The dittany had finally matured.
Sylas gazed at the two tall, vibrant plants on his windowsill, their silvery-green leaves swaying gently under the soft glow of the moonlight. But there was no hesitation in his heart.
With a swift motion, he drew one of his bone cleavers and, with two clean strokes, cut both stalks at their base.
He set a pot over a small fire, chopped the dittany into small pieces, and tossed them in to steam.
A rich, earthy aroma began to rise.
Once the herbs were fully softened, Sylas strained the mixture through a cloth, separating the essence from the pulp. Then, he returned the strained juice to the pot, letting it simmer down slowly until most of the liquid evaporated.
What remained was a thick, greenish salve coating the bottom of the pot, a shimmering paste, faintly glowing in the moonlight.
This was Dittany Extract, known in the magical world as one of the most potent healing potions available without a wand.
It was simple to brew, required no cauldron stirring or wandwork, and yet its effects were remarkable. While it couldn't mend injuries caused by Dark Magic, it could heal cuts, burns, and bruises with astonishing speed.
Sylas carefully scooped the potion into two jars: one large, one small. The larger would remain in his satchel for emergencies. The smaller, he intended as a gift.
He walked into the cozy sitting room and handed the smaller jar to Drogo Baggins.
"For you," Sylas said with a smile. "A little thank-you for your generous hospitality."
Drogo held the jar curiously. "What is it? Some kind of balm?"
"A potion. For healing wounds," Sylas replied.
To demonstrate, he gently reached into the small animal cage and lifted out a plump field mouse. With a tiny blade, he made a careful cut on its back. The mouse squeaked and squirmed, blood beginning to well up along the incision.
Drogo's eyes went wide in alarm.
"Sylas! What in the Shire are you doing to that poor thing?"
But before he could protest further, Sylas dabbed a bit of the green ointment onto the wound.
The bleeding stopped instantly. Within seconds, the wound sealed completely, leaving nothing but smooth, unbroken fur. The mouse twitched, blinked, then began grooming itself as if nothing had happened.
Drogo stared, mouth agape.
"That's… that's a miracle!" he whispered, clutching the jar in both hands as though it might vanish.
His brow furrowed with guilt. "I can't possibly accept this. This has to be worth a small fortune."
But Sylas simply laughed and shook his head. "Think nothing of it, truly. This potion is easy enough for me to make, and your kindness these past few days meant a great deal to me."
He gently pushed the jar back into Drogo's hands. "Please. I insist."
Drogo hesitated, then nodded, clearly touched. "Thank you, Sylas."
With a fresh stock of Dittany Elixir in his satchel, Sylas felt far more confident venturing into the Old Forest.
Over the following weeks, he made frequent trips to its outskirts, never wandering too deep, always keeping an escape route in mind. He'd dart in, collect a few promising branches, and flee before the forest could retaliate.
And retaliate it did.
Each encounter became a test of wits and reflexes, but Sylas relished it. His spellcasting sharpened noticeably. Every skirmish with an animated root or a lashing branch became a live training session. He practiced everything, from the Shield Charm and Leg-Locking Curse to more obscure hexes from Jinxes for the Jinxed. Even the basic incantations from The Standard Book of Spells, Grade 1 felt more refined in his hands.
Of course, it wasn't without cost. Branches bruised, roots tripped, and thorny vines scratched him more times than he could count. But with Dittany Elixir close at hand, Sylas never stayed down for long.
To him, the Old Forest had become something like a personal training ground. He treated the trees like sparring partners in a beginner's village, never realizing that the forest itself had begun to hold a grudge.
The more he returned, the more the trees whispered in their ancient tongue, rustling not with wind but with warning. Their roots spread and thickened beneath the moss. Their limbs grew restless.
And they began to plan.
Two months passed in Bucklebury, longer than Sylas had stayed anywhere outside of Bag End. But with his growing mastery of magic and a stack of harvested wand woods, he felt it was time to take the next step.
He had gathered dozens of branches, ash, poplar, holly, redwood, cypress, and more. All of them channelled magic to varying degrees, but none resonated with him. Each one introduced a bit of resistance, a sluggishness that told him: this wand would never choose you.
So now, it was time to go deeper.
He packed provisions, strapped his blades to his belt, and bid farewell to Drogo Baggins.
"I may be gone for a few days," Sylas said.
