Having obtained so many magical herbs and flowers, Sylas was montarily dazzled.
Aldamir looked at Sylas’s happy expression but still reminded him,
"Sylas, although these herbs are still live plants, their growing conditions vary, so it might not be easy for you to transplant them successfully."
Saying it wasn’t easy was already a euphemism.
These herbs ca from all corners of the world. So preferred sun, so preferred shade, and the soil they grew in also varied. It would be a miracle if they could survive together.
However, Sylas had previously requested live plants, and the Dúnedain, following his request, did their best to bring live plants to him, but they held no hope for these plants to survive.
Sylas naturally understood Aldamir’s aning.
However, he didn’t care about it.
If it were anyone else, it certainly wouldn’t work, but do not forget he had the help of magic.
So, with confidence, he smiled and said, "Don’t worry. Since they’ve been sent over, there’s definitely a way to make them survive."
"But I’ll still have to trouble you to tell the growing conditions for each of these flowers and plants so I can make adjustnts."
Aldamir didn’t quite understand, but since Sylas had said so, he could only agree.
Then, Sylas used a spatial bag to store the large pile of wooden boxes containing plants and soil.
Aldamir and the other Dúnedain, seeing this for the first ti, were all dumbfounded.
Afterward, the group followed Sylas back into the tower, where Sylas led them to a room on the sixth floor.
As he cast the Undetectable Extension Charm with his wand, the space here expanded.
Everyone watched as the originally sowhat cramped space rapidly grew larger and larger. The ceiling above beca higher and higher, and the surrounding walls moved further and further away, eventually forming a space as large as two or three football fields.
Everyone’s eyes widened, and their mouths hung open as they looked at everything around them. They were like ants, tiny, as if they had entered a Giant’s room.
After finishing all of this, Sylas turned to Aldamir.
"Aldamir, what are the growing conditions for the King’s Herb? For example, the soil it grows in, the climate temperature, etc. Tell everything."
The shock on Aldamir’s face had not yet faded, and he stamred his reply to Sylas.
Sylas listened carefully to Aldamir’s answer, nodding thoughtfully.
He then continuously waved his wand, and thick soil appeared out of thin air, filling the entire floor of the space, forming a small hill.
And in the depression of the small hill, Sylas summoned a large amount of clear spring water, forming a clear lake.
He pointed his wand at the ceiling, and the ceiling quickly transford into a blue sky with white clouds.
A large yellow sun shot out from the tip of his wand, flying to the ceiling and emitting suitable temperature and light.
With another wave of his wand, a gentle breeze appeared, continuously blowing and creating ripples on the lake’s surface.
Then, Sylas took out watercress, yellow irises, and water lilies from his spatial bag and planted them in the lake.
Then, on the slope not far from the lakeside, he carefully transplanted the King’s Herb one by one.
The King’s Herb likes water but not being too close to it. It prefers a moderate temperature and needs plenty of sunlight.
Now, Sylas, following Aldamir’s guidance, transford the room’s environnt into the ideal growing conditions for the King’s Herb.
Looking at the transford room, Sylas nodded in satisfaction.
Currently, there were only hundreds of King’s Herbs on the bare hill, but he looked forward to them forming vast grasslands in the future.
And those who witnessed all of this were now silent, their faces filled with shock.
Even Gandalf, Bilbo, and others who had already seen Sylas’s various magical feats were astonished.
A young Dúnedain rubbed his eyes without thinking, as if trying to confirm that what he saw was real.
Sylas turned back with a small smile and beckoned them onward. "Co, let’s see the next room."
The group followed him, still dazed from what they had just witnessed.
As the last person stepped out, the door swung shut of its own accord, sealing away the self-contained world within.
On the sixth floor, several more chambers stood unused. Sylas chose the one next door and once again expanded its dinsions with the Undetectable Extension Charm.
After consulting briefly with Aldamir and a few of the Dúnedain, he began his work again, this ti shaping the interior into a sweeping, dry grassland. Upon its rolling hillocks he planted the white Everlasting Flowers known among the Rohirrim, a bloom said to remain fresh long after cutting.
The result was so true to life that Gandalf remarked, quite without reserve, "For a mont, I felt as though I had stepped straight into the Riddermark."
Sylas did not stop there. One room beca a rugged valley, another a wind-lashed coastline where salt crusted the rocks. Still others turned into jagged cliffs that howled with cold air, or hills wrapped in snow and ice.
Within a single walk, his guests had journeyed through half the climates of Middle-earth, their awe growing with each step.
"Sylas, you’ve captured the whole of Middle-earth within these walls!" Gandalf exclaid, his eyes alight. "When the flowers bloom, I must see them. Promise you’ll send word."
"Of course," Sylas replied with a nod.
He knew these conjured environnts were still rough around the edges. They would need fine-tuning and, eventually, the creation of self-sustaining cycles so that the plants could truly thrive.
