Weathertop was the southernmost peak of the Windy Hills.

Sylas soared northward upon the back of Thorondor, the great eagle, crossing the endless ridges and sweeping plains beyond. This was his first long flight upon Thorondor's mighty wings, and the experience filled him with exhilaration.

The eagle was no ordinary bird. His wings now stretched nearly fifty meters across, larger even than Gwaihir the Windlord himself. Perhaps only Thorondor of legend, the ancient king of the Eagles, could surpass this young giant. All this growth was thanks to the Ent-draughts of Fangorn.

Treebeard had taken a liking to Thorondor, and whenever Sylas traded potions to the Ents for draughts, the old shepherd of trees would slip the eagle a little extra. As a result, Thorondor's size continued to increase, seemingly without end. He could, if he wished, return to the Misty Mountains and claim the title of King of Eagles. But Sylas had no such ambitions for him, and Thorondor himself seemed content without a crown.

For all his size, he was still young. Each day he patrolled the skies, and often sparred for sport with the Kraken of the Black Lake. The two seemed born to quarrel, Thorondor would swoop low to provoke, and the Kraken would lash up with its tentacles or spray fountains of water skyward.

Their noisy bouts became a familiar sight for the folk of Hogsmeade, who often gathered at the shore to watch with equal parts awe and amusement. Fortunately, both creatures knew their limits, and never pushed the contests beyond play. Sylas had long since stopped interfering.

But now, at last, he enjoyed peace in the saddle.

In less than half a day, the eagle's swift flight carried him to the northern horizon, where hills rose like a wall against the plain. This was the North Downs of Eriador, and there lay the ruins of Fornost.

Once, Fornost had been the proud capital of Arthedain, last realm of Arnor. But after the kingdom was sundered into Arthedain, Cardolan, and Rhudaur, doom had come swiftly. The Barrow-downs of Cardolan had fallen first, corrupted by the Witch-king of Angmar, their dead twisted into wights. Soon after, Arthedain itself was overrun, and Fornost reduced to ruin.

Now Sylas beheld the city from above, and his brow furrowed.

The land was steeped in shadow. The ruins and their tombs crawled with a lingering evil. Black clouds pressed low, fog coiled through the streets, and the very air reeked of malice.

Thorondor shifted uneasily beneath him, circling wide, reluctant to draw near.

"Easy, Thorondor," Sylas murmured, patting the eagle's feathered neck. "Just take me down."

Despite his unease, the eagle descended, landing at the edge of the broken gates of Fornost.

Sylas leapt lightly to the ground. He surveyed the shattered walls, the cracked roads, and the silent tombs. His voice dropped to a whisper. "Are there wights here as well?"

"Stay overhead," he told Thorondor, who ruffled his feathers but obeyed, launching back into the air with a beat of his vast wings. "If I call, come swiftly."

Sylas drew his cloak tighter and advanced into the city. The streets were littered with gravel and broken stone, the weight of centuries pressing down upon every corner.

The moment he stepped across the threshold of the gate, the air shifted. The black fog stirred like something alive. The temperature dropped sharply; breath plumed in white mist. The ancient evil that slept here awoke.

From the cobbled ground rose a wraith. Its form was half-shadow, half-skeletal, with hollow eyes that burned with pale, baleful light. Clawed hands of black mist stretched toward him as it lunged.

"Bombarda!" Sylas shouted, hurling a spell of raw force.

But the magic passed harmlessly through, striking the stone wall behind. The wraith's body merely shivered, unbothered.

It darted forward like a streak of shadow. Sylas had only an instant to twist aside, the creature's claws grazing the edge of his cloak.

It wheeled and came again, relentless.

"Brisingr!" Sylas cried.

At once, the silver blade of fire and mithril appeared in his hand, the crimson gem upon its hilt blazing to life. He slashed at the wraith, the sword cutting arcs of light through the darkness.

Yet the specter did not falter. It threw itself at him, heedless of the weapon's flame, shrieking as it sought to drag him into its cold embrace.

But in the next instant, the wraith paid the price for its recklessness.

With a piercing shriek, its shadowy form writhed as though ice and snow had been cast into a furnace. The spectral body corroded, melted away, and vanished utterly.

