Silmalorë still resided in Angband, deep within the innermost research chamber he had completely transformed into an experimental nexus. At the center of the room, he sat upright before a black stone table. The surface was cluttered with scrolls of reports, progress notes on the Elves, and migration maps sent from various regions.
Each scroll contained detailed data on population movements, the construction of cities and villages. Silmalorë read through them meticulously. He recorded distribution patterns, marked concentration points, and ensured there were no conflicts between the Elves and the Dwemer—two races he had forged from his own life energy.
His focus now was the future of the planet Azeroth. With the emergence of the Elves and Dwemer, he knew they would inevitably become entangled in the chaos unfolding there. Silmalorë had to prepare everything with utmost care.
The Dwemer, shaped from metal and stone, had already spread into the mountains of Middle-earth. They built mechanical cities filled with gears and geothermal heat, underground fortresses guarded by metal golems, and defense systems capable of detecting threats from afar.
Meanwhile, the Elves had dispersed across all corners of Middle-earth and Valinor. They established radiant kingdoms, sacred forests teeming with nature spirits, and towering spires of light.
But Silmalorë knew that mere expansion and construction were not enough. He began drafting a grand plan: to forge rings of power, akin to those in Tolkien's world.
Seven rings would be crafted for the Elves, as symbols of harmony and dominion over nature. Another seven for the Dwemer, as centers of technology and craftsmanship. And nine rings would be given to the Dúnedain—a new race born from the union of Elves and Dwemer.
As Silmalorë pondered the design, function, and binding systems of the rings he would forge, a soft sound echoed from the outer edge of the chamber. It wasn't loud, but clear enough to break his concentration.
He turned swiftly, eyes narrowing. In the corner of the room, his experimental dragon egg—the one he had watched over with great hope—was showing signs of cracking. Tiny fractures began to spread slowly across the shell's surface, like delicate veins growing from within.
"Hey, looks like one of the dragon experiments actually worked," he muttered. His voice was flat, but tension simmered beneath the tone.
Without wasting a moment, he rose from his chair and strode quickly toward the experimental chamber. It was separate from the main room, protected by layers of heat shielding designed to withstand magical energy and extreme temperatures. At the center stood a massive container where the dragon egg had been stored for centuries.
"Krek-craaarck."
The sound of the shell breaking rang out clearly. From within the egg, a slow movement emerged—a small creature that, for hundreds of years, had been nothing more than an object of Silmalorë's experiments, now showing signs of life. Its body was still coated in a thin layer of slime, its eyes not yet fully open, but its breathing was beginning to stabilize.
Silmalorë stood motionless, staring at the creature without a word. He knew this dragon's creation was not the result of the pure power he once possessed. His life energy had been depleted when he forged the Elves and Dwemer. There was no strength left to create a new race from scratch.
Yet this experiment had been conducted in secret for centuries. He had followed in the footsteps of Melkor from Tolkien's world—a being who once created mighty dragons like Glaurung and Ancalagon. Though Tolkien's novels never explained in detail how Melkor created dragons, Silmalorë refused to give up. He had scoured fan forums on Reddit in his previous life, absorbing theories, analyses, and long discussions from devoted enthusiasts.
From there, he devised a scientific and magical approach, combining genetic structures, manipulation of residual energy, and complex biological engineering. That dragon egg was the culmination of every search, every experiment, and every obsession he had kept to himself.
Now, the fruits of all that labor were beginning to take shape. A small dragon, born from theory and unyielding resolve, began to stir within the cracked shell. Its eyes were still closed, its body slick with mucus and rising steam, but its pulse was strong and steady. Its presence was more than the result of an experiment—it was the embodiment of a hope nurtured over centuries.
For hundreds of years, Silmalorë had gathered countless animal specimens, especially reptiles, from every corner of Valinor and Middle-earth. He didn't merely collect living creatures—he studied their genetic structures in depth. He examined the flora and fauna of two great worlds now intertwined: Middle-earth, steeped in the natural magic of Tolkien's realm, and Pandora, rich in biological symbiosis and complex spiritual connections.
From the fusion of these two sources, Silmalorë created an artificial environment resembling a dragon's nest. He built an experimental chamber beneath Angband, equipped with extreme temperatures and an air composition tailored to the metabolic needs of dragonkind. Every element was designed to support the growth of the dragon embryo—from air humidity to the resonance of magical energy flowing through the chamber walls.
