"Chase him!" Sylas barked without hesitation.
Smaug roared in answer, and Thorondor's massive wings beat the air as they surged after the retreating Frost Dragon.
Only the Basilisk was affected by the cold, his body sluggish and his golden eyes dimmed by the cold. He coiled himself weakly on the ground, barely holding onto consciousness. Seeing this, Sylas made a quick decision, he left Herpo there to rest. "Sleep for now," he murmured. "I'll come back for you."
The Frost Dragon moved with terrifying speed, his thousand-meter-long body weaving through the crags of the Misty Mountains as if treading open plains. Behind him, Sylas and his companions rained relentless attacks, Smaug's Flame streaking like lightning across the snow-capped ridges, Thorondor's shadow sweeping over the peaks.
Hrívemir's earlier life-burning outburst had stripped him of his freezing breath for the time being, but his might remained monstrous. The blast had forged a new layer of armor, ice harder than steel, which even Smaug's inferno could not melt easily.
Sylas, whose magic reserves had waned, dismissed his Obscurus form and rematerialized in human shape, climbing atop Smaug's back to continue the pursuit. The black wind that had once carried him now gave way to flesh and wand once more.
The hunt stretched across countless ridges until they reached Silverlode Peak, near the entrance to Moria.
From afar, the dwarves stationed at Durin's Tower, who once saw Smaug and Thorondor, now beheld a dragon even larger than both combined. Alarmed, they raised their horns, and the echoes of warning rolled through the mountain halls like thunder.
Sylas paid them no heed. His gaze was fixed on Hrívemir, who had finally halted upon a plateau of broken stone.
The Frost Dragon panted heavily, his breaths labored and uneven. It was not exhaustion that weakened him, but poison.
Herpo's venom had finally taken root. Even a creature of Morgoth's ancient forging could not ignore such poison forever. Yet Hrívemir still stood. That alone made Sylas's heart tighten with grim respect.
But admiration gave way to caution. The greater the beast, the deadlier its last struggle.
The ice armor around Hrívemir's body had melted under Smaug's continuous flame. His glacial blue eyes flickered with fear and calculation as he rasped:
"Wizard, I am willing to surrender! Spare my life, and I will serve you, just as that dragon!"
Sylas raised an eyebrow. "You want to surrender… to me?"
"Yes!" Hrívemir's massive head dipped quickly, his voice trembling but sly.
Smaug's scales bristled, and his eyes gleamed with offense. "Master, don't listen to that fork-tongued liar! There's no such thing as a good dragon besides me!"
The Frost Dragon turned his gaze, his tone mocking and persuasive.
"Wizard," he hissed, "you'd do better to keep me than that little worm. I am Hrívemir, eldest of the frost brood, born before your sun first rose. I know the secrets of Morgoth, the first Dark Lord. My power dwarfs this petty gold-hoarder's! With me, you could rule all of Middle-earth. You could replace Sauron and make the world kneel at your feet."
His words dripped with poisonous allure, echoing across the stone. Even Smaug snarled uneasily, his fire flickering hotter at the insult.
Sylas seemed to consider, his expression unreadable. "If you truly wish to serve me," he said at last, "then swear it. Bind yourself to a magical oath, one that forbids you from ever betraying me. Obey my every command. Can you do that?"
Hrívemir's eyes narrowed, hesitation flashing across them. For a long moment, the mountains held their breath.
Then, under the combined stares of Sylas, Smaug, and Thorondor, the Frost Dragon's arrogance broke.
"I… am willing," he growled finally, lowering his head in grudging submission.
Sylas's lips curved into a slow smile.
"Then I'll Apparate onto your back," Sylas said evenly. "You must not resist, and sign the oath contract with me."
The Frost Dragon lowered his head and nodded obediently.
Smaug, hovering nearby, grew visibly anxious. "Master, don't! Don't trust him! This old wyrm's lived for ages, he's cunning beyond words. He'd never surrender so easily."
Sylas turned and patted Smaug's neck softly. "It's alright, Smaug. Trust me. No matter what happens, you are, and will always be, my most trusted companion."
With that, Sylas vanished in a shimmer of air.
An instant later, he reappeared atop the Frost Dragon's icy back. Raising his wand, he spoke in calm authority:
"Now, we'll perform a blood oath. One drop of your blood, and one of mine, fused to form an unbreakable bond. Do not resist."
The Frost Dragon bowed his enormous head, fangs glinting. "Of course, Master," he said with disarming meekness. Then, biting the tip of his tongue, he let a stream of frigid blood pour from his mouth, hissing as it hit the frozen scales.
He turned his head slightly, feigning submission. "Master, is this blood enough?"
Sylas waved his hand quickly. "Enough! Just a drop will do. No need to bleed yourself dry."
"That's good," the Dragon rumbled. "Then… please, take it."
He lowered his head, eyes warm and docile, until, in a heartbeat, they turned cruel and gleaming with malice.
