The tale of the golden ring spread like wildfire.

Every tavern and marketplace echoed with its legend, a thief, a monster, a treasure that could make one vanish.

Those who claimed to have seen it spoke with awe, describing how the ring shimmered faintly, how the air seemed to ripple when the thief disappeared.

Each retelling added more wonder… and more greed.

But in the corner of a dim tavern in Hogsmeade, one listener was silent.

A cloaked figure sat alone, hood drawn low, a long black staff resting by his chair like an old traveler's walking stick. The firelight caught a faint glimmer of white hair beneath the hood.

Had Sylas been there, he would have recognized him instantly.

Because that traveler, that quiet shadow among the chatter, was Saruman.

He looked nothing like the proud master of Isengard.

Dust-streaked cloak. Weather-worn boots. A dull glint of cunning behind weary eyes. He appeared every bit the wandering scholar or merchant, unnoticed among the noise of Hogsmeade's bustling trade.

After all, the village was a crossroads, merchants bartered, adventurers passed through, and countless travelers came to catch a glimpse of Weathertop Castle and the Two Trees of Valinor that crowned it.

So, a hooded traveler was hardly worth notice. And that suited Saruman the White perfectly.

Saruman's arrival in Hogsmeade was no order of Sauron's. He came alone, without herald or servant, without the Eye's knowledge.

His purpose was singular, and perilous.

The One Ring.

Unlike the Ringwraiths, Saruman's loyalty to Sauron had always been hollow, a mask worn until the day he could cast it aside.

When he learned that Gollum had been captured and released, and that rumors of a golden ring had surfaced in the West, his heart, long corroded by pride, began to burn with longing.

"A ring that grants invisibility… stolen from Weathertop," he murmured beneath his hood.

"Too convenient. Too… deliberate."

He suspected a trap. He knew it could be a deception.

But reason had long since yielded to temptation.

The thought of the One Ring, of its vast and ancient power bending to his will, was irresistible.

Sauron had promised him a new ring, a counterfeit power forged in Mordor. But for Saruman, no imitation could compare.

Why be the servant of darkness when he could become its master?

With the One Ring, he could rise above both Sauron and Sylas, seize back Isengard, and rule the world from his tower of steel and shadow.

Still, he was cautious.

This was Sylas's territory, a fortress laced with wards and spells. Even a whisper of his magic here could betray his presence.

If Sylas sensed him, the game would end before it began.

Worse yet, if Sauron learned of his journey…

Then there would be no hiding, neither in light nor in shadow. Two powers, both deadly, would fall upon him at once.

Far to the east, across the rolling downs of Eriador, darkness crept once more into the land.

On the Barrow-downs, where the mists never fully lifted, a figure cloaked in shadow stood among the ancient graves. The Witch-king of Angmar surveyed the silent field, his voice a rasp of anger and malice.

The tombs lay empty. The Barrow-wights, once his slaves, were gone.

Rage boiled in the Nazgûl's hollow chest. The shadows around him deepened, and he raised his black blade toward the sky, chanting in the Black Speech.

"Ashûrz shakhât ghâshûk… Narûk ghâthûrz!"

The wind screamed. The earth itself shuddered.

From the graves burst tendrils of dark mist, twisting and writhing like serpents. They slithered into the ground, into bones long dead and brittle.

Moments later, the Barrow-downs stirred again. Skeletal hands burst from the soil, claws scraping stone. Eyes like coals ignited in empty sockets, burning with malevolent red fire.

The Barrow-wights had returned, their cold whispers crawling through the fog. Their bodies were dry as bone but iron-strong, their movements stiff yet eerily swift.

A frigid mist swept over the hills, blanketing the land in silence and dread. The temperature plummeted. The air froze. The dead walked again.

In the Old Forest, far from the taint of shadow, Tom Bombadil and Goldberry felt the tremor in the air.

Goldberry showed a worried expression.

But Tom Bombadil still smiled cheerfully, as if nothing could make him unhappy. He gesticulated wildly, comforting his wife:

"Now, now, my dear Goldberry," laughed Tom Bombadil, twirling on the grass, his yellow boots flashing like sunlight on water. "Don't fret over such gloomy things! Flowers bloom and fall, winter fades, and spring always returns. All things pass, just like old songs. Come now, let's think about dinner!"

Goldberry's gentle eyes lingered toward the Barrow-downs, where faint, dark clouds gathered over the hills. Her voice was soft but worried.

"Tom… those wraiths are hunting for the ring. Please, don't lose it, or we'll bring trouble upon Sylas and the others."

Tom chuckled and drew the One Ring from his pocket. He spun it on his finger like a coin before slipping it playfully onto his pinky.

"Ah, my lovely River-daughter, fear not! Tom knows how to mind his trinkets. This little fellow's been fidgeting of late, aye, trying to sing to those wraiths and that poor Hobbit. But I'll keep it quiet, don't you worry. I'll not have my forest full of uninvited ghosts!"

Meanwhile, upon the Barrow-downs, the Witch-king of Angmar knew nothing of Tom's cheerful defiance.

He stood tall and silent amid the fog, surrounded by thousands of newly awakened Barrow-wights kneeling in reverence, their hollow eyes flickering crimson through the mist.

A terrible satisfaction filled the Witch-king's cold, hollow form.These undead were his creation, souls once slain by Morgul blades, their hearts pierced and their spirits dragged into the Netherworld, now bound eternally to his will.

Through his dark art, those restless spirits had once again possessed bones and corpses, rising as Barrow-wights clad in tattered grave-cloths, their claws sharp as iron.

