Lake Evendim, called by the Elves Nenuial, the Lake of Twilight, spread out below, embraced by hills on three sides and opening only eastward to the plains. Its waters flowed east, then southward into the Brandywine, and at last found their way to the sea.

High above, upon the broad back of Thorondor, Sylas looked down.

On the southeastern shore of the lake stood the ruins of a once-great city, its marble walls gleaming faintly even beneath the wear of centuries. Broken streets and toppled arches marked what had once been markets, gardens, pools, and proud palaces. Even in ruin, the place still carried majesty.

This was Annúminas, the first capital of Arnor, raised by Elendil himself.

At the city's heart rose a towering round keep, nearly level with the surrounding hills. That was the Hall of Annúrandir, seat of the kings of the North-kingdom. Once, within its walls, rested the Palantír of Annúminas, sister to the seeing-stones of Amon Sûl and Elostirion. Here too had lain the Sceptre of Annúminas, wrought in Númenor and given to Elendil's line as the symbol of their rule. The stone was long lost to the sea when Arthedain fell, yet the sceptre was saved, borne into Elrond's keeping in Rivendell. Sylas had seen it himself beside the shards of Narsil.

To the east of the city lay the Road of Kings, where the rulers of Arnor were buried. Among them, Elendil the Tall himself was said to rest.

And though long abandoned, Annúminas had been spared the fires of Angmar's armies. Its walls and gates still stood. It seemed only to slumber, waiting for the hand of its king to restore it.

Sylas patted Thorondor's feathered neck.

"Down, my friend. Let us take a closer look."

But before the eagle had settled, figures appeared among the ruined colonnades, tall men, dark-haired, bows drawn and arrows notched, their keen eyes fixed on the intruder astride the mighty eagle.

Sylas read their features at once. The tall stature, the noble bearing, the grey eyes bright with vigilance.

The Dúnedain… the Rangers of the North.

"I mean you no harm!" he called, his voice carrying as though whispered into each ear. "I am a friend of your people."

The Rangers' eyes narrowed. They lowered their bows, but suspicion lingered in their stance, especially as the giant eagle, wings wide as sails, swept down and stirred the square with winds that howled like a storm.

Thorondor alighted, and Sylas slid from his back, approaching the wary men with open hands and a smile.

"Peace, friends. I passed overhead and could not resist the chance to behold this ancient city. Forgive me if I startled you."

An older Ranger, grey streaking his hair and the weight of many winters in his face, stepped forward. His eyes were sharp as a hawk's.

"Who are you?" he demanded.

Sylas bowed slightly.

"I am Sylas, called the Black-Robed Wizard, dwelling now in the high places of the world."

Murmurs ran through the Rangers. One of the younger men spoke aloud, eyes wide:

"The Black Wizard… the Dragon Lord?"

"Yes," Sylas said with an easy smile, inclining his head.

At this, the Dúnedain eased. Bows were lowered, though their keen grey eyes still measured him carefully.

"I am Talmir," the elder introduced himself, then gestured to the others. "This is Kellen, Kellum, Anfalas, and Fendal. We are the watch over these ruins."

He hesitated a moment before pressing on, voice probing. "Tell us, Wizard Sylas, where are you bound, and why pass through Annúminas?"

Sylas ignored the subtle test hidden in the question, his own surprise flickering across his features.

"I had heard Annúminas was long abandoned, and yet I find it still guarded. As for me, I go westward to the Grey Havens to seek audience with Lord Círdan. Along the way I wished to tread the ground of history, first Fornost, now here. Alas, Fornost is but a ruin… and a dangerous one."

Talmir's face paled. "You went to Fornost? Did you not stir the shades that linger there?"

Sylas shook his head, though his tone was dry. "If only my luck were so kind. I found not only wraiths, but goblins and even wolves. Troublesome company indeed."

The Rangers exchanged startled glances.

