A dazzling spell struck Saruman, hitting him squarely in the chest. His scream tore through the chamber as his body convulsed, the soul within him trembling from the force of the impact. He collapsed, weakened and gasping.
Sylas frowned slightly. The Killing Curse was meant to tear a soul from its vessel instantly, ensuring death without fail. Yet, against a Maia like Saruman, whose spirit was ancient and powerful, it only wounded him.
It would take dozens of Killing Curses to completely destroy such a being. But each one demanded concentrated malice, and even Sylas knew that too many would drive him into madness before they killed Saruman.
Fortunately, the Killing Curse was not his only weapon.
He lifted his staff, and Fiendfyre erupted from the ground, vast, roaring, and alive. The flames filled the room, wrapping both figures in their fury.
Around Sylas, the inferno flickered harmlessly, leaving not a single burn. But around Saruman, it became a storm of searing destruction.
The fallen wizard screamed, summoning every last trace of his magic to resist, but within the anti-magic field, his power was nothing. The Fiendfyre devoured him whole.
Moments later, Saruman's cries faded into silence. His form collapsed into ash, and only the Dwarven Ring on his hand remained, glowing faintly amid the flames. Even Fiendfyre, for all its power, could not consume a Ring of Power so easily.
When the fire at last subsided, Sylas exhaled slowly, satisfaction glinting in his eyes. He had done what no one in this age had yet managed, slain Saruman before his schemes could take root. Without him, Sauron would lose a key ally, and his strength would falter.
But the victory was short-lived. From the ashes, a pale mist began to rise, swirling and thickening until it formed Saruman's spectral shape.
The ghostly figure glared at Sylas, eyes blazing with hate. "Sylas," he hissed, his voice echoing unnaturally, "did you think destroying my body could end me? Remember this, I will return, and I will have my revenge!"
Then the spirit shot upward, passing through the tower walls like smoke, vanishing into the western sky.
A streak of gray light raced over Middle-earth. Elrond in Rivendell, Glorfindel, and Galadriel in Lothlórien all paused, sensing the disturbance. Other wizards, too, turned their gaze westward with grave expressions.
Back in the tower, Sylas stood still, watching the last wisp of spirit fade. His expression darkened.
These Maiar were truly troublesome. It was unfortunate that he had no means to trap souls; Saruman's escape meant another unpredictable threat in the future. Still, destroying his body was victory enough. For now, Isengard would remain silent.
Extinguishing the last tongues of Fiendfyre with a gesture, Sylas stepped forward. He swept away the ashes with a Scouring Charm and knelt before the fallen Dwarven Ring, examining its intricate engravings.
One of the Seven Rings of the Dwarves, of which only three still remained.
Unlike the other Rings of Power, the Dwarven Rings were creations of wealth and avarice. They amplified the fortune of their bearer, gold begot more gold, jewels begot rarer jewels. It was said that those who wore them became inexhaustibly rich, their hoards vast enough to stir the envy of dragons.
And indeed, four of the seven had perished that way, devoured by the flames of the dragons drawn to their bearers' treasures.
Only three Dwarven Rings remained, eventually returning to Sauron's hands.
The last of these Rings was taken from Thráin II, father of Thorin Oakenshield.
When the Rings were first forged, Sauron had infused them with dark power, forces that could amplify greed and desire, twisting hearts toward obsession.
Yet the Dwarves were unlike Men. Their minds were stubborn, their wills hard as stone. The Dwarven Rings could tempt them, but not enslave them. They could not be turned into Ringwraiths.
Sylas looked down at the ring before him, the so-called Ring of Wealth, but felt no hint of temptation.
His own riches were already vast, and with the Philosopher's Stone in his possession, capable of transmuting metal into gold with nothing but magic, he had no use for a trinket that required trade and time to gather fortune.
Besides, this ring still carried Sauron's taint. While the Dwarves could resist its corruption, others could not. Any mortal who wore it would slowly fall under the Dark Lord's influence.
With a flick of his wand, Sylas lifted the Dwarven Ring into the air and placed it into the mithril box alongside the Human Ring he had already secured.
This time, he truly felt a sense of achievement.
He had destroyed Saruman's body, slain a Ringwraith, and now held both a Dwarven Ring and a Human Ring of Power.
Sauron, he thought, must be seething with rage by now. Not only had he failed to find the One Ring, but he had lost two others, a humiliating and costly blow.
Mordor.
From the heart of Barad-dûr, a suffocating wave of darkness exploded outward.
The great fiery Eye atop the tower blazed with fury, its flames burning blood-red.
"Sylas!" Sauron's thunderous roar echoed across Mordor.
The very stones of the tower quaked, and every dark creature in the land cowered beneath the weight of his wrath.
Within the tower's depths, Sauron loomed before Saruman's disembodied soul, his voice colder than death itself.
"Saruman, explain to me why you were in the West, why you lost a Ring of Power and allowed your body to be destroyed by Sylas."
Saruman's spirit trembled under Sauron's gaze. He forced out a weak defense. "I only wished to assist you, my lord. Gollum was unfit to handle such a task. I went myself to hasten the recovery of the One Ring!"
"Is that so?" Sauron's tone dripped with contempt. "Or were you planning to take my Ring for yourself?"
His dark aura swelled like a storm, filling the tower with black mist that devoured all light.
"Those who betray me," Sauron hissed, "will know endless despair. Even death will not save them. You have lost your flesh, very well. Then you shall serve me as something better… my most powerful Ringwraith."
The air turned suffocating. Tendrils of shadow surged toward Saruman's soul, wrapping around him like chains.
"No! Sauron, you cannot!" Saruman's cry was laced with terror. "I will serve you! I will rebuild armies, fortresses, anything, just don't strip away my will!"
"But if I make you a Ringwraith," Sauron sneered, "you'll still serve me… only without the nuisance of disobedience."
He laughed, a sound like breaking iron. "In fact, I should thank Sylas. By destroying your body, he gave me the chance to claim your soul. Do not worry, I will let you avenge yourself one day. You will kill Sylas with your own hands."
Dark power erupted again. The Eye of Sauron blazed brighter, its pupil like a vast black abyss that reached for Saruman's fading soul.
Saruman's screams echoed through Barad-dûr before being swallowed completely by the darkness.
As a Maia, his soul would not be easily broken, it would take time to corrupt him fully. But Sauron was patient.
When the last trace of light vanished, the Eye turned westward, its fiery gaze piercing the horizon.
"Sylas," Sauron murmured, his voice cold and distant, "we have a long game ahead. Next time, it will be my turn."
...
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