Dinner was a simple matter. Each child received a bowl of thick, hearty stew and a solid slice of bread. It was nothing luxurious, but it was warm, filling, and more than enough to keep growing bodies running without complaint.
The oldest child in the orphanage was only thirteen, since most of the kids either got adopted or managed to find work and move out once they reached that age.
After everyone finished eating, the children were sent to their rooms for the night. The staff made a point of switching off the lights in the halls and common rooms to save on the electricity bill.
...
This was the moment Julian had been waiting for. With the building quiet and the lights out, he could finally use the forge ticket and attempt to craft his first ring.
Before doing anything reckless, he sat cross-legged on his bed and took some time to familiarize himself with the Celebrimbor crafting style imprinted in his mind. At first glance, one might expect it to be similar to ordinary, non-magical ring smithing, but that assumption fell apart almost immediately. The style was different in several key ways, beyond simply being magical.
It was not any less labor-intensive. In fact, it was very demanding. The main difference lay in its nature. The Celebrimbor style was highly spiritual. It required the smith to involve their spirit during the forging process.
That did not mean literally shoving their soul into the object. Doing that would produce the same sort of effect that had turned Sauron into a lich-like existence, tethered to his creation, unable to truly die but bound forever. That might sound tempting to certain people cough Voldemort cough, but Julian had no desire to lock his future into such a twisted path, no matter how powerful an artifact it might produce.
The proper method required the smith to use their soul in a more subtle way, imprinting magical concepts and intentions into the metal as it was worked, then setting the ring into its final form once those concepts had taken hold.
Technically, this meant anyone could use the style, but it had been designed with beings like elves in mind, creatures whose souls were naturally potent and refined.
Fortunately, thanks to the potion that had cleansed his magic circuits, Julian's own mind and soul had both undergone a qualitative improvement. He now just barely matched what might be considered an average elf in terms of spiritual strength.
Magic, he had learned, grew through the balance of three pillars: mind, body, and soul. The potion had fundamentally strengthened his body as a foundation, and in response, his mind and soul had been forced to grow and align with that new baseline.
He had not suddenly developed an eight-pack or bulging, earth-shattering muscles, but for a wizard, his body thrummed with latent potential. If he trained his physical form, his magic would grow too, as long as he continued to learn and develop mentally alongside that effort.
There was, however, a significant drawback to this style of crafting.
The effects a ring could possess were limited by the smith's own understanding. If Julian did not comprehend a concept deeply, he could not easily forge it into his work. The only way around that restriction was to brute-force the effect into existence with sheer willpower, which was incredibly taxing.
Combined with the strain the process already put on the smith's spirit, it meant that crafting even a single ring was guaranteed to leave him utterly drained by the time he finished.
Time to get started, Julian thought once he was certain the rest of the orphanage had settled into darkness.
He moved quietly, lifting the loose board in his closet and retrieving the small goblin silver ingot, a single Galleon, and the access ticket. After closing the hiding place again, he sat back on his bed, steadying his breathing.
Then, with a final, steadying inhale, he tore the ticket in half.
Immediately, the paper began to burn and smoke, yet it did not crumble into ash. Instead, the smoke billowed and twisted, gathering in the center of the room. From within that swirling haze, a massive bronze door formed, solid and imposing.
It stretched from the floor all the way to the ceiling, nearly seven feet across, its surface covered in a breathtakingly intricate carving. A thousand smiths, each distinct, were depicted hammering away at a single shared anvil. The image was so detailed it almost seemed to move, each hammer caught mid-swing.
That is certainly an impressive-looking door, at the very least, Julian thought, awe creeping into his chest as he slowly circled it, examining the engravings from every angle he could manage in the cramped room.
Once he was satisfied, he returned to the front, drew in a deep breath to calm his nerves, and placed both hands on the bronze surface. He pushed.
As the door began to swing inward, something rippled out from the other side. It was not just magic, but a presence, a song of power. In three different places across Britain, three people suddenly stiffened, attuned as they were to such things.
Albus Dumbledore, Voldemort, and Nicolas Flamel each felt the aura of what lay beyond that door, and each reacted in their own way.
The first believed that the last of the Deathly Hallows had finally chosen a true master and was announcing that bond to the world.
The second sensed the birth of a powerful new artifact and could only grind his metaphorical teeth in frustration, unable to do anything about it in his current wraith-like state.
The third, the oldest and most learned alchemist alive, recognized the astral realm behind the disturbance from the song it sang, the resonant harmony of a craftsman at work. Even though he did not recognize the specific craft involved, Nicolas Flamel smiled and quietly celebrated. After so many long years, someone else had finally tapped into the astral spaces for their art.