Strictly speaking, this particular Potion had been a failure.
Back when Sylas had tried brewing a Boils Potion, he tossed porcupine quills into the cauldron before extinguishing the fla. The result? A volatile, acidic compound that burned through leather and left scorch marks on his workbench.
Now, that "failed" concoction might be their best chance.
Sylas unscrewed the bottle with a grimace, then he levitated the small glass bottle into the air, guiding it above the cauldron where the remaining eleven Trolls had gathered around their grotesque stew.
Then, with a flick of his wand, he dropped it.
Plop!
The sound echoed faintly from the bubbling mix.
"Eh? What was that?" one of the Trolls grunted, looking up suspiciously at the cavern ceiling. "Did a rock fall in?"
"Who cares?" barked another, ladling out a generous heap into his stone bowl. "I'm starving!"
The rest followed without hesitation, greedily scooping up the worm-filled sludge.
Only when the pot was empty did the clinking of the shattered bottle catch their attention.
"Huh? What's this thing?" said a Troll, peering at the jagged glass at the bottom.
"It looks like... sothing humans use."
"What's a human thing doing in our food?!"
Before they could piece it together, their expressions contorted in sudden horror.
"Wait... my stomach—AARGH!"
One by one, the Trolls collapsed, clutching their bellies. Agonized howls erupted as their insides twisted and burned from within. The failed potion had beco a powerful corrosive agent, one that didn't care for Troll anatomy.
The chorus of howls echoed throughout the cavern like the roar of tortured beasts. From their cramped cages, the emaciated humans stirred, blinking in confusion and fright.
But even that cacophony wasn't enough to rouse the Troll leader, who still snored loudly on his stone seat, completely oblivious.
"Now!" Gandalf said sharply.
He grabbed the sword from Sylas with practiced ease, and his body surged with a sudden lightness. With a shout, he leapt down into the pit.
The sword ignited in his hands with golden fla, casting wild shadows across the blood-spattered walls.
anwhile, Sylas stood before the unconscious Troll leader, eyeing the massive iron warhamr it had been using as a throne-side weapon. It was a crude thing, easily weighing over a thousand pounds, but perfect for what he had in mind.
Raising his wand, Sylas muttered, "Wingardium Leviosa!"
The giant hamr groaned and shuddered as it rose into the air, wobbling slightly from the sheer weight. Sweat beaded on Sylas's brow as he focused, inching the hamr higher and higher until it hovered directly above the slumbering beast's head.
Then he let go.
The hamr dropped like a teor.
CRACK!
The impact echoed through the cave, a sickening mix of tal on bone and rock. Blood spattered, and part of the Troll leader's skull visibly caved in.
But to Sylas's surprise, the Troll didn't die.
Instead, it stirred, groaning, dazed but very much alive.
"Stubborn brute," Sylas muttered. Without hesitation, he lifted the hamr again.
WHAM!
The second blow landed squarely. This ti, the Troll leader's head split open like a cracked lon. Dark blood pooled beneath its throne as the massive body twitched once... then went still.
Elsewhere in the cave, Gandalf fought like a man half his age. With the sword still ablaze, he moved swiftly, gracefully, dispatching the last of the weakened Trolls. His robes fluttered with each strike, golden light glinting off his blade as Troll after Troll fell.
When the battle was finally over, not a single Troll remained breathing.
Wasting no ti, Gandalf rushed to the cages embedded in the walls. The prisoners inside, thin, pale, and barely conscious, looked up as he slashed through the wooden bars with his sword.
Entrusting the task of comforting the people to Gandalf, Sylas went off alone to search for the Trolls' treasure hoard.
He continued deeper into the cave and soon found its end.
And gold.
Lots of it.
He erged into a vast hollow chamber at the far end of the cave. The air slled faintly of fire and old earth. Towering piles of gold coins, silver goblets, jeweled ornants, and enchanted trinkets sparkled in the flickering glow of the fireflies dancing above.
Sylas was awe-struck. This hoard made the last five Troll caves look like pocket change.
