Bloodline Magic, more accurately described as Bloodline Transplantation Magic, was the art of fusing the blood of magical creatures with one's own, thereby gaining their innate abilities.

Abilities such as Parseltongue, Metamorphmagus transformation, Veela allure, prophetic sight, and even the Dumbledore family's bond with the Phoenix all stemmed from traces of bloodline magic.

Some ancient legends even claimed that the first wizards were born when early humans either transplanted the blood of magical beasts or interbred with humanoid magical creatures like Veela, granting them the power to wield magic.

That would explain why different wizarding families possessed unique hereditary talents:

The Slytherins inherited Parseltongue.

The Dumbledores were linked to the Phoenix.

The Trelawneys carried the gift of prophecy.

Other families displayed rare affinities with animals, plants, or elemental forces.

Of course, pure-blood families scorned this theory as blasphemous nonsense, an insult to their "pure wizarding lineage." Yet with the knowledge of Bloodline Magic now in his grasp, Sylas could no longer dismiss those old tales as myth.

To his astonishment, this magic didn't merely allow him to fuse foreign bloodlines to gain new powers, it could also let ordinary humans integrate magical creature blood and awaken the ability to cast spells.

That meant… he could create an entire race of wizards in Middle-earth.

The thought filled him with a rare thrill. Though he ruled two cities and tens of thousands of people, they were all ordinary humans, loyal subjects, but not kin. The Elves were allies, not his race. And beings like Gandalf and Radagast, though called Wizards, were Maiar, spirits of divine origin, not mortal sorcerers.

He had always stood between worlds, belonging to none.

Now, at last, he had the means to forge a legacy, a people of his own kind.

Arwen, attuned to him as only a beloved could be, sensed the elation radiating from him. "Sylas," she asked softly, "what is it that makes you so happy?"

He blinked, drawn out of his reverie, and smiled, taking her hand. "I've just gained something incredible, something that could change all of Middle-earth."

Though she didn't yet know what he meant, Arwen smiled too, sharing in his joy.

After the banquet, Sylas and Arwen spent the night in the Royal Palace.

The next day, Regent Ecthelion II personally buried the White Tree seed that Sylas had given him, placing it at the root of the withered tree. He hoped it would one day sprout and bring renewal to Gondor.

But Sylas knew such rebirth would not come quickly. Not in Ecthelion's lifetime, nor even in that of his son Denethor II. The seed would sleep for nearly a century, until the fall of Sauron and the rise of a new king, before it would finally awaken and bloom again.

For now, it slumbered, unresponsive even to the waters of the fountain. Sylas and Arwen exchanged a silent glance, understanding but saying nothing.

Afterward, Denethor II accompanied them as they toured the shining streets and towering halls of Minas Tirith.

They stayed for a week before bidding farewell to Regent Ecthelion II and setting off once more, northward along the main road.

Their carriage crossed the golden plains of Gondor until, at last, they reached the river city of Osgiliath.

This was once Gondor's first capital, built astride the Anduin River. But a year ago, the armies of Mordor had surged out from Minas Morgul, raiding Osgiliath before laying siege to Minas Tirith.

Only through the combined strength of Gandalf and the Rohirrim had the assault been repelled, allowing Gondor to reclaim the West District of Osgiliath. The East District, however, remained abandoned, its defenses too costly to maintain.

A year later, the West District still bore the deep scars of that war. The bridge spanning the Anduin had been rebuilt, not just to maintain access to the East, but also to focus Mordor's attacks on Osgiliath, drawing their pressure away from Minas Tirith.

The city was heavily garrisoned, and when Sylas and Arwen arrived, the commander himself came to receive them.

Sylas completed his sign-in there, obtaining the blueprint for the Vanishing Cabinet.

Just as he was preparing to leave for Rohan, a band of nearly a thousand Orcs from Minas Morgul attacked. The Gondorian defenders, seasoned and disciplined, swiftly repelled them, a skirmish that was clearly routine for this war-torn frontier.

Watching the retreating Orcs, Sylas's eyes glinted with an idea.

"Arwen," he said softly, "wait here. I'm going to give these Orcs a little gift."

She didn't stop him, only laid a hand on his arm and whispered, "Be careful, my love. Don't take unnecessary risks."

Sylas smiled, kissed her forehead, and replied, "I'll be back soon."

Then his body ignited in flame, transforming into a Phoenix, and vanished in a streak of fire.

Moments later, he appeared above Minas Morgul.

Once known as Minas Ithil, the Tower of the Moon, it had been Gondor's sister city to Minas Tirith before falling to Sauron's forces and becoming the Tower of Sorcery.

His blazing form immediately drew attention. Black-armored Orcs raised their bows, loosing volleys at the fiery figure in the sky.

Sylas reverted to human form, cloak billowing in the wind, and raised his wand.

Without hesitation, he unleashed Protego Diabolica.

He didn't bother to control it this time. He simply let it run wild.

The cursed flame roared to life, a storm of living fire, consuming everything in its path. It took monstrous shapes: dragons, balrogs, basilisks, all made of molten flame. The fortress erupted in chaos, Orcs screaming as the fire devoured them alive.

For a brief moment, the Protego Diabolica turned on its master, lunging toward Sylas, but with a cold flick of his wand, he forced it back into submission.

Then, raising his wand once more, he cast a Blasting Curse toward the highest spire of the fortress. The tower exploded, revealing several Ringwraiths hidden within.

They recoiled in terror.

Having already lost two of their kind to him, they dared not face Sylas again and immediately slipped into the shadow-realm, fleeing.

But Sylas wasn't here for them. His purpose was done.

He apparated away, leaving the inferno to consume Minas Morgul.

The fire raged unchecked, annihilating tens of thousands of Mordor soldiers and reducing the stronghold to cinders.

Then the sky itself darkened.

A black cloud spread from the heart of Mordor, rolling across the land. Thunder boomed as acidic black rain poured down, hissing where it struck. The air filled with the stench of sulfur and death.

Under the rain, the Protego Diabolica faltered, its brilliance dimming and curling into smoke. Those who had survived the fire were now dissolved by the rain, melting into twisted heaps amid their own screams.

When the storm finally passed, Minas Morgul was no more, only a corroded wasteland remained, its towers collapsing into ruin.

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