A deafening roar tore from his throat, and a torrent of blinding cold erupted from his jaws, engulfing Sylas completely.
Caught off guard, Sylas was frozen solid in an instant, transformed into a sculpture of ice and silence.
"Master!!!" Smaug's roar split the sky, full of disbelief and fury.
Thorondor let out a mournful cry and dove at the Frost Dragon, talons extended. But Hrívemir spewed another burst of frost upward. The Great Eagle dodged, yet one of his vast wings caught the icy blast. Crystals raced across his feathers, and his flight faltered, he spiraled helplessly downward.
The Frost Dragon threw back his head and laughed. "Hahaha! Just a foolish mortal, fooled by a few kind words!"
He gazed triumphantly at the frozen Sylas. "Did you really think I'd serve you? My master has ever been the Great Dark Lord Morgoth himself! Not even Sauron could make me bow, let alone a petty wizard like you!"
He sneered, lowering his massive head to the ice sculpture. "Now that you're in my grasp, I'll devour you and end this insult!"
With that, the Frost Dragon opened his jaws and swallowed the frozen Sylas whole.
Then he turned his gaze to Smaug circling in the air above, eyes burning with disdain.
"And you! You bow to a human's command? Pathetic! Your master is dead now, so begone!"
If his wings had not been broken, he would have flown up to crush Smaug himself. Instead, he merely bared his fangs in contempt.
Just then, a calm voice drifted down from the sky:
"Who said his master is dead?"
The air shimmered, and Sylas appeared once more, standing on Smaug's back, alive and whole, smiling faintly.
The Frost Dragon's pupils contracted sharply. "Impossible! How are you still alive?!"
"Ah," Sylas said lightly, tilting his head. "So you noticed. Tell me, are you feeling a bit… warm in your stomach right now?"
A flicker of unease crossed the Dragon's face. "What...what did I just eat?"
Sylas's smile deepened. "You're a quick one, Hrívemir. I did think your cold stomach might need a bit of heat, so I prepared something special, Balrog Fire Crystals, among other things."
He raised a hand, and the faint glow of scarlet light began to pulse beneath the Frost Dragon's chest scales.
From the very beginning, both had been pretending, each waiting for the perfect moment to strike.
The few seconds Sylas seemed to delay when Apparating onto the Frost Dragon's back were not wasted at all.
In truth, he had Apparated first to a hidden valley nearby, one of his pre-prepared anchor points.
And the "Sylas" that the Frost Dragon had swallowed was no more than an elaborate decoy: a Mithril furnace transfigured into Sylas' likeness. Within it, he had sealed every last Balrog Fire Crystal in his possession, and then, using a Portkey, teleported the furnace onto the Frost Dragon's back in the instant before reappearing on Smaug.
The trap had been laid before Hrívemir even realized the game had begun.
Balrog Fire Crystals were among the most dangerous materials in existence, crystals forged from the condensed power of the Balrog over centuries within their fiery lairs deep in Moria's Abyss.
Each crystal pulsed with temperatures so extreme they could melt Mithril like butter. And since Balrogs were higher beings than Dragons, the fiery power sealed within those crystals could never be extinguished by even the Frost Dragon's coldest breath.
Now, Hrívemir had swallowed that entire Mithril furnace, a time bomb forged in the fires of Morgoth's own servants.
When Sylas lifted his wand and murmured the activation spell, a faint crimson gleam rippled through the runes of his staff.
Inside the Frost Dragon's stomach, the Mithril furnace stirred, and then opened.
In an instant, the heat of the Balrog Fire Crystals surged outward.
The once-freezing depths of the Frost Dragon's gut became a molten inferno. Temperatures soared past tens of thousands of degrees, boiling his gastric fluids into vapor and roasting his inner flesh.
The vast cavity of his stomach swelled like an inflating balloon, trembling with unbearable heat and pressure.
Outside, as Sylas' quiet words faded, Hrívemir let out a roar that shook mountains.
He convulsed violently, smashing through boulders and uprooting trees as he rolled in agony. The earth quaked beneath him. His screams echoed for miles, even reaching the deep caverns of Moria, where startled Dwarves paused mid-labor, glancing upward in alarm.
Sylas watched coldly from above as the Frost Dragon writhed, his massive belly bulging grotesquely. From the Dragon's throat, jets of superheated vapor erupted, like a boiling cauldron whistling under unbearable pressure.
Soon, even his scales began to glow from within, turning red-hot like molten iron. The immense creature glowed across the darkened mountains like a fiery star, his colossal frame trembling as his innards cooked.
The stench of burning flesh filled the wind.
Hrívemir's roars turned to wheezing gasps, then to silence. His once-proud eyes, cold and cunning, now burned with pain, disbelief, and unwillingness.
Sylas raised his staff.
"Avada Kedavra."
The emerald curse shot forth, piercing through the furnace of flame that the Frost Dragon had become.
For a heartbeat, the world held its breath. Then the light faded from Hrívemir's pupils.