They knew well the stories of Fornost. None of their kind dared enter for fear of waking the dead, and to keep wanderers at bay they themselves spread the tales of hauntings. As for goblins, those were the remnants of Angmar's broken armies, skulking in the North Downs, preying now and then on hapless travelers. Dangerous, yes, but hardly beyond their reckoning.

But wolves? The very word chilled them.

The Dúnedain had spent their lives battling the spawn of darkness. Orcs and wargs they could manage, but wolves bred in the pits of Morgoth, bound with spirits of malice? Many a Ranger had fallen to their cunning and savage strength. The memory of such losses ran deep.

Seeing their grave expressions, Sylas laughed lightly and waved away their fears. "Peace. There is no longer cause for alarm. The spirits, goblins, and demon wolves are gone. I've dealt with them."

"You… slew them all?" The Rangers stared, incredulous.

"I had little choice," Sylas replied evenly. "Fornost lies but a plain away from Weathertop. Should the creatures have marched south, there would be nothing to bar them. To spare trouble later, I cleared them out now."

The Rangers looked to one another in astonishment.

For generations, the Dúnedain had guarded Eriador, scattered across the wilds and bound together by letters and word of mouth, gathering only when war demanded. They had long heard whispers of the Black-Robed Wizard, how he reforged the tower of Amon Sûl, raised new walls on Weathertop, and claimed the hill as his seat.

Strictly speaking, Amon Sûl, Annúminas, Fornost, all these ruins had once belonged to their forefathers, the kings of Arnor and later Arthedain.

By rights, Sylas's claim upon Weathertop should have set them at odds.

Strength was the measure of all things. With Sylas's current power and renown, even the Dúnedain were unwilling to cross him, and so they tacitly accepted his rule over Weathertop.

Now, hearing that he had cleansed the North Downs of its evils, the Rangers gained a deeper respect for the black-robed wizard who stood before them.

As he spoke with them, Sylas quietly waited for the familiar whisper of the system. When nothing stirred, he smiled instead and asked aloud, "I've long been curious about Annúminas. Would you permit me to explore its halls?"

The Rangers exchanged glances before all eyes turned to the elder. Talmir gave a single nod.

"That is acceptable. I shall guide you myself, Wizard Sylas."

"My thanks," Sylas replied warmly.

Together they walked the silent streets. Through market squares and shattered homes, past the still pools and overgrown gardens, Talmir recounted the history of each place with care. Sylas listened with patience, allowing the tale of the city to unfold while the system remained quiet.

At last they came to the Road of the Kings.

A solemn avenue stretched before them, lined with the tombs of Arnor's rulers. Each barrow was hewn from white stone, marked with reliefs and runes that told of battles fought, crowns won, and ages long past. The deeper they walked, the older the kings entombed there.

Unlike the rest of the ruined city, the Road was clean, the stone swept and tended. Sylas noted with respect that someone had clearly maintained it through the long centuries.

At the end of the way, they reached the grandest tomb of all. A towering statue of a king stood guard above it, holding aloft the sword Narsil, eyes fixed forward with eternal majesty.

"This is the resting place of Elendil," Talmir said reverently, bowing before the statue. "High King of Arnor, founder of our people, and greatest of the Dúnedain."

Sylas bowed as well. He held his own admiration for the man who had once stood against Sauron in the height of his power. Though Elendil had fallen, his sacrifice had bought Middle-earth time and hope.

"Orchideae floreant."

At Sylas's quiet incantation, blossoms of every hue sprang suddenly into bloom at the feet of the statue. It was his offering to the fallen king.

Talmir's stern features softened as he watched, warmed by the wizard's gesture of respect.

But still the system did not stir. Sylas left the tomb of Elendil with a faint sigh and followed Talmir onward.

At last they climbed to the Chamber of Annuirandir, the palace at the city's crown, where Elendil's throne yet stood in silence.

Here, at last, the system whispered.

[Hogwarts Sign-In System: Location detected, Annúminas, Chamber of Annuirandir. Proceed with sign-in?]

Sylas's lips curved faintly. "Sign in," he murmured.