Sylas had no time to hesitate.
If he didn't stop the Old Willow Tree's haunting melody soon, the Hobbits would walk to their deaths, burned alive or crushed by the writhing roots. And if they fell, so would he.
He clenched his fists, forced strength into his weary limbs, and charged straight toward the monstrous tree.
Today, either it dies… or I do.
With his magic crackling wildly around him, Sylas shouted spell after spell, flinging them like daggers in the dark.
"Petrificus Totalus!"
"Incendio!"
"Expelliarmus!"
"Locomotor Mortis!"
It didn't matter whether they were effective. He had to try everything.
CRACK
WHOOSH!
A gust of wind hit like a hammer. Before he could react, a massive root lashed out and slammed into his back, hurling him through the air like a doll. He smashed into the earth dozens of meters away, tumbling and sliding to a stop in the scorched grass.
For a heartbeat, everything went black.
Pain thundered through his back, and his vision blurred. The breath was knocked from his lungs, and darkness clawed at the edge of his consciousness.
But somehow, he stayed awake.
The Shield Charm he'd cast before charging, combined with the protective chainmail, had saved his life. He wasn't dead. Not yet.
Gritting his teeth, Sylas forced himself upright. His back throbbed with agony, but he could still move. He couldn't stand straight, but he could fight.
And now he was angry.
Fury burned away exhaustion. His breath came in ragged gasps, and his magic surged to life again, hot and wild, like a river breaking through a dam.
With every ounce of strength left in him, Sylas raised his wand and screamed:
"EXPELLIARMUS!!"
A brilliant red light exploded from the tip of his wand, so blinding that it lit up the sky like dawn. The beam struck the center of the Old Willow Tree with a deafening crack.
CRRRRAAACK!
The tree split.
With a final, ear-splitting shriek that echoed through the hills, the monstrous Old Willow Tree trembled… and then stilled.
The Old Willow Tree, split down the middle, now lay in silence, its two halves charred and smoldering, motionless as the fire consumed it from root to crown.
Sylas stood there, panting heavily, before collapsing onto the scorched earth.
His back screamed in pain, his body trembled with exhaustion, and the surge of raw magic he had unleashed had drained every last drop of strength from his limbs. All he could do now was lie there, breathing hard, and wait for his body to recover.
Around him, the Hobbits who had been under the tree's spell began to stir, their vacant gazes slowly regaining clarity.
Each of them looked dazed and shaken. They had been fully conscious during the enchantment, forced to watch helplessly as their own bodies marched them toward fiery death like puppets. The fear lingered sharp in their eyes, but so did something else now.
Hope.
Gratitude.
They turned to Sylas, who still lay slumped near the roots of the dying tree, and stared at him as if seeing him for the first time.
One Hobbit shouted, "Sylas! Wizard Sylas! He's our hero!"
Cheers erupted all at once, sweeping across the battlefield.
"Hooray for Sylas!"
"He saved us!"
"The Wizard of Buckland!"
A sea of tiny hands waved axes and torches in celebration. Cries of joy echoed over the Brandywine, blending with the crackle of the still-burning tree.
Sylas gave a weak, lopsided smile.
He forced himself upright, wincing at the sharp stab in his back. His left hand, scorched by fire earlier, now throbbed with a deep, angry pain. He glanced down, and winced again. The burns had seared through skin and muscle. Even he hadn't expected it to be that bad.
With effort, he reached into his pocket and pulled out a small pouch containing the Dittany Elixir he'd brewed earlier that week. The potion shimmered faintly in the firelight.
He carefully dabbed the salve onto his burned hand, and at once, a soothing coolness spread across the wound. The skin began to knit back together before his eyes, smooth and unblemished, as if time itself were reversing. Within moments, his hand was fully healed—perhaps even more flawless than before.
"Not bad," he muttered. Then, grimacing, he popped the rest of the vial into his mouth and swallowed it whole.
"Ugh—bitter," he gagged, pulling a face. "No wonder Wizards prefer to use this stuff on the outside."
Still, the results were undeniable. His sore throat, raw from spellcasting, was soothed almost instantly. The ache in his back eased. He was still mentally drained, bone-deep weary, but physically, he could finally stand again without crumpling.
Once steady on his feet, Sylas turned back toward the Old Willow Tree.
Its form was blackened and crumbling, smoke curling up from the jagged wound that split it in two. Watching it burn, Sylas couldn't help but feel a strange mix of awe and disbelief.
After all, the Old Willow Tree had been massive, its trunk wide enough that four or five grown men would've needed to wrap their arms around it to encircle it.
Expelliarmus, a spell usually intended to disarm opponents, had somehow cleaved it clean in two.
It was almost unbelievable.
Yet the moment of awe settled quickly as Sylas realized the toll it had taken. That spell, Harry Potter's legendary signature, the very incantation that once overpowered Lord Voldemort, had revealed just how powerful it could be in the right hands. Or perhaps, in desperate ones.
Of course, magic always came with a price.
Sylas was now completely drained. Mentally hollowed out. His well of magic had run dry, and even the simplest Lumos was beyond him. It would be days, maybe longer, before he'd recover enough to cast anything meaningful again.
"Are you alright?" came a familiar, breathless voice.
Drogo Baggins rushed to his side, his face pale with worry as he looked Sylas over.
Sylas managed a tired smile and shook his head. "I'll live. But I wouldn't want to be in their place."
He gestured toward the remains of the Huorn army. Many had caught fire in the chaos, doused in oil and wine from the Hobbits' catapults. Now they blazed like torches, turning the forest's edge into a growing inferno.
And if the fire spread deeper?
Then the entire Old Forest might be lost.
Sylas felt a pang of regret. He had no strength left to intervene, and even if he had, these Huorn had tried to kill him. Tried to kill the Hobbits. It was hard to justify saving them now.
Besides, he didn't know any effective fire-suppression magic. And it wasn't as though the Hobbits were rushing to help, either.
Most, in fact, watched in silence. A few whispered prayers for rain. Others, like Rory Brandybuck, wore more calculating expressions, already imagining how the fall of the Old Forest might open up new lands, perhaps for farming or expanding the Brandybuck holdings.
Rory Brandybuck stepped forward then, his face solemn. He approached Sylas, and to everyone's surprise, gave him a deep, respectful bow.
"Wizard Sylas," he said, loud enough for all to hear, "thank you. Thank you for saving Buckland, for saving all of us. If not for your courage tonight, we would've lost far more than hedges and homes. We would've lost each other."
One by one, the Hobbits followed his lead. They bowed, some clumsily, some with tears in their eyes. Even Drogo joined in, his expression proud and emotional.
Sylas blinked, overwhelmed.
He raised his hands awkwardly. "Please—there's no need for this. Truly. I only did what had to be done."
'What I caused to begin with,' he added silently. Though the Hobbits had no idea, Sylas knew deep down that the Huorn had likely rioted because of him, and the piece of the Old Willow Tree he'd taken.
Their gratitude, as heartfelt as it was, left a knot in his chest.
But Rory Brandybuck only stepped closer, placing a hand over his heart.
"Hear me, all of you," he declared. "From this day forward, Wizard Sylas shall be known as Buckland's honored friend. And the Brandybuck family will forever hold him in our debt."
The square erupted with cheers.
The air, still thick with smoke and ash, now rang with Hobbit voices singing, laughing, and chanting Sylas's name.
Just as Rory Brandybuck was about to proclaim a great victory feast, a strange sound rose from the darkened edge of the Old Forest.