With that, he slipped through the secret passage in the hedge and entered the forest once more.
But something was different.
Sylas stopped just beyond the treeline and narrowed his eyes. The air was still. Unnaturally so.
The usual rustling of leaves, the distant creak of ancient limbs, even the faint whisper of wind, all had vanished.
It was silent.
No low groans of shifting roots, no angry swaying of limbs. The trees, which had once greeted him with hostility, now loomed quietly, watching.
Too quietly.
Sylas pressed deeper into the Old Forest, though the system remained silent.
He frowned. 'Was the Old Forest not a valid location? Or perhaps…' he glanced ahead into the thick, looming wood, 'did he have to reach the forest's heart?'
Pushing forward, he kept his hand loose and ready, every step echoing faintly against the mossy forest floor. The deeper he went, the more twisted the trees became. Their gnarled branches arched above him like the crooked backs of ancient beasts.
Then, without warning, a narrow path opened up before him.
It hadn't been there a moment ago.
The trees had moved, clearly, purposefully. Their trunks creaked as they shifted aside, parting like curtains to form a corridor through the woods.
Sylas stopped at the path's mouth.
He stared down it, brows furrowed. The air ahead shimmered faintly, as if holding its breath. Around him, the trees pulsed with barely contained hostility.
Still, curiosity had its grip on him. He stepped forward.
The moment his boot touched the new path, the trees behind him snapped shut.
Thick trunks groaned as they pressed together, sealing his way out. Towering limbs locked overhead. The exit was gone.
It's a trap.
Before he could turn back, they came.
Branches whipped through the air like clubs, cracking against the ground beside him. Roots burst up from the earth, writhing like serpents, aiming to trip, bind, or pierce him.
"Protego!" Sylas shouted.
A translucent shield shimmered to life just in time to deflect a crashing blow.
"Locomotor Mortis!"
The Leg-Locking Curse struck a snaking root, freezing it mid-lash. It coiled in on itself helplessly.
"Petrificus Totalus!"
A sweeping pine branch froze in midair, locked stiff like a statue.
Sylas moved quickly, weaving through the chaos with calm precision. He had dueled the trees of the Old Forest many times before, and their tactics were no longer unfamiliar. They favored ambushes and overwhelming numbers, but they weren't subtle, nor particularly fast.
His spells flew effortlessly now, more refined than when he first arrived. And as he pushed forward, he made sure to collect branches from any new species of tree that crossed his path.
But what gradually unsettled Sylas was how the trees began to press in from every side.
More and more of them shuffled into position, blocking every path of retreat. The only route left was the narrow one that led deeper into the Old Forest, toward its mysterious heart.
Sylas narrowed his eyes.
It was no accident.
The forest was guiding him, funneling him like prey. The sudden appearance of the path, the calculated retreat of the trees, it was all part of a trap meant to corral him into the heart of the woods.
Most would have turned back in fear.
But Sylas already had an idea of what lay at the center. He moved forward without hesitation.
Behind him, the trees slowly crept back into place, sealing the forest corridor shut. Within moments, the path he had taken vanished behind a wall of bark and leave, as if it had never been there at all.
He pressed on, weaving between gnarled trunks and dodging creeping roots. The relentless pursuit of the forest drove him forward, until dusk fell over the land like a velvet curtain.
The mist thickened. The trees closed in tighter. Even the moonlight, faint as it was, could no longer pierce the dense canopy overhead.
Sylas raised his hand and whispered, "Lumos."
The tip of his hand lit up, casting a silver glow around his feet and revealing the forest path, just enough to keep going without stumbling.
His breath came heavy. Leaves brushed against his cloak like grasping fingers. But at last, the trees began to thin.
He broke through the treeline and stepped into a strange, open hollow.
The change was jarring.
No towering trees loomed here. Instead, low shrubs covered the earth, and soft grass stretched across a wide valley. A gentle stream wound its way through the clearing, glittering faintly in the light.
And there, beside the stream, stood a willow.
But not just any willow.
The ancient tree loomed like a sleeping titan. Its bark was silver-gray, thick with age, and the vast crown of branches spread in every direction like reaching arms. The trunk twisted unnaturally, its surface split with deep, jagged cracks that resembled a gaping, mocking grin.
As the wind stirred its limbs, the tree groaned.