Shelob, unwilling to believe her prey could escape, pressed harder against the shimmering barrier. Yet no matter how she struck, she found no weakness, the ward encased Sylas in a perfect, unbroken sphere of protection.
With a frustrated hiss, the Spider Queen changed tactics. Silk streamed from her fangs in thick, black cords, coating the barrier layer upon layer. Her front legs hooked beneath the glowing sphere, lifting it as though it were nothing more than a snared insect. In moments, Sylas and his protective shell were entombed within a massive cocoon of night-dark webbing.
"Hmph," Shelob rasped, her voice harsh as grinding stone. "A shell may keep you safe for a time, Wizard. But wrapped in my web, you will not escape. When your magic falters, I will feast."
Confident in her victory, she dragged the cocoon deep into her lair, pulling it through jagged tunnels choked with shadow. The passages of Torech Ungol were a maze, every wall veiled in webs that devoured the light itself. Even the Phial of Eärendil would have struggled to shine here, for the darkness was not natural, it was born of Ungoliant's brood.
The deeper she went, the heavier the air became. The stench of rot clung to every stone. Bones lay strewn in heaps, the remains of Orcs, Men, Dwarves, and even Elves, centuries upon centuries of victims devoured in silence. Some piles were so high they rivaled the ossuaries of the Dead Marshes.
Since fleeing westward at the end of the First Age, Shelob had fed here, endlessly, endlessly. And like her mother before her, she was never sated.
She plunged her stinger into one of the Orc corpses, pumping venom into the body. The flesh sagged, organs dissolved, bones crumbled into sludge, and she drank greedily. Another sting pierced the still-living Orc; his scream echoed through the caverns as his body dissolved while he yet breathed, his terror nourishing her almost as much as his flesh.
When at last she turned her hunger toward the cocoon that bound Sylas, her eyes glittered with triumph. Raising her massive stinger, she drove it down. Venom hissed as it splashed against the barrier, eating at the magic with every drop. The ward rippled and thinned. Soon, she thought, it would fail. Soon the Wizard would be helpless, and she would drink his soul dry.
But then, pain.
Her body convulsed, and Shelob let out a shriek that rattled the bones in her cave. She recoiled violently, springing back in agony. Her stinger, her cruelest weapon, had been severed cleanly, lopped off at the root.
From within the cocoon, light erupted. Pure, untainted light that seared her darkened senses. A flaming sword slashed through the webbing, tearing it apart in a shower of sparks. From the broken strands stepped Sylas.
In his right hand blazed a sword of fire, its flames licking and crackling with holy brilliance. In his left, the Star-glass of Eärendil burned with the light of the Silmaril, flooding the cave with radiance.
Shelob reeled backward, all her eyes narrowing against the brilliance. Even she, daughter of Ungoliant, shrank before the star-light.
Sylas lifted the Phial high, his voice steady despite the weight of shadow pressing upon him. The light bathed the walls of Torech Ungol, pushing back the suffocating darkness that even the strongest hearts might have faltered beneath.
And just then;
[Hogwarts Sign-in System: Location identified — Mountains of Shadow, Torech Ungol. Sign in?]
Sylas blinked, startled at the sudden whisper in his mind. He had not expected this place of despair to yield such an opportunity.
Still, opportunity was opportunity.
"Sign in," he commanded silently.
[Sign-in successful. Congratulations—You have obtained Madam Malkin's Magical Textile Craft!]
For a moment, Sylas stared, dumbfounded. Madam Malkin's Textile Craft?
He recalled the plump witch from Diagon Alley, outfitter of Hogwarts robes, seamstress to countless generations of students."
Sylas could not dwell on his surprise reward just yet. He was still inside Shelob's lair, and danger pressed on every side.
The Spider Queen, furious at being wounded, spewed forth a black mist that spread like a net, swallowing light as it crept in from all directions. The darkness pressed against the glow of the Phial, seeking to smother it.
At that same moment, far away in Mordor, the Eye of Sauron atop Barad-dûr turned its burning gaze toward Cirith Ungol.