In his prime, the Witch-king had raised an army just like this, when his Kingdom of Angmar rose in the frozen north, crushing Arthedain and Cardolan, spreading terror across Eriador.

Now, gazing eastward, his burning eyes fixed upon the distant Weathertop, radiating malice. Then, his gaze turned south, toward the city of Bree.

"Tonight," he hissed, his voice echoing like a blade scraping stone, "you shall march upon that city. Leave none alive. Turn every soul into my servant."

A thousand skeletal throats rumbled in unholy excitement. The Barrow-wights roared their assent, a sound that curdled the night air. The mist around them thickened, carrying their foul stench across the downs.

Far to the south, the city of Bree glowed warmly under the stars, unaware of the doom gathering in the fog.

Once a modest trading post, Bree had grown into a thriving crossroads city. Its strategic position, where the Great East-West Road met the Greenway, made it a bustling hub of commerce and travel.

Caravans came from Gondor, Rohan, and even the Dwarven realms beyond the Misty Mountains, all passing through Bree's gates. Its markets overflowed with foreign goods, and the city's prosperity rivaled Hogsmeade's.

Since the fall of the Barrow-wights years ago, the road between Bree and the Shire had become safe again. Trade flourished, and Bree's wealth grew beyond imagination.

The Shire's best goods, pipe-weed, ale, and mushrooms, flowed into Bree like a golden river.

The city exported them to every corner of Middle-earth: even Dwarves in the east were said to be fond of Shire pipe-weed, smoking it deep within their halls of stone.

The pipe-weed trade alone had made Bree rich beyond measure, a fortune that even Mayor of Hogsmeade secretly envied.

With its booming economy came progress. Wooden palisades were replaced with high stone walls. A thousand-strong militia guarded the city, well-trained and proud.

When a band of southern brigands once dared to attack Bree for its treasures, the militia crushed them in a single night, hanging their corpses along the south road as a warning.

The victory had been so complete that Sylas himself hadn't even been notified until days later.

Since then, no robber or rogue dared disturb Bree's trade routes.

It was late at night, but Bree was still alive with laughter and song.

Taverns glowed with firelight; merchants toasted their good fortune; travelers shared stories of adventure. And at the heart of it all stood the Prancing Pony, the most famous inn in the city.

Inside, the air was thick with pipe smoke and the scent of ale. Laughter echoed beneath the oak beams.

Behind the counter stood Barliman Buttercup, the ever-busy innkeeper, rotund and red-faced, perpetually polishing his glasses even when they were spotless.

He hummed softly to himself, listening as his guests swapped news of the world beyond Bree.

For the past week, every stool and table had been taken by merchants, guards, and townsfolk, all abuzz over the same story: the Lord's stolen golden ring.

Ale flowed freely, and so did speculation.

"They say the thief slipped through the Castle walls unseen!"

"Bah, nonsense! Nobody steals from our Lord and lives."

"Aye, but imagine," whispered a young adventurer, eyes gleaming, "a ring that makes you invisible…"

Mockery, admiration, and greed swirled together like smoke above the firelight. The townsfolk sneered at the thief's audacity but could not hide their curiosity about the treasure said to defy sight itself.

Outside, however, the laughter faded with the night wind.

At the northern gate of Bree, the city's militia stood watch. A dozen men huddled around braziers, rubbing their hands against the cold. A few stifled yawns.

Then, a sudden, biting chill rolled down the road.

The youngest guard blinked and shivered.

"It's… foggy?" he muttered, staring into the distance.

Indeed, a white haze was creeping across the fields, thick, heavy, and strangely fast. It spilled like a living thing, swallowing fences, lanterns, and the faint starlight.

Above, the moon vanished behind clouds. Darkness fell.

The older militia captain, a man who'd fought bandits on the South Downs, felt an unease crawl up his spine.

He straightened at once.

"Stay sharp! Something's wrong with this fog!"

"What's wrong with fog?" a young soldier chuckled nervously, tightening his grip on his spear. "It's just mist."

The captain's eyes narrowed.

He couldn't explain it, only that the air suddenly stank of rot and grave dust.

Then, from within the fog, came faint lights, dancing like dying candles.At first one, then two, then a dozen more, weaving through the mist.

"Lanterns?" someone whispered.

"No," the captain breathed. "Not lanterns."

Without warning, a black shadow shot out of the fog, fast as lightning, and slammed into the city gate.

BOOM!

The wooden beams shuddered. The wall shook.

Guards staggered backward, eyes wide.

"By the Valar—what was that?!"

Before anyone could answer, another impact thundered through the air;

BOOM!

The gate groaned under the weight, the iron hinges creaking. Something massive was trying to break through.

"Oil lamp!" barked the captain. "Throw it down, NOW!"

A trembling soldier hurled his lantern over the parapet.

It shattered on the cobblestones below, spilling fire that roared to life, casting a wavering orange glow over the gate.

And what the light revealed froze every man where he stood.

The thing hammering at the gates was no man, no beast. It was a corpse, bloated and gray, wrapped in rotting cloth and grave-mold.Its eyes burned with red light, and its bony fingers scraped against the wood like steel.

"Barrow-wight!" someone screamed.

But before the echo faded, the mist erupted, and hundreds, no, thousands, of shapes surged forward from the darkness.

A tide of corpses.

Each one dragging chains, clutching rusted swords, their hollow moans blending into a single dreadful roar.

The Barrow-wights had come.

The militiamen stared, pale as ash. Their courage faltered as the undead horde advanced, a flood of shadow and frost, their cold breath rolling across the wall.

For a single, suspended heartbeat, all was still.