When the sign-in reward's knowledge settled into Sylas's mind, he could hardly contain his delight.

[Successful sign-in. Congratulations, Hufflepuff's Cup Alchemy acquired!]

First the Ravenclaw Diadem, now Helga Hufflepuff's Cup, two relics of Hogwarts' founders, each bound to extraordinary magic.

The Sword of Gryffindor was indestructible. The Diadem of Ravenclaw sharpened wit and clarity of thought. And the Cup of Hufflepuff, according to legend, was no mere vessel of gold.

It was said to hold powers of purification and healing, to store and replenish magical energy, even to nourish the spirit of its bearer. More wondrous still, when blessed food or wine was placed within it, the cup could multiply the offering, enough to feed many with abundance. And the food it produced was not ordinary fare, but imbued with subtle magic that strengthened body and soul.

This, the old tales whispered, was why Helga Hufflepuff lived the longest of all four founders.

Sylas smiled in satisfaction. Two artifacts of unimaginable use now rested in his grasp, not yet forged, but the knowledge to craft them burned within his mind. The urge to set hammer to metal was strong, but he forced himself to be patient. Mastery came with time.

For now, he lingered in Forlond at Melgorn's invitation. The Noldor were famed for their genius in smithing, gemcraft, and the making of treasures such as the Silmarils and the Three Rings. Here, in the havens of Lindon, many of their greatest craftsmen still labored.

Sylas's sword, with its strange property of growth, had already astounded them. In turn, he learned techniques from the Noldor, refinements of forging and ornament, things he could not resist drinking in. Their conversations were warm, respectful, and full of discovery.

A month slipped by before Sylas realized it, each day spent in friendly exchanges with the smiths of Lindon. But at last, duty pressed him onward. He bid farewell to Melgorn and the artisans, mounting Thorondor once more.

Their wings bore him swiftly across the Gulf of Lhûn, to the southern port of Harlond.

If Forlond was the city of the Noldor, white walls, glittering stone, proud and sharp, then Harlond was its gentle sibling. This was the haven of the Sindar, who never journeyed to Valinor nor beheld the Light of the Two Trees. They were sometimes called the Moriquendi, the "Elves of Twilight," though the name carried no evil, only the memory of their choice.

Where the Noldor prized stone and fire, the Sindar were closer to forest and song. Their port was less dazzling, more harmonious: arches wreathed in flowering vines, terraces shaded by green, the harbor laid out like a garden by the sea.

As Sylas Apparated from Thorondor's shadow to the ground, Sindarin elves turned to watch. Their gazes were curious, not hostile; their bearing gentle compared to the keen-edged Noldor.

Soon, a silver-haired elf approached, his voice calm and courteous.

"You are the wizard Sylas, are you not? Welcome to Harlond Harbor. I am Calainor, governor of this haven. Word reached us days ago that a wizard had come to Mithlond, yet I did not expect to greet him here so soon."

Seeing the governor's warm welcome, Sylas smiled and inclined his head.

"Greetings, Governor Calainor. I am Sylas. Curiosity drew me to Harlond, to see its harbor and its people. I hope my presence brings no disturbance."

Calainor's silver hair caught the sunlight as he returned the gesture with a gentle smile.

"You are too courteous, Wizard Sylas. You are Lord Círdan's guest of honor, thus, you are ours as well. If you allow, I would be glad to show you our haven."

Sylas's eyes lit with gratitude. "It would be my honor."

Under Calainor's guidance, he wandered through Harlond. Unlike proud Forlond, the Sindarin city was softer in spirit, woven through with music, poetry, and gardens that spilled down toward the sea. Flutes and harps filled the air with gentle songs of love and loss. From shaded lanes came voices singing tales of Thingol's halls, of Melian's enchantments, and of the long griefs of the First Age.

Everywhere Sylas looked, artistry shone: silver-inlaid woodwork, carvings of leaves and stars, delicate lanterns that glowed like captured moonlight.

At last, the familiar voice of his system stirred.

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

"Sign in," Sylas murmured within.