Sylas was not surprised. His sword had absorbed basilisk venom and dragon-fire, both potent enough to destroy Horcruxes, as well as the blessed light of Eärendil, which burned against all evil. If it could not slay a mere spirit, it would have been a failure indeed.

Still, he did not lower his guard. That lone spirit had been nothing more than an appetizer. The true feast was yet to come.

And sure enough, a moment later the ground heaved and graves split open. From every corner of Fornost's ruins rose a legion of the dead. Men, women, children, and elders, all twisted into pale shadows, hollow-eyed and shrieking. They poured forth in their thousands, a tide of lost souls.

These had once been the people of Fornost, slaughtered when the Witch-king of Angmar descended with his armies. Their spirits had not been granted peace but bound in torment, enslaved by his will, corrupted into wraiths.

The air grew colder still, so cold it bit the skin. The press of fear, despair, and resentment thickened until it weighed upon the lungs like a suffocating fog.

Yet Sylas stood steady. The sword blazed in his hand, and its fire shielded him from the worst of their malice.

The horde, bereft of reason, surged toward him in fury.

"Expecto Patronum!"

Brilliant silver light burst from Sylas, swelling outward until it formed a dome of radiance. The evil spirits recoiled, shrieking as they were flung back. Then the light took shape: a colossal owl, argent wings spread wide, soaring above him.

With a cry like thunder, the Patronus dove. Its talons tore through the phantoms, rending them to nothing.

Sylas pressed forward, the sword sweeping arcs of fire and light, severing spirits and scattering shadows. Together, he and the guardian owl carved through the horde. The tide of spirits thinned, their numbers falling.

And then, at last, the system stirred.

[Hogwarts Sign-In System: Location detected, North Downs, Fornost. Would you like to sign in?]

"Sign in!" Sylas barked, even as his sword struck another phantom.

[Sign-in successful. Reward obtained: Dark Mark Magic.]

He blinked. 'The Dark Mark?'

He had expected something, but not this. The Dark Mark was Voldemort's sorcery, used to brand his followers and summon them at will. What purpose would it serve him? To mark allies like Death Eaters? Sylas scowled, parried another spirit, and shoved the thought aside.

Now was not the time to puzzle over it.

Though he could have departed, Sylas's gaze turned southward. 'If the Witch-king still commands these wraiths, what is to stop them from sweeping down upon Weathertop? There are thousands living in its shadow.'

No, he could not leave such a threat behind. This place had to be cleansed.

But before he could press the attack, a chilling cry echoed from the slopes of the North Downs. It was like the howl of a wolf mingled with the wail of the damned.

The spirits faltered, then turned as one, drifting toward the cry.

"There's something there, controlling them," Sylas muttered.

He whistled sharply, and Thorondor swooped down at once, wings beating like stormclouds. Sylas vaulted onto his back, pointed toward the mountain. "Follow them! Don't let them escape!"

The eagle wheeled and climbed, then arrowed after the retreating host.

But as Sylas pursued, a storm of arrows hissed upward from the slopes.

"Protego Maxima!"

A shimmering barrier snapped into being around him and Thorondor, deflecting the arrows harmlessly aside. Sylas's eyes narrowed.

Below, the hills bristled with tunnels and crude caves, from which poured short, thick-limbed creatures with bulging eyes and sickly green skin. They loosed arrows, shrieked, and jabbered in guttural cries.

"Goblins," Sylas muttered.

"Bombarda Maxima!"

A roaring thunderbolt struck one of the caves, the mountainside erupting in fire and stone. Rocks crashed down, burying dozens of goblins in the rubble. The survivors screamed and scattered, fleeing into their holes.

But the battle was not done.

The spirits, fleeing the silver owl, suddenly plunged into the corpses of the fallen goblins. Twisted bodies jerked, stiffened, and rose again, their eyes alight with unholy fire.

The Patronus faltered, powerless to expel spirits now bound within flesh. The goblin corpses shambled forward, snarling and clawing, their movements jerky yet filled with terrible strength.

Sylas's frown deepened. His grip tightened on the Brisingr.

With a roar, he slashed. The blade sent a scorching arc of fire across the battlefield, splitting one corpse in two and burning it to ash. The spirit within hissed and writhed, weakened, but not destroyed. It slithered free and dove into another corpse.