When Sylas returned to the dock with that day's harvest of silver-threaded mercury, the system stirred at last.

[Hogwarts Sign-in System: Location confirmed, Grey Havens. Do you wish to sign in?]

He almost laughed aloud. Finally.

"Sign in," he murmured.

[Sign-in successful. Congratulations, you have acquired the skill of Apparition!]

Sylas's eyes lit with delight. Apparition! Of all the gifts he might have expected, this was one of the most practical, a spell for travel, for battle, and for survival.

In the wizarding world, Apparition was the art of vanishing from one place and appearing in another, instantaneously. But it was not without danger. Splinching, a failed Apparition where parts of the body were left behind, was the chief risk. For that reason, students at Hogwarts were never permitted to learn it before their seventeenth year, and only under Ministry examination.

Until now, the technique had eluded him. It was nowhere in his spellbooks, and even with his keen mind he could not imitate what he had never been taught. But with this reward, the knowledge flooded into him.

Compared with the Floo Network, which relied on fireplaces, Apparition had no such tether. A wizard could Apparate to any place they knew clearly in memory or sight. Distance, too, stretched with magical strength, the more power a wizard wielded, the farther they could travel. Still, one could not simply mutter the name of a place and expect success; without precise knowledge, misdirection or disaster could follow.

Even so, the gain was immense. 'Mobility and escape in an instant… a perfect safeguard.' Sylas resolved that while he lingered in Mithlond gathering mercury, he would also master Apparition.

Thus his days became divided. By daylight he sailed the swan-boat across the silver tide, extracting thread after thread of spirit-mercury into his crystal phials. By night he studied the flow of Apparition, practicing the focus of intent and the rhythm of magical displacement.

Alone, though, he dared not take reckless chances. At Hogwarts, students had masters nearby to heal Splinching at once; here, a single mistake could be fatal. He prepared potions and remedies in advance, and even asked Galdor, the elf steward, to watch from a distance when he first attempted the spell.

A week passed in steady labor. At last a full vial of spirit-mercury lay gleaming in his hands, quicksilver woven with starlight, brighter than moonlit frost. He stored it with great care, knowing it was the fruit of patient toil. Still, he intended to gather more. The Philosopher's Stone was no trifling craft; better to have surplus than fall short.

He was on the verge of attempting his first true Apparition when Galdor approached, his silver hair stirred by the sea wind.

"Wizard Sylas," he said, "a white ship has entered the bay. Lord Círdan has returned."

"Círdan?" Sylas looked up sharply. "Truly?"

At Galdor's invitation, he followed to the quayside, where a great many elves had already gathered. Their bright eyes turned toward the horizon, eager and reverent. Círdan's renown was unmatched among them; his return was never a small thing.

Guided by Galdor, Sylas stood at the forefront as a ship of purest white glided into view.

It was a marvel of craft, its swan-shaped prow cleaving the foam as if the vessel itself were born of sea and starlight. White oars dipped in perfect rhythm, silver-woven sails bellied with the wind, and upon the bow a lantern glowed, casting a soft golden flame.

Sylas gazed at the white ship in awe. It was no mere vessel but a work of art, gleaming like moonlight made solid.

He knew well the lore: when Ilúvatar bent the flat world into a sphere, Valinor had been removed from the circles of Arda, hidden beyond reach. Only the Straight Road still led to the Blessed Realm. To see such a ship, crafted to carry the Eldar along that path into another dimension of being, was to behold a marvel bordering on the divine.

And the master who fashioned such vessels, Círdan the Shipwright, seemed all the more mysterious and exalted.

As the white ship glided into its berth, Sylas saw an elf standing at the prow. Unlike others of his kind, he bore a long grey beard that fell upon a robe of deep sea-blue. Tall, silver-haired, noble of countenance, yet marked by a gravity older than any living elf, he was unlike Galadriel, Celeborn, Elrond, or Thranduil, whose faces had never felt the hand of time. Only in their eyes was age discerned. But this elf wore it openly, a sign that he had walked Arda since its first awakening.

This was Círdan the Shipwright, Lord of the Grey Havens and Lindon, the eldest of all Elves dwelling in Middle-earth.

As the sailors set a white gangplank upon the pier, Círdan descended with calm grace.

"Lord Círdan, welcome home," said his secretary Galdor, bowing low. "Was your voyage peaceful?"

The Shipwright's eyes shone like starlight, keen yet kind. Though his beard and bearing spoke of endless years, there was still vigor in him. He smiled gently and inclined his head.