[Successful sign-in. Reward acquired: the magical portrait-making process.]

Sylas blinked. "A portrait?" He was taken aback. Not a relic, but knowledge, yet no less useful.

For in the wizarding world, magical portraits were far from mere paint and canvas. They carried fragments of memory and spirit, forming independent personalities. They moved, spoke, and even visited one another's frames. In Hogwarts, the Lady guarded Gryffindor's tower, demanding a password before entry. In the Headmaster's office, the portraits of past leaders lined the walls, feigning slumber yet watching keenly. They gossiped, they warned, they carried messages from room to room.

In truth, they were almost like living souls who happened to dwell within art.

This was no small gift. Yet Sylas could only grimace. He couldn't draw to save his life.

To craft such portraits required genuine skill in painting, the hand of an artist as much as the magic of a wizard. A poorly drawn figure, imbued with magic, might come alive in ways better left undescribed.

Turning to Calainor, Sylas asked with hopeful curiosity, "Governor, do your folk practice painting? Among the Sindar, I thought, there must be many skilled in such arts."

Calainor inclined his head. "Indeed. Music and painting are among our chief delights. Most here know something of it. Would you wish to hire a painter?"

"Not hire," Sylas chuckled. "Learn. I must practice the craft myself, if I'm to master this magic."

Calainor understood at once. "Then I shall find you a teacher."

So it was that Sylas remained in Harlond, apprenticed under a Sindarin artist. The elves, with their long years, painted as they breathe, —grace and patience in every stroke. For them, art was memory set into color, centuries layered upon canvas.

In truth, Sylas was clumsy, his strokes stiff and his sense of beauty crude compared to his teacher's flowing hand. Yet the elf was patient, guiding him through the basics of line and shading, of texture and form.

Weeks slid by. To the elf's eye, Sylas's work remained mechanical, lacking the soul that true art demanded. But to Sylas himself, progress was swift and tangible. He could now draw a face and have it resemble the person, not some half-melted goblin. That was victory enough.

For all his stiff brushstrokes and lack of artistry, Sylas had little doubt that once his enchanted portraits were given life, they would be far more "vivid" than anything painted by even the finest Elven masters.

The Sindarin painter, watching him pack away his practice sketches, gave him a look of gentle pity, as one might offer to a student who could manage sums but never poetry. Thus ended Sylas's formal lessons in painting.

Yet Sylas was not ungrateful. To thank the elf for his patience, he presented him with a small trinket of his own craft: an alchemical brush of polished rowan, tipped with phoenix feather. With a touch of magic it could shift to any color, and when its strokes were imbued with power, the painted figures would stir and breathe for a few moments, dancing across the page before fading.

The elf was delighted with the gift. He promised Sylas that, should he ever need advice, or rescue from some misbegotten sketch, he need only send word.

As for Governor Calainor, who had graciously arranged the introduction, Sylas offered a gift of pure mithril, small but radiant. The governor accepted with due courtesy, marveling at the wizard's generosity.

At last, Sylas took his leave. Mounting the broad back of the giant eagle Thorondor, he turned his course eastward.

It had been more than half a year since he had left his own hall. His next great task lay in the south, the Road of the Dead through the White Mountains, where he sought the elusive Soul-Sulphur, but first he longed to set foot once more at Weathertop.

They soared over the Blue Mountains, past the green quilt of the Shire, the shadowed Old Forest, and the haunted barrows of Tyrn Gorthad. Skimming above Bree, Sylas at last saw the rising crown of Amon Sûl, his castle upon the hill, its watchtower catching the sun.

The sight warmed him. The twin trees he had planted there, one golden, one silver, blazed in the daylight like living jewels, casting their light upon the stone walls.

High above, a flock of great snowy owls wheeled in slow, majestic circles, their feathers gleaming like new-fallen snow. When they caught sight of Thorondor's vast wings and Sylas upon his back, they gave a chorus of delighted cries and swept toward him in a cloud of white.

...

5 bonus chapters @400 PS

Read chapters ahead @/Keepsmiling818