But then, sothing unusual caught his eye.
Half-buried in a mound of coins was a dark, glimring object. Sylas narrowed his eyes and approached cautiously, brushing the coins aside with his wand.
A crystal ball.
Roughly the size of a human head, polished obsidian black, swirling with mist and faint flickers of light.
He crouched down. The mist shifted within the orb, occasionally forming vague, ghostlike shapes, then vanishing again like shadows at dusk.
"What is this...?" Sylas murmured.
He extended his wand and gently tapped the orb. Nothing happened.
After a mont's hesitation, he reached out and placed his hand upon its surface.
Instantly, the crystal ball responded.
A pulse of cold magic surged through his fingers, and the swirling mist inside exploded with motion. The shadows twisted and whirled, forming a clear image.
The image within the black crystal ball shimred and cleared.
To Sylas's surprise, it revealed none other than Gandalf, comforting the rescued villagers on the far side of the cave. The wizard's presence filled the orb with warmth and clarity, his voice suddenly carrying through the vision.
"Who's there?" Gandalf called out, his sharp eyes narrowing, as though he could sense Sylas watching him from afar.
Startled, Sylas stepped back, eyes wide. It felt as though Gandalf was looking directly at him through the glass.
Quickly, Sylas turned and shouted toward the cave entrance, "Gandalf! Co here! You need to see this!"
A few monts later, Gandalf's familiar silhouette appeared, making his way across the treasure-littered cavern. The orb faithfully reflected his movents as he approached.
"What is it?" Gandalf asked, his voice calm but curious.
Without a word, Sylas held up the obsidian orb.
Gandalf's eyes widened the instant he saw it.
"A Palantír," he breathed, his voice filled with a mix of reverence and unease. "So that's what I felt. I thought I was being watched, turns out I was, through that very stone."
Sylas turned the orb over in his hands, the swirling mist inside now calm, as if asleep.
The Palantír was no ordinary trinket. It was a relic of the ancient world, an artifact forged in the days of Núnor, capable of revealing distant places and forgotten tis.
To those of great will and sharper minds, it offered more than passive visions. With enough strength, one could guide its gaze, watching lands far away, and perhaps even glimpsing monts lost to history.
With such a tool, Sylas thought, it would be possible to foresee danger, uncover hidden truths, even win wars before they began. He could peer into long-dead kingdoms and unravel the secrets of the Second Age.
But his imagination was quickly grounded by Gandalf's stern voice.
"Sylas," the wizard warned, his tone more serious than usual, "you must be cautious with that stone. Do not, under any circumstance, attempt to reach out to other Palantír. You cannot know who holds them, or what power might be watching."
Sylas nodded solemnly. "I understand. Thank you, Gandalf. I'll be careful."
He ant it. For Sylas already knew that both Sauron and Saruman possessed Palantíri. It was through such a connection that Saruman, once the leader of the White Council, had been ensnared by Sauron's will, twisted from within by the very stone he had sought to master.
If Saruman could fall, Sylas knew better than to overestimate himself.
Still, even with that danger in mind, the weight of the orb in his hands filled him with awe. Not even the mounds of gleaming treasure behind him could match the value of the Palantír. It was a relic of power, of knowledge, one that even Gandalf regarded with envy.
Outside, the villagers freed from the Trolls' prison were gathered in the clearing. Their eyes still held fear, but with Gandalf's calming presence, they listened. He spoke with warmth and strength, rekindling in them a flicker of courage. So wept. Others simply stood quietly, as though savoring the taste of freedom.
Together, Gandalf and Sylas did as they had before, distributing a portion of the treasure they had reclaid. Coins, rings, and silver trinkets were shared among the villagers, enough to help them start new lives.
"Go where you will," Gandalf told them. "Southward lies the land of Gondor. Westward, the road leads to Bree, and beyond, the Shire. Or follow the river north, if you long for quiet places."
Sylas then once again summoned a snake that knew the way, allowing the fearful villagers to follow the snake out of the forest.
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