Círdan led Sylas into the heart of the shipyard, where a vast machine stood gleaming beneath the lantern light. With a rare spark of excitement in his eyes, the Shipwright laid a hand upon the contraption and began his explanation.

"This is the steam engine," he said proudly. "It is cast from refined iron, with a trace of mithril worked into its frame. The principle is simple, boil water within this great vessel, harness the high heat and pressure of the steam, and let it drive the piston in swift motion. That force, turned through a crankshaft and gears, reaches the propeller at the stern. And so, the ship is thrust forward across the water."

Sylas gazed at the machine in awe. If not for the company of Elves around him, he might have thought himself transported back to the dawn of the steam age of his former world.

As he studied the mechanism, one question rose at once: 'what fuel could power such a furnace?'

Círdan answered before Sylas could ask. From within his robes he drew a ruby, glowing faintly with inner fire. Holding it aloft, he murmured words in the High Elven tongue, and at once the jewel blazed with light and heat. Strange red runes shimmered across the surface of the furnace as he set the gem within. A steady, magical flame sprang forth, feeding upon the gem's bound power.

Under that unearthly fire, the water boiled, the pistons hissed, and the entire machine roared into motion, expelling gusts of white steam into the shipyard.

Sylas stood transfixed, unable to speak. The Elven craftsmen around them gasped aloud, their expressions mingling shock and delight. For generations they had hewn ships of oak and pine, holding fast to ancient tradition. Now, before their eyes, a new age seemed to awaken.

Círdan's weathered face shone with pride. "This engine, Sylas, was born of your vision. It is only right that you give it a name."

Dozens of Elven eyes turned upon him, waiting.

Sylas smiled faintly, his gaze on the great, thundering engine. "Then let it be called the New Century."

"The New Century Steam Engine," Círdan repeated, savoring the words. "A fitting name indeed. And the steel vessel that shall carry it shall bear that name also, the New Century!"

In the days that followed, Círdan and his craftsmen poured their strength into forging this new vessel, a steel giant unlike any ship that had ever sailed the seas of Arda. Sylas, however, knew his journey could not linger.

When the time came, Círdan tried to persuade him to remain as apprentice and partner, but Sylas gently refused. With a sigh, the old Shipwright pressed a gift into his hands, a swan-prowed boat of white timbers, light yet strong, blessed with his own power. "It shall never sink, no matter the storm," Círdan said.

Sylas stowed the swan boat carefully in his enchanted satchel, already imagining it upon the still waters of the Black Lake at Hogwarts.

With Círdan's permission, he also linked the Grey Havens to the Floo Network, embedding a fireplace with Elven runes of warding and leaving behind a vial of Floo Powder. The Shipwright welcomed the gift, for now Elves traveling from Rivendell, Lórien, or the Woodland Realm could reach the Havens without perilous journeys over land.

Meanwhile, Thorondor had been enjoying himself greatly. While Sylas studied and worked, the eagle spent his days soaring far out over the Sea, diving after great fish, returning each evening with his feathers glistening from salt spray. When it came time to depart, he ruffled his wings with a note of reluctance.

Sylas chuckled, patting his feathered companion. "You can come whenever you like. For you, the distance from Weathertop to here is hardly anything, is it?"

The great eagle tilted his head, thought it over, and gave a satisfied cry before carrying Sylas aloft once more.

Yet this time, they did not turn eastward toward home. Instead, Sylas directed him further west, for there was still one task remaining. Beyond the Grey Havens lay two other ports, Forlond to the north, Harlond to the south, twin harbors of Lindon that mirrored one another across the Gulf of Lhûn.

Having already signed in at the Havens, Sylas would not let these slip away.

Before long, Thorondor's vast wings bore him northward, until Forlond came into view: an Elven harbor of pale stone and slender towers, its quays alive with the shimmer of sails. Here dwelt many of the Noldor, the "Deep Elves" who had once beheld the light of the Two Trees in Valinor. Even now, their presence shone faintly, as though they carried a fragment of that long-lost radiance wherever they walked.

But in the ages that followed, the fate of the Noldor turned upon the Silmarils. When Fëanor, son of Finwë, crafted the jewels that captured the light of the Two Trees, they became both glory and doom.

Morgoth slew Finwë, stole the Silmarils, and fled to Middle-earth. In wrath and pride, Fëanor defied the Ban of the Valar, swearing his terrible Oath and leading many of the Noldor back into exile. Thus began the long wars against Morgoth, and countless tragedies that followed.

The Noldor were renowned among the Elves for their pride and fiery will. They loved knowledge, memory, and craft, masters of gem-work, smithing, and lore. The Silmarils, the Palantíri, the Three Rings of Power, and many of the greatest blades of the Elves were born from Noldorin hands. Yet their boldness was matched by a warlike spirit, and they carried both wisdom and rebellion within them.

