Every Hobbit who witnessed the scene stared wide-eyed, as if they were dreaming.
On the rise above the battlefield, Rory Brandybuck, patriarch of the Brandybuck family, watched the lone figure in stunned silence. His breath caught in his throat, his heart racing with disbelief.
He had known Sylas was a wizard, of course. But this… this was something else entirely.
Spell after spell lit the night like shooting stars. Sylas strode through the raging Huorn as though taking a peaceful evening walk, unfazed, untouchable. Wherever he passed, chaos gave way to calm, fury to stillness. Not a single Huorn could withstand him.
Rory's admiration surged, along with an unfamiliar twinge of envy.
He glanced sideways at Drogo Baggins, who stood gripping his axe in awe. To think this Hobbit had been living with such a powerful ally under the same roof. Whether friends or not, they shared a bond deeper than most.
Rory's mind began to turn. Perhaps it wouldn't be a bad idea to let his daughter, Dora, become acquainted with Sylas. It could only benefit the Brandybuck name.
Meanwhile, on the battlefield, Sylas was gasping for breath.
His chest heaved with each spell. His throat burned, dry as ash. His magic reserves were nearly drained, and his arms trembled from effort.
He had no idea how many Huorn he had faced. The enchanted forest creatures now stood frozen mid-charge, petrified by spellwork, their twisted limbs frozen in eerie poses. The once-open field looked like an impromptu forest now, tall, gnarled Huorn standing stiff as statues beneath the moonlight.
Despite his exhaustion, Sylas held firm.
He had done it. The Huorn had been repelled. None had breached the High Hay wall. Bucklebury, for now, was safe.
But he did not let his guard down.
The ground began to shake.
A thunderous rumble rolled across the land.
Sylas turned slowly as a colossal figure forced its way out of the Old Forest. Trees cracked like toothpicks in its wake. Earth split apart beneath its massive limbs. It plowed forward like a force of nature, tearing a path straight through the woods.
Under the flickering torchlight and the red glow of burning Huorn, its terrible form was revealed.
It was the Old Willow Tree.
The same ancient sentinel from the heart of the forest, the greatest and most malevolent of all the Huorn.
Its bark was scorched black, split and cracking with age. Withered branches hung down like skeletal arms. Every step it took shook the ground, and its roots, enormous, sprawling things, unfurled like the limbs of a monstrous octopus, tearing aside anything that dared to block its path.
Sylas immediately felt it, the suffocating pressure of an unseen gaze, sharp as a blade and cold as death. The source was unmistakable: the Old Willow Tree.
Its hateful intent was locked onto him alone.
Now there was no doubt. He wasn't just in its way. He was its target.
Sylas straightened, every muscle tensed, every nerve alert.
The Old Willow Tree charged. Its gnarled roots, thick as ancient pillars, tore across the land with terrifying speed. When it reached the High Hay wall, it didn't hesitate. It drove its roots straight into the thick hedge and ripped it apart like parchment, splintering the wood and hurling thorny vines aside.
All around, Hobbits gasped in horror. Faces paled. Hearts raced. If the Huorn were terrifying, this, this monstrous titan was something out of a nightmare. No blade nor torch could hope to stop it.
Sylas felt the air grow heavy. The oppressive magic radiating from the Old Willow Tree battered him like a tidal wave. His breathing quickened.
"Protego!" he barked, throwing up a shimmering barrier.
"Petrificus Totalus! Petrificus Totalus!"
Spell after spell flew from his wand, throat ragged and voice cracking from exhaustion. He could already taste blood- iron and bitter, at the back of his tongue. But he kept casting.
The Petrification Curse hit, slowing the monstrous tree just long enough to gain a heartbeat's advantage… but that was all.
The Old Willow Tree broke free each time, cracking through the spell with sheer brute force. Then came the attack.
Its colossal branches and roots came crashing down like hammers against his shield. The ground trembled. The air cracked.
Sylas gritted his teeth. Each blow shook the Shield Charm to its core. The glowing barrier flickered, dimmed, and shuddered. Another strike, and it would collapse entirely.
High on the hill, the Hobbits held their breath. Drogo gripped his axe with white knuckles, eyes wide with panic.
And Sylas, struggling to stay upright, lungs burning, knew he had only one chance.
"NOW!" he roared toward the hilltop. "Launch the oil! Wine barrels, aim for ME!"
The Brandybuck family hesitated, startled. Launch fire barrels at an ally?
