Sylas gazed at his reflection with quiet wonder.
His new Elven guise was flawless, down to the glimmer of golden hair and the keen light in his eyes. The gift of the Metamorphmagus made him feel as though his very flesh was clay, malleable beneath the touch of his will. With practice, he could walk into Rivendell or Lothlórien and even the keenest eyes of the Eldar might not pierce his disguise.
For now, his control was limited. He could alter hair, skin, and features with ease, but his voice remained unchanged, and his stature unbending. Yet he knew the true masters of this art could reshape themselves wholly, age, gender, height, even presence. It was a talent closer to the power of Mystique from marvel: the ultimate craft of deception, beyond the reach of ordinary magic to undo.
But Fengel's stern face did not soften. "These were not rumors whispered in shadows. It was Wizard Sylas who spoke them. Do you claim he lies?"
At the name, Máriol faltered. His lips quivered, his eyes flickering with a storm of thoughts. At last, he ground his teeth and spat his reply.
"Sylas cannot be trusted! He shelters Dunlendings in his service, the very people who raided our lands. I slew many of them in your name, my King. No wonder he slanders me, seeking revenge. He aims to sow discord in your hall, to make you turn against your loyal men, so that he may weaken Rohan and claim it for himself!"
Fengel rose from his throne, his tall frame casting its shadow over the kneeling man. His voice cut like a drawn blade.
"Is that so? For he told me more. He said that you not only stoked the fires of hatred, but that you carry Saruman's poison, poison meant for me. With it, you would make me a puppet in my own hall, leaving Rohan to fall beneath Orthanc's shadow."
Máriol's pupils shrank to pinpricks. He shook his head violently, words tumbling out in desperation.
"No! No, sire, you must not believe him! He deceives you! I have never touched Saruman's hand, never plotted against you! The wizard is dangerous, he spins lies with a silver tongue. You must not fall prey to him!"
King Fengel did not indulge Máriol's desperate pleas. With a cold sweep of his hand, he silenced the chamber.
"Your loyalty or treachery will soon be revealed," he said with quiet authority. "Even as you protest, my men are searching your chambers. We shall see what truth lies hidden there."
The hall fell into tense silence until the guards returned. In their hands were several sealed letters and a small glass vial filled with green liquid.
"Your Majesty," one of the soldiers reported, bowing low, "these were concealed behind the wall of the advisor's study. The letters bear the White Wizard's seal. And the vial… it appears to be poison."
Máriol's face drained of blood. He collapsed to the floor, trembling. Those letters and the vial had been buried in secrecy, no one should have been able to find them. His despair made it plain enough that he knew his end was sealed.
Fengel took the letters himself. The sound of parchment rustling filled the otherwise still hall as he read, his expression darkening with each line. The weight of his fury pressed down upon everyone present.
At last he flung the letters at Máriol's feet. His voice was low, but it cut like a sword.
"Do you have anything left to say?"
The traitor broke, weeping and begging for mercy. But the King's eyes held no pity. He gestured, and a guard placed the vial in his hand.
"Drink it," Fengel commanded.
The hall's silence was broken only by the hollow clink of glass.
Sylas did not linger to witness the fate of the advisor, but he could already imagine the outcome. Saruman's carefully laid schemes had been undone.
Here, the lands of the Easterlings began. And here, Sylas's caution doubled.
Although this was not land directly ruled by Sauron, it still lay firmly within his shadow.
In his time of greatest strength, the Dark Lord had stretched his dominion over much of the East, twisting and corrupting the Easterlings with his malice. Even after his defeat in the War of the Last Alliance, his grip did not vanish. Many tribes still swore loyalty to him, others remained enslaved by his lieutenants, and in some places Sauron was worshiped outright as a god. His presence was carved deep into their culture.
Disguised as a rugged Easterling and cloaked in a Disillusionment Charm, Sylas walked among their camps unseen. He studied them with a detached eye. Their olive-toned faces, black hair, and proud, sharp features marked them as a hardened people, nomadic and warlike, far removed from the Eastern folk he had known in his former life. To him they felt more alien than familiar, and certainly not kin.
Like a shadow, he slipped from tribe to tribe, quietly listening and prying, always hunting for whispers of the Blue Wizards or any trace of Hildórien, the legendary birthplace of Men.
But disappointment dogged his efforts. Among the common folk, there was no knowledge of Hildórien. Sauron's poison had seeped so deeply that many believed he himself was their creator. Even the name of Hildórien had been erased.
Nor had the Blue Wizards' work touched the ears of the ordinary herdsmen.
Only when Sylas probed the minds of tribal chieftains with Legilimency did fragments surface. Rumors spoke of two figures in azure robes active far to the west, near the fertile valleys of Dorwinion by the shores of the Sea of Rhûn. There, they said, these mysterious wanderers stirred rebellion against Sauron's servants, teaching defiance to people long bowed under the Shadow.
At last Sylas had a true lead. Wasting no time, he turned his path toward Dorwinion.
Along the road, his system remained silent. No "sign-in" rewards came to him in the barren tribes. Perhaps, he reflected, that was only natural. If every village and campsite held treasures, his journey would have ended long ago. Instead, the great rewards lay hidden in places of true weight.
The Sea of Rhûn soon spread wide before him, its vast, shimmering waters the largest inland sea of Middle-earth. It drank the flow of many rivers, the Running River from Esgaroth, the Redwater from the Iron Hills, until all poured into its endless basin.
Nestled at its northwestern shore lay Dorwinion, famed across the world for its vineyards. Its wines were so potent that even Elves could be sent into a heavy slumber, and King Thranduil of the Woodland Realm was said to favor them above all others. In older days, barrels of Dorwinion wine floated downriver to Esgaroth, then were rafted into Mirkwood, filling the cellars of the Elvenking and enriching the merchants who controlled the trade.
Now Sylas approached that land himself.
From high above on his broomstick he saw the plains spread wide, golden with vines, dotted with laborers tending their rows. Sunlight glimmered on neat terraces and slow, winding streams. The air was sweet and rich with growth.
The sight stopped him.
Here, in the East, where Orcs roamed and Easterlings marched under Sauron's banners, still thrived a pocket of peace, a place of life and prosperity untouched by the Shadow's hand.
It surprised him, and for a moment, even comforted him.
...
Stones Plzzz
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