Inside the hall,
After Celeborn and Gandalf exchanged pleasantries, their gazes turned to Sylas, Bilbo, and Legolas.
However, most of their attention rested on Sylas.
"This must be the Black-robed Wizard Sylas," Celeborn said with measured admiration. "The one who subdued the dragon Smaug, slew the Orc chieftains Azog and Bolg, and turned the tide of the Battle of the Five Armies. It is truly better to meet than merely hear of such deeds. You are even younger and more extraordinary than I imagined."
"Thank you for your kind words, Lord Celeborn," Sylas replied with a slight bow and a calm smile, accepting the praise with graceful humility.
Though Celeborn was not as widely sung in the songs of men as Elrond of Rivendell or Thranduil of the Woodland Realm, and though his wife Galadriel's renown and might far surpassed his own in the eyes of many across Middle-earth, it did not mean he was a figure to be taken lightly.
To have won the heart and trust of Galadriel, one of the wisest and most powerful Elves in the world, meant Celeborn was no ordinary Elf-lord.
Sylas had never once looked down on him, regardless of those who called him "the man behind Galadriel."
Celeborn observed the young Wizard's respectful yet composed manner and felt a quiet appreciation in his heart.
"Galadriel once told me," Celeborn said, "that Middle-earth would one day welcome a wizard unlike any before. It seems her foresight has not failed her."
"Lady Galadriel flatters me," Sylas said with a light shake of his head. "I am but an ordinary wizard."
"An ordinary wizard does not tame a dragon," Celeborn said, a trace of amusement in his voice.
His gaze then turned to Legolas. The warmth in his eyes deepened, a reflection of the kinship between them.
"Thranduil's son," he said, "shines like a star under twilight. I see in you the grace your father once carried in his youth. Is he well?"
Legolas bowed low, his tone respectful and formal.
"My father is in good health, Lord Celeborn. He sends you his greetings. He often speaks of you, saying your wisdom runs deeper than the still lakes beneath the Misty Mountains, and older than the forest roots of Mirkwood."
Though Thranduil and Celeborn shared no bloodline, both were of the Sindar, the Grey Elves, and the ancient bond of kinship between their kind remained strong.
Celeborn received the compliment with a gracious nod, and addressed Legolas with the warmth of an elder speaking to a favored kinsman.
He soon offered gentle words of welcome to Bilbo as well, whose polite and slightly nervous replies brought a quiet smile to Galadriel's lips.
Throughout it all, Galadriel stood beside her husband, her presence serene and radiant. She observed each guest with soft, discerning eyes, saying little but seeing much.
When the greetings had concluded, she turned to the Elves beside her and gave a simple command. Preparations were to be made for a dinner to honor the guests who had traveled far to reach their Golden Wood.
The meal that followed was not extravagant, but it was refined, quiet, and full of grace.
The Lord and Lady sat at the head of the table. Seated alongside them were Gandalf, Sylas, Bilbo, and Legolas.
Another joined the gathering: Arwen Undómiel, the daughter of Elrond, known among many as the Evenstar of her people. She had dwelled in Lothlórien since her youth and was the beloved granddaughter of Galadriel and Celeborn.
She arrived with gentle poise, her raven-dark hair flowing like silk, her grey eyes clear and deep as starlit pools. Her skin was pale as moonlight on snow, and her every movement carried the lightness and dignity of her lineage.
She bore the blood of the Maia through her grandmother Galadriel. Through her ancestry via Elrond, she bore the blood of Elros and the Houses of Men."
Such a complex and noble lineage endowed her with the divinity of the Maia, the elegance of Elves, and the free will of humans.
Nestled beside Lady Galadriel, the Elven Princess Arwen radiated a quiet grace that caught Sylas's attention. If Galadriel's beauty was like the full moon, dazzling, ethereal, and regal, like a queen of the night sky who inspired awe, then Arwen's beauty was that of a twilight star: soft, pure, and gently radiant, captivating without overwhelming.
It was clear that Arwen was deeply cherished in Lothlórien. She carried the brightness of maidenhood and sat close to Celeborn and Galadriel with familial warmth. The Lord and Lady of the Golden Wood watched her with affectionate and protective eyes.
As Sylas studied the Evenstar, Arwen, too, seemed curious about the young wizard in black robes, the one who had tamed a dragon and turned the tide of the Battle of the Five Armies. Their eyes met.
Arwen paused, then offered him a gentle, courteous smile and nodded.
Sylas, unfazed at being caught admiring her, returned the gesture with equal calm and politeness.
Yet inside, a ripple of melancholy stirred in his heart.
This was the Elf maiden who would one day surrender her immortality for love. After Aragorn's passing and the fading of the Elves, she would choose solitude over the sea, wandering the remnants of Elven realms until her end.
Would she regret it, in those final, lonely days?
But such sorrow was still far off. Aragorn was merely a child in Rivendell now, barely old enough to hold a sword. There was no love story yet.
Sylas smirked inwardly. Perhaps he should meddle a bit, connect the hearths of Lothlórien and Rivendell with enchanted fireplaces. Let Arwen meet little Aragorn early.