All eyes turned to Rory Brandybuck.
For a moment, Rory weighed the risk.
Then he barked the command without hesitation. "You heard him! Load the catapults, everything we've got! Send them to the Wizard!"
"Fire!"
With Rory Brandybuck's sharp command, the catapults launched. One by one, barrels of oil and wine soared through the sky like blazing cannonballs, arcing high before descending precisely toward Sylas and the monstrous Old Willow Tree.
"Wingardium Leviosa!" Sylas's voice, hoarse and dry, still rang clear in the night.
The barrels halted in mid-air, suspended above the battlefield for a heartbeat, then, at a flick of his wand, crashed down upon the Old Willow Tree in a coordinated cascade. The contents exploded across the gnarled trunk and writhing roots, soaking the ancient Huorn from crown to base.
"Incendio." A single spark leapt from Sylas's fingertip.
The flame danced through the air, small and graceful, then struck.
Whoosh!
A towering inferno erupted.
The Old Willow Tree was instantly engulfed, its bark catching with a roar. Flames spread like lightning, crawling over every twisting branch and coiling root, turning the massive entity into a blazing pyre. The firelight washed across the land, casting flickering shadows over Brandy Hall and sending a crimson glow across the Brandywine River. Even the townsfolk of Bywater could see the column of fire rising in the distance.
A shriek tore through the night, high-pitched, unnatural, bone-chilling. The Old Willow Tree thrashed wildly in agony, its branches lashing like whips, roots tearing trenches into the earth. It tried in vain to smother the fire with itself, but the blaze only intensified, feeding on its enchanted wood like a living hunger.
The heat was suffocating. The grass around Sylas withered and curled from the radiant waves. Leaves crisped and fell from nearby trees like golden rain.
Sylas stood motionless, his expression unreadable as he watched the Old Willow Tree convulse in its fiery demise. There was no triumph in his eyes, only caution. His wand was still raised. His senses were sharpened. He knew better than to celebrate too soon.
This was no ordinary foe.
And indeed, in the midst of the firestorm, the Old Willow Tree stirred once more.
"Wu—wu—wuuu..."
A low, ghostly wail emerged from its cracking trunk as its wood carbonized and splintered. The flames howled louder, but beneath their roar, Sylas felt something… wrong.
A stare.
Unseen eyes, burning with hatred and seething with vengeance, fixed directly on him. The jagged crack in the trunk widened grotesquely, like a mouth opening in a final curse.
Then—
From deep within the hollow core, a melody began to rise.
A haunting, unearthly song poured forth from the tree's splitting bark. It was not sung with lips, nor played with strings, yet it rang out, a piercing and magical dirge that drowned out all other sound. Even the crackle of fire seemed to fade beneath its spell.
The world fell quiet.
Only that eerie, otherworldly song remained.
Sylas's eyes widened. He felt the magic in it, deep, old, and malevolent. His head pounded. His vision blurred.
Without hesitation, he clasped both hands over his ears.
But covering his ears did nothing.
The eerie melody bypassed all barriers, slipping past his hands and seeping directly into his mind like a phantom's whisper. The song wormed its way into his thoughts, echoing endlessly, twisting his consciousness.
His focus began to unravel.
It felt as if something ancient and malevolent was crawling through his mind, an alien will, pushing against his soul, trying to take control of his body.
Slap!
Sylas struck himself hard across the face.
The sharp crack of skin against skin rang out, but it barely helped. His vision swam, and his limbs felt leaden. His very sense of self was slipping, like sand through an open palm.
Desperate, Sylas gritted his teeth and thrust his left hand into the fire.
"AAAHHHH!"
The scream tore from his throat, raw and broken. Agonizing heat seared through his fingers and palm, but it worked.
The pain surged through his nerves, cutting through the mental fog like a blade. The invading will recoiled, and clarity returned to his eyes.
He was awake again.
But when he looked around, horror struck him.
The Hobbits weren't so fortunate.
Dozens of them stood still in the flickering firelight, eyes glazed and empty, expressions blank and lifeless. Under the spell of the haunting melody, they moved slowly, like marionettes on invisible strings, drawn forward, step by step, toward the blazing form of the dying Old Willow Tree.
Sylas's heart sank. If they got any closer, they would be crushed by flailing roots or swallowed by fire.
The tree wasn't trying to win the battle anymore.
It wanted to take everyone with it.