But the path to creation had never been easy. For centuries, Silmalorë endured failure after failure. Eggs he planted cracked open with nothing inside, embryos rotted before organ formation, and some creatures were born with severe deformities—no awareness, no soul. Yet he never gave up. He knew that creating a dragon wasn't just about replicating physical form or assembling bone structures. He had to awaken a soul—one capable of perceiving the world, responding to energy, and interacting with other beings. A dragon's soul had to possess will, not mere instinct.
Now, one egg had hatched. Silmalorë stood before the container still radiating heat, gazing at the newborn creature with eyes full of hope and a pride too deep for words. The dragon's body was still coated in slime, its eyes not yet fully open, and its first breath sounded like a hiss mixed with cracking.
"Hsshhh... krrrk... chiik!"
"Hey, little creature," said Silmalorë, peeling away the remnants of the shell from the dragon's body.
But that hope quickly turned to disappointment. The dragon's form resembled an Eastern dragon—long, slender, and far too similar to a giant worm. No wings, no sturdy claws, and no physical structure that conveyed the raw power of the Western dragons he had envisioned.
Silmalorë frowned. He had wanted a dragon that looked like a colossal lizard, with wide wings, hardened scales, and a piercing gaze capable of breaking an enemy's spirit. Though disappointed, he couldn't bring himself to kill the creature. He knew it was the product of centuries of effort. Even if it didn't meet his expectations, it was still a living being with potential.
"Hsshhh... krrrk... chiik!"
"Are you hungry?" asked Silmalorë, slicing some minced meat and offering it to the little dragon.
"Chiik!"
"All right, little reptile. Since you're the first dragon I've successfully created, I'll name you Glaurung," said Silmalorë, feeding the creature slowly.
"Chiik!"
After feeding the small dragon, Silmalorë walked to the other side of the room, staring at the remaining eggs. Nearly all had failed. Some had hatched, but died immediately upon emerging. None had survived more than a few minutes.
"Arghh..." he muttered, clutching his own hair. The frustration he had buried for centuries was beginning to boil over.
"Creating dragons is so damn hard... What must I do to forge a dragon in Middle-earth that can rival those across the continent of Kalimondor?" he thought aloud. He looked westward, toward the distant horizon, to where the ancient continent of Kalimondor once stood before the cataclysmic explosion of the Well of Eternity shattered most of its landmass.
As Silmalorë remained lost in thought, he heard footsteps approaching from behind. He turned quickly and saw Brandish, one of the most loyal Valar, walking toward him. Brandish's face was serious.
Without a word, Brandish went straight to the newly hatched dragon and began feeding it the minced meat Silmalorë had prepared earlier.
"Brandish, what a coincidence you came here," said Silmalorë.
"What is it, Lord Silmalorë? Are you planning to create something else?" replied Brandish, still feeding the little dragon.
"Yes. Help me forge the rings of power. Gather the materials over there. Let's melt them down," ordered Silmalorë, pointing to the metal racks and stone chests filled with raw materials.
"What shall we use, Lord Silmalorë?"
"We'll use Adamant for the Water ring, Ruby for Fire, Emerald for Earth, Amethyst for Air, Thunderstone for Lightning, Sapphire for Light, and Obsidian for Darkness," Silmalorë replied with a firm, calculated tone.
"Understood, Lord Silmalorë," Brandish answered without hesitation. He moved swiftly, collecting each of the named gemstones, ensuring none were left behind.
Meanwhile, Silmalorë descended into the depths of Angband. He lit the great furnace connected directly to the magma flow from the planet's core. The heat was intense, but he remained calm and focused. Once he confirmed the furnace was active and stable, he ascended to the peak of Angband's tower, where he usually performed metalwork.
There, he began preparing all the metals he had studied and gathered during his journeys through Valinor and Middle-earth with Thorondor and Treebeard. He fed the furnace with various metals: mithril, gold, silver, adamantium, and several rare ores found only in the deepest layers of the earth.
Silmalorë watched intently as the metals began to melt into a glowing liquid. One by one, he poured the molten substance into ring-shaped molds with precise care. Once the casting was complete, he cooled the rings using a stream of magically controlled cold air.
Just as he was about to begin reforging, he heard footsteps approaching. He turned and saw Brandish arriving at the summit of Angband's tower, carrying all the gemstones previously mentioned. Brandish placed them carefully on the prepared stone table.
"Lord Silmalorë, I've brought the gems you requested," said Brandish, handing them over one by one.
"Good, Brandish. Thank you. Now help me hold these rings. I'm about to begin the reforging," Silmalorë replied, taking up a forging hammer made from an unknown metal, infused with his own life energy.
"Of course, Lord Silmalorë," Brandish answered eagerly. He had a deep love for the forging process, much like Aulë, the world-shaper.