And if she could fall for the scruffy little rascal even then… well, then Sylas would admit it truly was destiny.
Before he could entertain more such mischief, a familiar sound echoed in his mind:
[Hogwarts Sign-In System: Current location – Lothlórien. Would you like to sign in?]
Sylas blinked, then replied in thought, Sign in.
[Sign-in successful. Congratulations! You have acquired the Talent: Prophecy.]
'Wait. What?'
He froze. The image of Professor Trelawney flared in his mind, wild hair, giant glasses, and dramatic declarations of doom.
'Please don't let it be that kind of prophecy…'
But instead of confusion or madness, something else bloomed within him.
A calm, lucid awareness spread through his mind, as though a third eye had quietly opened. The world seemed clearer, the threads of fate more visible. A mystical aura surrounded him, subtle but undeniable.
And the change did not go unnoticed.
Gandalf's brows lifted. Galadriel's gaze sharpened. Even Celeborn, serene and measured, turned toward Sylas with a flicker of astonishment.
"That is..." For the first time, Celeborn's composed face showed a change, filled with doubt and astonishment.
"It is the power of fate," Galadriel murmured, her gaze shimmering as she spoke with certainty.
"Sylas, are you alright?" Gandalf asked, concern etched in his voice as he stepped forward.
Sylas turned toward him, just about to reply, when suddenly, a torrent of images he had never seen before surged through his mind.
And then, as if compelled by some invisible force, he spoke.
"The Age of the Elves will wane… and the Age of Men shall rise. On the day the broken sword is reforged, the crownless shall again be king. Darkness shall stir once more, and the Dark Lord seeks his lost treasure."
His voice, calm and hollow, seemed to echo with a power not entirely his own. He spoke not as himself, but as a vessel of prophecy, detached from emotion, revealing fate's quiet design.
The entire hall fell deathly still.
All eyes were on Sylas, his expression vacant, eyes unfocused, as the last words left his lips.
Then, at once, clarity returned to him. He blinked, cleared his throat awkwardly, and offered a sheepish cough.
Only then did the others stir again.
"Sylas," Gandalf said slowly, his expression complex, "you never told me you were capable of prophecy."
Sylas coughed again, slightly embarrassed. "To be honest… I just found out."
Gandalf shook his head, half in exasperation, half in awe. Of course, Sylas had secrets, but so did he. The wizard chose not to press.
Instead, he turned to Galadriel and Celeborn. "What do you make of his words?"
In truth, prophecy was not foreign to Middle-earth.
There was Glorfindel's ancient foretelling: that the Witch-king of Angmar would not fall by the hand of man. And indeed, it was Éowyn of Rohan and the Hobbit Merry, neither of them "men" in that context, who brought him down.
Then there was Malbeth the Seer of Arthedain, who foresaw that Aragorn would brave the Paths of the Dead and summon the Oathbreakers to fulfill their ancient vow.
Even Elrond and Galadriel, through their long years and wisdom, glimpsed fragments of what might come. Yet none of them possessed prophecy as an inherent talent. Their visions came through foresight and insight, not through fate itself choosing their tongue.
So while Sylas's sudden display surprised them, it did not shock them.
What held their focus was the content of the prophecy.
"The meaning is clear," Galadriel said softly, her gaze turning toward the East, where shadows brewed. "The Dark Lord rises again. Sauron is seeking the One Ring."
Her voice darkened slightly. "Clearly, it was not lost to the sea as we once believed."
Celeborn frowned deeply. "When Isildur fell in the Gladden Fields, the One Ring was lost. It's said that Orcs, Men, and even Elves searched long… but nothing was ever found."
He glanced at Gandalf. "If it wasn't claimed by the river, then… where is it now?"
"It must be hidden… or already in someone's hands," Gandalf replied grimly.
At those words, Bilbo's expression twitched.
He lowered his head, hand instinctively slipping into his pocket to brush the cool metal of the simple gold ring.
Since entering Lothlórien, the Ring had fallen oddly quiet, no whispers, no strange pull, no weight of dread. It felt… like a harmless trinket.
But Sylas was watching him closely.
He'd brought Bilbo here for this very moment, so that Galadriel, Celeborn, or Gandalf could sense the truth.
The One Ring, no matter how calm it pretended to be, was a danger.
Sylas wasn't planning to wait another seventy years for Frodo to take it to Mordor. Why delay when they could act now, while Sauron's power remained fractured?
If he could toss the Ring into Mount Doom early, the Dark Lord could be cut off from returning entirely.
Why wait for war when peace was still an option?
As Bilbo fidgeted with guilt and uncertainty, Sylas silently walked over to him and laid a gentle hand on his shoulder.
The Hobbit froze.
Slowly, he turned to meet Sylas's eyes.
Sylas gave him a quiet nod, and said in a low, firm voice only Bilbo could hear:
"Do you remember what I told you back in the Misty Mountains? Think of Gollum. Is that what you want to become?"
The moment Sylas spoke the name, a shiver ran down Bilbo's spine.
The image of Gollum, pale, shriveled, muttering to himself in the dark, flashed through his mind.
He trembled.