Sylas felt the shadow of that gaze brush across him. His soul, strengthened and purified by the trials of the Stone, was now far more sensitive, and he knew the peril was real. He smiled coldly at Shelob and said, "Thank you for the silk, Lady Spider. But our game ends here. Farewell."
Placing a hand on the cocoon that had once bound him, he activated the Portkey. The world spun, and he vanished.
Shelob's countless eyes widened with fury. She let out a shriek so piercing it rattled the very stones of the Mountains of Shadow. The sound rolled across Cirith Ungol, carrying even into the fortress of Minas Morgul. Orcs stationed in the watchtower trembled.
"That voice… it's the Spider Queen," one hissed, his tusks chattering. "Who provoked her?"
"Could it be the new captain and his crew?" another guessed darkly.
After all, only Sylas and his companion had gone toward Shelob's cave.
"Doesn't matter," a third Orc sneered. "If it was them, they're long dead. None return from her lair alive."
"If that's true, then we'll need to choose a new captain," another added eagerly.
The Orcs grinned, already plotting their next blood-soaked contest for power.
Meanwhile, Sylas landed with a dizzying spin upon Weathertop. At last, he let out a long sigh of relief. The mission had gone as well as could be hoped. True, he had stirred Sauron's attention at the end, but he had escaped before the Dark Lord could fix his gaze upon him.
Still, he knew this encounter would make Sauron wary. Mordor's master would not grant him another chance to slip so close. Anywhere touched by the palantír's sight would now be dangerous. Fortunately, Weathertop was too far west for Sauron to reach; here, at least, he could breathe.
Turning, Sylas looked at the heavy cocoon of spider silk he had carried back. A smile tugged at his lips.
To trap him, Shelob had layered him in thick, nearly indestructible silk. Now, that same prison would become his prize. There was enough silk here not for one cloak, but for many.
The quality was astounding. Even Elven-forged blades would struggle to cut it. Fire barely touched it, only the flames of a Balrog could weaken it. It was only thanks to the Brisingr he carried, its hilt bound with a Balrog's fire-crystal and further imbued with cursed Protego diabolica, that he had managed to slice free.
Even more wondrous, Shelob's silk had powerful magical properties: it devoured light, resisting even the glow of Eärendil's Star. Truly, no material in Middle-earth could better serve as the foundation for an Invisibility Cloak.
Ordinary cloaks of concealment in the wizarding world were made by enchanting cloth or using Demiguise hair. But the true Cloak of the Peverells, one of the Hallows, was not enchanted after weaving. It was woven with magic itself. Each strand bore runes, thousands of them, interlaced into a living pattern of concealment. That was why it had endured unbroken for a thousand years.
To create something comparable, one needed more than magic: one needed a weaver of unmatched skill. And Sylas… was no weaver.
True, the sign-in at Shelob's lair had granted him the knowledge of Madam Malkin's Magical Textile Craft. Yet knowledge alone was not mastery, and Sylas had no intention of becoming a tailor. His path led elsewhere.
So he turned, as he often did, to Arwen.
Arwen was a treasure beyond measure. She was skilled not only in battle and song but in painting, forging, cooking, and weaving. Many of Sylas's robes, elegant, understated, yet regal, were her handiwork. Even the spiders he kept as weavers in Hogwarts Tower had been trained under her guidance. The curtains and tapestries of the castle bore her touch.
When he asked for her aid, Arwen did not hesitate.
To make use of the gift he had received, Sylas extracted the knowledge of Madam Malkin's craft and poured it into the Crown of Wisdom. Setting it upon Arwen's brow, he watched her eyes glow as the skill took root.
Already a masterful weaver, she absorbed the knowledge effortlessly, building upon her own artistry until she surpassed even Elven craft.
Together, they began the work. The silk was soaked in enchanted solutions to strip away its stickiness while preserving its strength. Sylas refined mithril, drawing it into threads finer than hair, to be interwoven as channels of power.
Once all materials were ready, the two formally began the work of weaving the Invisibility Cloak.
...
STONES PLZZ
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