Silmalorë stood atop the highest tower of Angband. He raised his hand slowly, then began the forging.
"Diiiiinnngggg!!!"
The clang of the hammer echoed throughout the tower. Each strike sent vibrations that merged with the flow of life magic from Silmalorë's body. Bright light began to radiate from the forge, mingling with the magical energy coursing through the rings and gemstones.
As he hammered, Silmalorë murmured inwardly. Time was running short. He estimated that in 80,000 years, trolls would rise in Kalimondor, and in just 5,000 years, the Highborne and Night Elves would awaken and begin mastering arcane magic—dangerous and volatile.
Meanwhile, his children—the Elves and Dwemer—were still bound to the magic of Tolkien's world. The song-magic of Ilúvatar, which borrowed the spirits of nature and relied on harmony with the world around them, though beautiful and powerful, was not enough to withstand the destructive force of the Burning Legion from Azeroth.
Silmalorë knew that if he didn't act soon, his created races would be wiped out before they could truly flourish. He had once taught his personal magic to the Valar, so they could pass it on to the Elves and Dwemer. This magic did not originate from Arda—it was inspired by the game world of Dragon Nest from his previous life. Elemental-based magic, with aggressive energy control and flexible casting techniques.
Yet even that magic, he realized, was still insufficient to rival the sorcery of Warcraft—a power capable of opening dark portals and summoning entities from other dimensions.
And so, he resolved to forge rings of power—magical artifacts that would enhance the spellcasting abilities of the Elven and Dwemer leaders. These rings would serve as energy binders, reservoirs of power, and instruments of magical control for those who wore them.
He had designed seven rings for the Elves, seven for the Dwemer, and nine for the Dúnedain—the direct descendants of Elven-Dwemer unions.
Brandish assisted Silmalorë, preparing the furnace, regulating the temperature, and arranging the gemstones he had gathered. Atop the towering peaks of Angband, the sound of hammer strikes continued to ring out.
Silmalorë's forging hammer, crafted from mysterious metal and charged with life energy, struck the rare metals he had collected over millennia. Each blow released a radiant light from the forge, fused with the life magic flowing from his body. The light was so intense it could be seen across all of Middle-earth and Valinor. Even the ancient continent of Kalimondor, far beyond the sea, witnessed the flash piercing the night sky.
At Wyrmrest Temple, where the Dragon Aspects convened, the atmosphere shifted abruptly. Alexstrasza, Ysera, Nozdormu, Malygos, and Neltharion were deep in discussion about the balance of the world. But their conversation halted instantly as a blinding light flared from the west. The flash was so brilliant it pierced the sky and reflected off the temple's crystal walls.
All five Dragon Aspects turned in unison. Their eyes narrowed, each sensing a surge of immense magical energy coming from the distant continent.
"A tremendous surge of magic," murmured Malygos, the guardian of arcane power, staring at the sky with a wary expression.
"Seems someone is crafting something... across the sea," replied Alexstrasza, her voice calm but laced with concern.
"I feel it too. A surge of natural energy..." Ysera murmured, closing her eyes briefly to attune herself to the flow of magic.
"I've told you all countless times—I can never see the future of Valinor and Middle-earth across the sea!" shouted Nozdormu, his voice thick with frustration. He clenched his teeth, disturbed by his inability to read the timelines of that region.
"Calm down, Nozdormu. We all know that continent wasn't shaped by the Pantheon or the Titan-forged," Ysera replied, trying to ease the tension.
"Why don't we just kill them all?" Neltharion snapped, his voice cold and laced with dark intent.
"Silence, Neltharion. That solves nothing," Alexstrasza retorted sharply, her eyes locking onto his with unwavering resolve.
The debate dragged on throughout the day. Each Dragon Aspect voiced their thoughts, but none truly understood what was unfolding on the distant continent. Tension mounted until Malygos finally cut through the noise.
"What if we go there? It's been ages since we last visited that region," he said, his voice steady and filled with curiosity.
"You're right. The last time we went, we met Geraint and Velskud while defeating Galakrond," Alexstrasza replied, recalling a memory that still lingered vividly in her mind.
The five Dragon Aspects exchanged glances. None objected. Their curiosity was too great, and the potential threat rising from Valinor could no longer be ignored. They knew the world was shifting, and they couldn't afford to remain idle.
Without another word, the five Dragon Aspects unfurled their wings and soared together toward the continent of Valinor. Their bodies sliced through the wind, crossing the vast ocean that separated Azeroth from the world long hidden from the Titans' gaze.
In the distance, the light from the peak of Angband still blazed—an unmistakable sign that something monumental was being forged.