Sauron began collecting things the world had forgotten how to fear.
Not gold.
Not armies.
But ideas.
Fragments of ancient curses.
Ashes from the forges of burnt-out wizards.
A fragment of a meteorite that had once fallen into the Forbidden Forest—metal that doesn't reflect light, only absorbs it.
And above all… broken oaths.
He needed a forge.
He found it—beneath the mountain, where an ancient dragon had died centuries ago. Its heart petrified, yet still retaining the warmth of primal magic.
There… he began preparing to reforge the Ring.
Not a replica. Not a tool. But a center of will.
One night, Seraphelle descended to Sauron's private study by herself.
No guards.
No rituals.
Only the faint blue glow of the sleeping artifacts.
Sauron did not turn when she entered.
"You should sleep," he said, as if he had known she had been there for some time.
"I've heard rumors," Seraphelle replied.
"You are building something."
"I always build," he said.
A silence.
Seraphelle stepped closer, standing beside him before the stone table carved with ancient characters.
"You are not like other conquerors," she said.
"You are not talking about domination. You are talking about… order."
Sauron finally turned to look at her.
"For chaos is the natural state of the world," he said softly.
"Greed… is like a stone rolling down from the mountaintop."
He placed his hand on the black metal on the table.
"Once it begins, no one can stop it.
There are only two ways to end it."
"Let it roll all the way down," Seraphelle said softly.
"Or destroy the stone."
Sauron nodded.
"I don't want to wait for the world to self-destruct," he said.
"I will be the obstacle. I will be… the framework."
Seraphelle looked at him for a long time.
Then she asked, very softly—almost curiously:
"So… in your story…"
"Are you the stone… or the destroyer?"
Sauron paused.
Just a beat.
But enough for absolute silence in the room.
In that moment, a memory flashed—
Fire.
A ring falling into the darkness.
A feeling… of disintegration.
A failure he had never named.
"I…" he began.
His voice was deeper than usual.
"I once believed I was the one to shape the world."
He looked down at his hands—as if recalling a feeling he had once had, then lost.
"But the world… doesn't need saving."
He paused.
"Just… to be in control."
Seraphelle frowned slightly.
Not out of fear. But because for the first time… she heard a crack in his voice.
Sauron continued, almost whispering:
"I tried to let it roll all the way down."
A long silence.
"And I saw… I was down there too."
That statement startled him.
A sharp, unfamiliar sensation.
Not anger. Not fear. But… loss.
Fleeting. But real enough to make him hate it.
Seraphelle said nothing more. She just turned away.
But as she left the room, she knew one thing:
This man didn't just want to control the world. He was running away from a world… where he had once failed. And Sauron, now alone, placed his hand on the black metal. The light in the room faded.
"This time…" he whispered. "I will not fall."
*Time passed*
Seraphelle began to realize she was finding reasons to see Sauron—even when she didn't need to.
Not simple longing. Not blind infatuation. But the pull of two things that were alike but never acknowledged:
an unrestrained will.
When Sauron spoke, she listened.
When he was silent, she still felt his presence like a shadow always behind history.
She hated it. But she also… didn't stop it.
Meanwhile, deep within the dead dragon mountain, Sauron began to forge.
No steel hammer.
No ordinary fire.
He used memory.
He used will.
He used what the world calls true nature.
The black metal melted not from heat…
But from the pressure of intention.
The new Ring didn't need to be like the old one.
It only needed to contain one thing:
Him.
But to do so… he needed a sacrifice.
Not blood.
Not another person's soul.
But the one thing he never wanted to lose. He opened an ancient stone box.
Inside, there was no object.
Only… a sound.
An auditory memory.
A song.
Very long ago. Before he became Sauron. When he was a being who believed the world could be created by harmony, not control. He kept it for millennia—not out of weakness.
But because… it proved he could have once been something else.
The forge trembled as he threw that memory into the metal core.
The sound shattered.
Not into a sound.
But into… emptiness.
The Ring began to take shape.
Perfect. Cold. Stable.
Far away… Peter Pan was lying on a tree branch, his legs dangling in the night breeze.
Suddenly… he turned his head.
Looking in some direction of the world.
A fleeting feeling—
As if the story had just gone off track by half a beat.
Peter frowned.
Then shrugged then flew away.
Not because of Sauron. It's just… destiny hasn't called his name yet.
Elsewhere, the smell of new wood permeated a small workshop.
Gepetto wiped away the sweat, his hands trembling with age and happiness.
"It's done…" he whispered.
Pinocchio lay on the table—not yet alive.
Just a wooden puppet, sculpted with love, patience… and something Geppetto couldn't name.
A strange breeze swept through the window.
No magic. No curse.
It's just… the world is self-regulating.
No one knows—
This wooden boy will surpass all the dreams of his creator.
On the nearby mountain… The miners stopped working.
"Do you feel it?" one asked. The other nodded.
No earthquake. No explosion.
Just… the mountain felt different.
As if it had just remembered something very old.
No one knew why. And no one thought of leaving.
Back to the forge. The Ring cooled.
Sauron picked it up. Without trembling. Without hesitation.
But when he put it on— A void opened up within him. Where there used to be singing.
Where there used to be… another ability.
He clenched his fist.
"No need," he said to himself.
But in that moment—
He felt alone in a way that power could not fill.
That night, when he met Seraphelle on the balcony, she looked at him longer than usual.
"You've changed," she said.
"I've become more complete," he replied.
Seraphelle stepped closer. For the first time—she lightly touched his hand.
"You've just lost something," she said, almost certain. Sauron looked at her.
For a long time. "Yes," he said.
"What?"
Sauron turned away, looking down at the sleeping kingdom.
"Proof…that I could have been saved."
Seraphelle said nothing. But in her chest—
A new feeling grew. Not just attraction. Not just curiosity. But…fear for him.
And she hated that.
Deep underground, the Ring began to hum softly—