Weathertop, the southernmost peak of the Weather Hills, faded behind Luke as he flew northward, mounted on the Great Eagle Sulond. They traversed the rolling expanse of the Weather Hills before crossing a stretch of open plains.
This was Luke's first time riding Sulond, and the experience was surprisingly smooth. The eagle, now far surpassing even the Lord of the Eagles in size, boasted a wingspan of 50 meters—a colossal growth made possible by the Ent-draughts. Perhaps only the ancestral Great Eagle had ever been larger. Treebeard, the venerable leader of the Ents, had taken a great liking to Sulond. Every time Luke sent the eagle to Fangorn Forest with plant-growth potions in exchange for Ent-draughts, Treebeard would generously provide extra portions specifically for Sulond.
As a result, the eagle's growth seemed boundless, his immense size continuing to expand. Had Sulondwished, he could have easily returned to the Misty Mountains and claimed the title of Eagle King. But neither Luke nor Sulondharbored such ambitions.
Despite his colossal size, Sulondwas still, at heart, an overgrown eaglet. His daily routine consisted primarily of patrolling his territory and engaging in playful aerial skirmishes with the giant squid Kraken over the Black Lake. For some inexplicable reason, the two creatures seemed instinctively antagonistic—Sulond would dive-bomb the lake, playfully taunting the squid, while Kraken retaliated by lashing out with its tentacles or shooting jets of water skyward.
Their regular clashes had become a peculiar spectacle for the residents of Hogsmeade. Thankfully, both knew their limits; their battles never escalated beyond good-natured brawling, so Luke allowed them their antics. At least this journey would grant the lake some temporary peace.
The Great Eagle's speed was staggering. In less than half a day, Luke spotted a distant ridge rising like a towering dam at the edge of the plains. This sprawling highland was the North Downs of Eriador—home to the ruins of the ancient city of Fornost. Once the proud capital of the Kingdom of Arthedain, Fornost had fallen into ruin after the Witch-king of Angmar overran the region. Like the Barrow-downs (which had been part of the fallen Kingdom of Cardolan), the city was now tainted by dark sorcery.
As Sulond circled above the ruins, Luke frowned. Beneath him, the land was steeped in malevolence—thick fog and storm clouds choked the sky, and an oppressive chill hung heavy in the air. Sulond grew restless, hesitating to descend into the gloom. Luke patted his neck reassuringly. "It's alright, Sulond. Land for now." Though wary, the eagle obeyed, touching down just outside the ruins.
Luke dismounted, surveying the crumbling city and its countless graves. A thought struck him: Are there Barrow-wights here too? He silently queried the System, but it remained unresponsive—evidently, he'd need to venture deeper. Unfazed, Luke instructed Sulond to stay airborne for backup before proceeding inward.
Picking his way through rubble and overgrown paths, he reached the city gates. The moment he stepped inside, the dormant evil awoke. Black mist surged, the temperature plummeted, and a spectral figure clawed its way from the earth—a wraith with hollow, glowing eyes and jagged talons. It lunged.
"Reducto!" Luke fired a spell, but the curse phased through the specter harmlessly. The wraith flashed forward like a shadow, forcing Luke to dodge. As it wheeled for another strike, he summoned the Glamdring.
The wraith, confident in its incorporeal form, ignored the gleaming blade—only to screech in agony as the sword seared through its essence like sunlight through frost. Luke wasn't surprised. His sword had been forged with basilisk venom, Fiendfyre, and the light of Eärendil—if it couldn't destroy a wraith, it'd be useless. But this was just the appetizer.
The main course arrived instantly: thousands of wraiths—men, women, children—poured from graves and fissures, their collective malice thickening the air with despair and rage. These were the cursed dead of Fornost, enslaved by the Witch-king's sorcery.
Unshaken, Luke raised his sword, then paused. "Expecto Patronum!"
A blinding silver light erupted, morphing into a gigantic spectral owl that tore through the wraiths, its talons shredding their forms. Luke joined the fray, his sword carving arcs of fire through the horde. As the wraiths dwindled, the System finally reacted:
[Hogwarts Check-in System: Location—North Downs (Fornost). Check in?]
"Check in."
[Reward: Dark Mark Magic acquired.]
The Dark Mark? Luke nearly faltered. Of all things, why this? The Dark Mark was Voldemort's dreaded sigil, a tool for branding and summoning Death Eaters. What possible use did he have for it? Still, the battle wasn't over.
Just as he resolved to purge the ruins (lest these wraiths someday threaten Weathertop), an unearthly howl echoed from the hills—half-wolf, half-demon. At once, the remaining wraiths retreated toward the sound. Luke's gaze sharpened. Something's controlling them. He whistled for Sulond.
The eagle dove, and Luke leapt onto his back. "Follow them!" They soared after the fleeing spirits, until a hail of arrows streaked up from the hillside! "Protego!" An invisible shield deflected the projectiles.
Below, hordes of squat, green-skinned creatures—goblins, but clearly not the Gringotts kind, scrambled from tunnels, their bulbous eyes glinting with malice. These were Orc-kind, smaller and more feral than even the goblins of the Misty Mountains, communicating in shrieks and guttural grunts.
Luke didn't hesitate. "Bombarda Maxima!" The hillside exploded, crushing dozens. The survivors fled, but then the wraiths possessed the corpses, reanimating them as shambling, shrieking horrors. Worse, the Patronus no longer affected them. Grimacing, Luke swung his sword, a fiery arc sliced through the undead, charring flesh to ash. Yet the wraiths simply leapt to new hosts, weakened but unrelenting. This just got complicated.