"All was well. The seas were calm, and save for a visit from the Ossë-kin, the sea-spirits the Edain call merfolk, we met no peril. The waters bore us swiftly, and at last we are returned to Mithlond."

He looked to Galdor. "Has aught of import passed in my absence?"

At this, Galdor turned and gestured toward Sylas. "My lord, allow me to present Sylas, the Black-robed Wizard, Lord of Amon Sûl. He came but days ago, bearing a letter from Elrond."

Círdan's eyes fell upon him with interest.

Sylas stepped forward, bowed with courtesy, and said, "Lord Círdan, I have long heard of your renown. I am called Sylas, and it is an honor at last to meet you."

The Shipwright's smile deepened. "Though our paths have not crossed till this day, your name is already known to me. They call you Lord of Dragons, Bane of Orcs, Slayer of the Fire-spawn. Mithrandir, Elrond, and Lady Galadriel speak of you with respect. They believe your coming heralds new hope for Middle-earth."

Sylas flushed, somewhat abashed. "The tales grow larger with each telling. My friends honor me beyond my worth."

But Círdan shook his head, his eyes bright with wisdom. "You are too modest. Long have I harbored the Istari in these havens, five came out of the West. Yet only in Mithrandir… and now in you… do I sense a burden of duty, a mission greater than the self. This is no flattery, but the discernment of one who has lived too long to be deceived."

His words left Sylas momentarily speechless. 'A mission? A burden greater than myself?' He had never thought of it so.

Yet he said nothing more, but produced Elrond's sealed letter and offered it with both hands.

Círdan broke the seal and read swiftly. When he was done, he folded the parchment, eyes thoughtful, and gave a small nod.

"So. Elrond has spoken truly in his message. If you wish to draw the silver essence of this bay, then remain here and do your work. And if you should need aid, speak it freely to me or to Galdor."

"Thank you, Lord Círdan. If you should need me, I will lend what aid I can," Sylas replied with a respectful nod.

Círdan inclined his head and beckoned him to follow. "Come, rest a while in my hall. We may speak more at leisure."

Sylas accepted gladly.

The Shipwright's dwelling was not a palace in the manner of kings, but a place shaped by sea and craft, a hall half-like a shipyard, with timbers of white birch and walls hung with ropes, sails, and tools of fine workmanship. At its side lay a private dock where a small swan-prowed boat rocked gently on silver water. Beyond, under cover, stood the keel of an unfinished vessel, its frame rising like the bones of a whale, each curve wrought with a master's hand.

Within the reception hall, Sylas noticed two ship models displayed within crystal bottles. One was unmistakably the white ship Círdan had just sailed into the harbor.

But the other, with gleaming golden oars and a prow wrought like a swan's neck, caught his eye. "Lord Círdan," he asked curiously, "what ship is this? It seems… too perfect to be of this world."

At the question, Círdan's weathered face softened with rare delight. "Ah. That is Vingilótë," he said reverently. "A vessel I wrought with my own hands, together with Eärendil the Mariner. Its timbers were of birch from Nimbrethil, its oars tipped with gold, its ribs white as foam, its prow shaped as a swan's breast, and sails of silver cloth."

He lifted a hand toward the western window, where the evening star burned bright. "Upon that ship, Eärendil and Elwing crossed the Shadowy Seas, braved the Enchanted Isles, and found at last the shores of Aman. And when his plea to the Valar was heard, the vessel itself was hallowed, set to sail not on water but upon the heavens. It is the very star you see yonder, Eärendil's light, guiding the weary and the lost."

Even Círdan, eldest of the Eldar in Middle-earth, allowed pride to warm his voice, and Sylas could tell this was a creation the Shipwright cherished above all others.

Sylas listened in awe. A ship that could cross seas hidden from the world was miracle enough, but a vessel turned into a star, sailing the sky itself? That was beyond imagination. He realized then that Círdan, though lord of Lindon and the Havens, was first and foremost what he had always been: a craftsman, consumed by the joy of his art. His love for shipbuilding burned with the same single-minded passion as the master artisans Sylas had known in another life.

A mischievous thought crept into his mind. What if Círdan had known of steam engines… or diesel ships? He imagined a steel leviathan, smoke belching from its stacks, sirens blaring as it bore solemn Elves across the sea to Valinor. White-cloaked mariners leaning on railings while the horn bellowed like a drunken troll.

The picture was so absurd that Sylas couldn't hold back a laugh. He quickly stifled it, covering his mouth, but his shoulders shook.