However, as the old saying goes: to do a good job, one must first sharpen their tools.
Sylas made his way to the Bucklebury blacksmith, where a skilled Hobbit craftsman helped him forge a set of fine wand-carving tools based on Sylas's detailed sketches. Hobbits weren't usually known for wand-making, but their knack for precise craftsmanship made them perfect for the task.
Armed with his new tools, Sylas returned to Drogo Baggins' home and began working on the willow wood.
He started with care, stripping away the bark with a narrow blade, then slowly carving and shaping the wand bit by bit, guided by the intuitive image the magic had placed in his mind.
Unfortunately, while his heart understood the craft, his hands did not.
Wand carving demanded precision, every curve, every taper, every cut had to be flawless. A minor slip could throw off the wand's balance or disrupt the flow of magic.
So it came as no surprise when his first attempt ended in failure.
He stared at the half-formed wand, the lines too jagged, the grip uneven. With a reluctant sigh, Sylas tossed the flawed piece into the fireplace, where it hissed and crackled away into ash.
Two sections of willow wood remained. He stared at them thoughtfully.
No. He couldn't risk ruining them as well.
Returning to the Old Forest and stealing more from the Old Willow Tree? Not unless he had a death wish. That ancient Huorn wouldn't fall for the same trick twice.
So, Sylas turned to the pile of leftover woods he'd gathered, chestnut, alder, elm, laurel, and others. None were ideal wand materials for him, but they were good enough for practice.
For the next two days, Sylas worked tirelessly, carving wand after wand.
None of them were magical masterpieces, but with each failure, his hands became steadier, his cuts smoother. He could feel his craftsmanship improving, slowly but surely.
By the end of the second day, the shapes were cleaner, the wood more elegant, and the balance, while not perfect, was no longer hopeless.
Then came the third night after his return from the Old Forest.
A piercing bell rang out, sharp and sudden, slicing through the quiet night like a blade. The entire area stirred with confusion.
A loud knock shook the door.
"Sylas! Wake up quickly!" came Drogo Baggins's anxious voice. "We need to get to Brandy Square right now!"
Sylas sat up groggily, blinking. "What's going on?"
Drogo's face was pale in the lantern light. "That bell you hear, it's the alarm bell for the Bramblewood District! In Bucklebury, it only rings when there's real danger. The last time it sounded was fifteen years ago, during the Brandywine flood. And now... I don't know what's happening, but it can't be good."
Sylas's expression turned serious. He leapt out of bed and dressed quickly.
Neither of them wasted time. Within minutes, they were out the door and making their way through the winding Hobbit lanes toward Brandy Square. All around them, sleepy-eyed Hobbits were doing the same, clutching cloaks and lanterns, their faces filled with worry and confusion.
The square was already brimming with townsfolk by the time they arrived. Sylas towered over the sea of curly heads, the only non-Hobbit in sight.
At the head of the square stood a row of Hobbit leaders, each dressed in traveling cloaks and belts of utility. These were members of the Brandybuck family, the old and respected stewards of Bucklebury, and at their center stood the district's patriarch, Rory Brandybuck.
Rory raised his hand high.
"Silence!"
The murmurs quieted at once.
Rory's tone was heavy and grave as he addressed the gathered Hobbits.
"My friends, something terrible is afoot. The Old Forest has turned against us."
A ripple of disbelief passed through the crowd.
"The trees have stirred. They've pushed against the High Hay and are trying to break through. We don't know why, only that they're moving, en masse, toward our lands. Toward our homes."
Gasps and cries rang out. A Hobbit near Sylas dropped his lantern.
"We can't let them succeed," Rory continued. "So I call on every able-bodied Hobbit to take up what you can, axes, hoes, rakes, anything that might fend them off. The elderly and children will remain behind. The rest of us go now to hold the line at the hedge."
The square erupted into panicked chatter. Fear rippled across the crowd like wind through tall grass. Some clung to their neighbors. Others hesitated, rooted in place.
Sylas stood frozen for a different reason.
'The Old Forest... Why now?' he thought grimly. 'Could it be because of me?'
He recalled the willow branch he'd taken. The fire. The spells. The way the trees had driven him toward their ancient heart.
'Had he pushed the forest too far? Had he awoken something best left undisturbed?'
But there was no time to dwell on guilt. The Hobbits had already begun moving, arming themselves with whatever they could carry, wood-chopping axes, garden tools, pitchforks, and lanterns on long poles.
Determination was etched across their faces, though fear clung to them like morning mist.
Drogo Baggins clutched a short-handled axe in both hands. His brow was furrowed, his lips pressed into a thin line, but still he turned to Sylas and whispered urgently, "Sylas, you don't have to come with us. This is our fight, our home, our forest. You're not a Hobbit. You don't have to risk your life for Bucklebury."
Sylas looked at him for a long moment.
Then he shook his head.
"One more person is one more sword arm, or wand, in my case," he replied softly. "I can't stand by while your home is in danger. And have you forgotten?" He gave a wry smile. "I'm a wizard. I might be able to help."
Drogo's eyes filled with both worry and pride.
The two pressed on with the rest of the crowd until the looming hedge wall of the High Hay came into view.
The battlefield beyond was chaos.
The Old Forest had truly come alive.
Dozens, no, hundreds of Huorns surged from the trees. Massive, gnarled, half-conscious creatures of bark and wrath, they dragged their roots free from the soil and lumbered toward the hedge like an unstoppable tide.
They beat upon the High Hay with thick branches, striking in rhythmic fury, while thorny roots burrowed into the earth, tearing at the hedge's foundation.
Though the High Hay had held strong for centuries, the strain was too much. Gaps began to split open. Tangled limbs forced their way through, and with each passing second, the wall's collapse became inevitable.
The Hobbits fought bravely. Flaming arrows arced through the sky, thudding into Huorn limbs and igniting patches of bark. Several Brandybucks had set up catapults on a nearby hill, launching barrels of oil and wine behind the wall. Fireballs followed, hurled with practiced ease, igniting the soaked enemies and creating roaring towers of flame. Some Huorns blazed like torches, writhing and moaning as they burned.
Sylas watched it all, momentarily stunned. "Impressive," he murmured. "Didn't expect the Hobbits to be this prepared."
But despite the infernos and sharp tools, the Huorns did not falter. Even as their kin were reduced to ash, they surged forward with a mindless, unyielding fury. More roots struck. More branches lashed. Until at last—
With a terrible crack, a portion of the High Hay collapsed.
A massive Huorn barreled through the breach.
Its gnarled limbs thrashed violently, smashing into the ground with crushing force. A group of young Hobbits froze, terror pinning them in place.
Sylas didn't hesitate.
"Petrificus Totalus!"
A beam of silvery light shot from his hand. It slammed into the rampaging Huorn, and in an instant, the creature froze mid-strike, rigid and unmoving.
The Hobbit lads stared at the immobilized giant, still trembling.
"Run," Sylas told them firmly, stepping between them and the Huorn. "Get back to the line. I'll hold the breach."
They didn't need to be told twice.
As the lads scrambled away, Sylas advanced into the opening.
His chest tightened with guilt. He hadn't meant for this to happen. But he couldn't deny the possibility that the forest's fury had been stirred by him.
So he would take responsibility.
He raised his hand again.
"Petrificus Totalus! Petrificus Totalus! Expelliarmus!"
Spell after spell burst from his fingertips. Silver light danced across the battlefield, weaving through branches and bark. Huorns fell where they stood, locked in place or flung backward, some stripped of their weapons(Limbs)—entire limbs blasted from their trunks.