Several others quickly made their own requests to be invited back when that ti ca. Sylas agreed with an easy smile.
With the seventh floor already ho to a quiet ditation chamber, the sixth now housed a full herb garden.
And his plans didn’t end there, he ant to see every floor put to good use: a Potions workshop, a library, an alchemy lab, and more, until Amon Sûl Tower stood not only as a fortress but as his true wizard’s tower.
By the ti the herb garden was complete, the hour had grown late.
The Dúnedain, their trade mission finished, politely declined Sylas’s offer to stay the night and rode off into the gathering dark.
Only Luke remained, and after a mont’s hesitation, he spoke. "My lord, the villagers hope to till land along the edge of the marsh. They seek your leave."
Sylas blinked in surprise but waved a hand. "That’s for you and the villagers to decide among yourselves. You don’t need my approval."
Luke bowed his head. "As you wish, my lord." He lingered, then added, "There is also the matter of... taxes. How much will you require?"
"Taxes?" Sylas looked genuinely puzzled. "What taxes?"
Luke straightened slightly, as if quoting an old law. "By the ancient customs, we who dwell under your protection must pay a covenant tithe, head tax, inheritance tax, market dues, land rent, house levies..."
Sylas listened in bemusent. The notion of him collecting taxes had never once crossed his mind.
He was about to refuse outright, then paused. "How is it done elsewhere?"
"I can’t speak for most places," Luke said, "but in Bree-land, the rate is one in ten."
Sylas thought for a mont. "Then take one in a hundred instead. And don’t bring it to , use it entirely to keep Hogsade running."
Luke froze, unsure he’d heard correctly, then his face lit with relief and joy. He bowed again and again, voice thick with gratitude.
"My lord, you are truly a gift from the heavens! I thank you in the na of all the villagers. Your kindness will be rembered, like sunlight warming the fields, more precious than the rain that feeds them..."
"That’s quite enough," Sylas interrupted with a wry grin. "If that’s all, you should get so rest."
Luke, quick to read a man’s mood, caught the flicker of impatience in Sylas’s expression and bowed himself out without another word.
He all but ran down the mountainside, his face alight with joy, eager to bring the villagers this incredible news.
In fact, he was already imagining how he might boast of it to outsiders: their lord not only refused to take a single coin for himself, but had decreed that even the smallest, token tax would be spent entirely on the people’s own welfare.
Luke could picture it now, folk from far-off towns, chafing under the burden of heavy levies, would flock to Hogsade as soon as they heard.
No, he decided, he would not remain rely the headman of a small village. He would see Hogsade grow into a bustling town, then a city, and perhaps even a kingdom.
And when that day ca, he would be there beside Lord Sylas as his most trusted right hand, immortalised in the chronicles of their land.
At that mont, Sylas had no inkling of Luke’s lofty dreams.
Finishing his daily task of watering the White Tree sapling and the young mallorn seeds, he ascended to the seventh floor and slipped into his ditation chamber. Closing the door, he cast a silencing charm and activated the room’s do-not-disturb enchantnt.
Between two fireplaces, each burning with a steady eternal fire, the chamber glowed faintly. Its stone floor and walls were carved with flowing Elvish runes whose very presence seed to quiet the mind and sharpen the senses.
Apart from the two perpetual flas, no other light shone here. The flicker of their golden tongues threw shifting shadows, lending the space an air of mystery.
The presence of the fire thickened the magic in the air until it rivalled the deep wellsprings of Rivendell or the golden woods of Lothlórien.
Sylas conjured a plush sofa and sank into it. From his enchanted satchel he drew a handful of broad, glimring gold leaves, fallen from a mallorn tree.
Before departing the Golden Wood, he had visited the forest and filled an entire spatial bag with them. Spilled out at once, they would have covered the ditation room’s floor in a deep drift.
Now, he tossed a few into the flas. The mallorn leaves caught at once, releasing a fragrance like sun-ward linen, fresh, bright, and comforting.
With a flick of his wand, Sylas set the remaining leaves to drift one by one into the fire at asured intervals.
Wisps of smoke rose and curled, shimring faintly as if laced with enchantnt. They did not disperse, but coiled lazily around him like ribbons on a sumr breeze.
Breathing in the mallorn-scented air, Sylas leaned back, let his body grow heavy, and began to hum a tune Tom Bombadil had once taught him.
In the quiet of the chamber, his voice carried softly against the runed walls. Here, in a place steeped with magic, the song’s power deepened, filling the air with warmth, joy, and a touch of childlike wonder.
Little by little, his thoughts quieted. First the worries of the day slipped away, then the hum of the lody itself dissolved, leaving him suspended in a calm, lucid stillness.
He was not asleep, yet his awareness stretched far beyond himself, he could hear the gentle crackle of burning leaves, the slow drift of the air, the rise and fall of his own breath, the rhythm of his heartbeat, and even the subtle tide of magic coursing through his veins.
...
Stones Plzz
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