joy. Brisingr was no longer only a close weapon but a ranged one as well. "I don't know how to thank you, Lord Elrond," he said, bowing his head with sincere gratitude.

Elrond shook his head. "Then thank me by returning alive from your journey. Do not let Arwen's heart suffer needless grief."

At that, Sylas turned his gaze to Arwen, and his expression softened. "I know. I will come back to her safely."

Elrond, Elrohir, and Elladan, seeing the time was short, did not press him further. They withdrew, leaving the two to spend their remaining days together.

In the winding, lantern-lit corridors of Rivendell, Sylas walked beside Arwen. The love of Elves was deep and enduring, yet restrained in manner. She did not cling to him like a mortal maiden, nor beg to follow him. Instead, she simply said, "While you are away, I will dwell at Hogwarts. I will watch over your companions and your people, so you need not worry for home. Only promise me you will guard yourself."

Then, with a calm grace, she unclasped the Evenstar from her neck and pressed it into his hand.

"Let this protect you in my stead. Wherever you go, whenever you wander, I will be with you."

Sylas stared at the jewel, glowing with the light of starlight captured in crystal. His eyes lifted to Arwen's gentle face, and emotion welled within him. He pulled her into a fierce embrace, breathing in her fragrance, and murmured, "To have you by my side… there is no greater gift."

Arwen, startled at first, melted into his arms. Her eyes curved like crescent moons, shimmering with warmth, and she stroked his back with tender hands.

For several days more they remained together, even journeying back to Weathertop. Each morning Arwen gathered dew from the White Tree to brew refreshing draughts, and fruit from the Mallorn to bake into lembas bread. These she prepared as provisions for his road ahead.

At last, the time of parting came. Arwen stayed within the tower, her eyes following him as Sylas mounted the great eagle Thorondor. With a cry like rolling thunder, the eagle bore him aloft, wings spread wide against the morning sun.

His first destination lay westward, the Grey Havens. There he would seek the Mercury of the Spirit.

He turned northward, toward the ruins of Fornost, choosing the long road through the wilds.

...

Stones PLzzz

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