Galadriel, princess of the Noldor, embodied this spirit. Though she had the chance of forgiveness, she refused the summons of the Valar and chose to remain in Middle-earth. Through the ages, she stood tall, rallying the White Council, leading resistance against Sauron, and proving again and again that the pride of the Noldor was tempered with steadfast courage.

When Thorondor's vast shadow passed over the white stones of Forlond, the Noldor below raised their gaze in vigilance. Hands went to bowstrings; watchers on the harbor towers tracked the giant eagle's flight.

Sylas, however, did not descend upon his mount. With a quiet crack, he Apparated directly onto the quay.

A tall Elf with long black hair stepped forward, his eyes sharp. "Who are you?"

"I am Sylas, black-robed wizard of Weathertop," Sylas replied calmly, his voice carrying in fluent Quenya. "I have just returned from the Grey Havens, where I visited Lord Círdan. I have long heard of Forlond's renown, and I come to pay my respects."

At the sound of Quenya, the Elf's expression shifted. Surprise flickered in his eyes, then respect. He answered in the same tongue: "You speak Quenya well."

Sylas smiled softly. "I had a good teacher." His hand touched the Evenstar that gleamed upon his breast. For a moment, his expression softened, as though recalling Arwen's patient instruction in both Sindarin and Quenya.

The Elf's gaze lingered on the jewel, and understanding dawned.

"I am Melgorn, Governor of Forlond," he said at last. "Your name, Sylas the Black-Robed, has reached even this western shore. Now I see the tales were not empty."

"Governor Melgorn, you honor me," Sylas replied with a courteous bow.

With graceful words, Melgorn invited him to the Governor's House. Sylas accepted readily.

Forlond was a city of the Noldor, and every line of its architecture bore their mark. Marble-white walls gleamed in the sun; terraces curved with elegant design; windows shone with crystal panes; streets were paved in smooth white pebbles that caught the light. Even the sands upon the harbor beach glimmered pale, as if the sea itself had washed them in silver light.

The overall impression of Forlond was one of radiance and sanctity.

Even within the Governor's House, every vessel and piece of furniture shone like art wrought by master hands. The Noldor, Sylas thought, had truly carried their pursuit of beauty to its highest form; nothing was too simple to be touched with artistry.

In conversation with Melgorn, Sylas learned more of the governor's past. Long ago, he had served as one of High King Gil-galad's personal guard. Few of that company had survived the War of the Last Alliance, where Gil-galad himself fell in fire and ruin upon the slopes of Orodruin. Melgorn was among the fortunate few who had lived to see Lindon endure.

After Gil-galad's passing, Círdan the Shipwright became the chief lord of Lindon. Yet because Círdan was of the Teleri, master of the Havens, the Noldor who dwelt in Forlond retained a measure of autonomy. But in truth, Forlond had long been in decline.

The War of Wrath in the First Age and the Last Alliance in the Second had cost the Noldor dearly. Their people dwindled, fading from the lands of Middle-earth, and many no longer cared to take part in its struggles. One by one, they began to heed the call of the Sea, sailing westward aboard Círdan's white ships. Even Melgorn, lord of Forlond, confessed that he too intended to depart, once the last of his kin remaining here had chosen to go.

At the close of their talk, Melgorn turned to Sylas with a gleam of longing in his eyes.

"Wizard Sylas… I have heard rumor that the spear of Gil-galad, Aeglos, rests now in your keeping. Is this true?"

Sylas studied him for a moment, then nodded. Reaching into his satchel, he drew forth the spear and placed it reverently in the governor's hands.

Melgorn's breath caught. He traced the long shaft and gleaming head, his expression shifting between sorrow and wonder.

"Aeglos," he whispered, using the Quenya name. "Snow-Point. Forged from meteoric iron and silvered mithril by the finest smiths of our people. Long did we seek it after the Last Alliance, but it was lost. Never did I think to lay eyes upon it again."

His fingers lingered upon the runes of the weapon, and for a moment his face softened into peace. It was as though a burden carried for centuries had been lifted. At last he returned the spear to Sylas with a quiet smile.

"Thank you," he said. "You have granted me my last wish. The call of the Sea is strong within me, I think I shall depart before the final company of my people."

Sylas blinked at the suddenness of the admission, then inclined his head with genuine warmth. "Then I congratulate you in advance on your voyage, my friend."

At that moment, the familiar voice of the system stirred in his mind:

[Hogwarts Sign-in System: Location confirmed, Forlond Harbor. Would you like to sign in?]

Sylas's eyes glinted. Inwardly, he spoke the command: Sign in.