The Inheritance Space welcomed Legolas like an old friend—the ruined library corridors familiar now after months of exploration. He moved through passages he'd mapped in his mind, past the Glorfindel training hall where ghostly warriors still waited, past the First Age light-weaving archives where his knowledge had first expanded, toward the section that had been calling him since the throne room.
Ring-craft. The word echoed through the Space with a weight that made the air feel heavy.
The new chamber opened where no chamber had existed before. Legolas had learned to accept this—the Inheritance Space revealed itself in layers, unlocking knowledge as he proved worthy or desperate enough to need it. Tonight, it had decided he was ready for something dangerous.
The archive was different from the others. Where the light-weaving section had felt warm, preserved, this space carried the cold of abandoned ambition. Workbenches lined the walls, covered in diagrams and notes that Legolas recognized from Legolas's ancient memories—Celebrimbor's hand, the greatest smith the Elves had ever produced.
Before Sauron. Before the Rings. Before everything went wrong.
Legolas approached the nearest table, hands hovering over pages that shouldn't exist. The Inheritance Space drew from everywhere—mortal and immortal, Elvish and otherwise—and somehow it had preserved the work of a smith who'd been dead for ages.
Pre-corruption notes, he realized, examining the text. Before Annatar came. Before the deceiver taught Celebrimbor to forge the Rings of Power.
The knowledge began settling into his mind the moment he read it. Unlike books that required study and memorization, the Inheritance Space granted understanding directly—dangerous, addictive, and impossible to undo.
Legolas tried to stop reading. He couldn't.
The theory of binding power to objects. The principles that allowed will to be condensed into physical form. The mathematics of spiritual investment, the costs and benefits of creating artifacts that could outlast their makers.
This is why the Rings work. The understanding crystallized with uncomfortable clarity. Not magic—not exactly. It's a transaction. You give part of yourself to the object, and the object gives back power. The more you give, the more you receive.
And the more you lose.
The One Ring wasn't different in kind from the lesser rings—only in degree. Sauron had poured so much of himself into its making that the Ring had become an extension of his will. Anyone who wore it was touched by that will. Anyone who desired it was influenced by his hunger.
Legolas closed his eyes, but the knowledge kept coming. Celebrimbor's notes on the Three Rings—Narya, Nenya, Vilya—created without Sauron's direct touch but still bound by the principles he'd taught. The theory behind the Seven and the Nine, crafted with the deceiver's guidance, each one a leash waiting to be pulled.
I understand now, Legolas thought, and the understanding was terrible. I could create rings. Not like the One—I don't have that kind of power to invest—but lesser artifacts, bound to purpose, drawing on the principles Celebrimbor discovered before his corruption.
The implications unfolded like a nightmare.
He could theoretically create rings without Sauron's taint. Objects of power that served only their wielders, free from the Dark Lord's influence. The knowledge was here, preserved, waiting for someone with the Universal Magic Compatibility to absorb and apply it.
But that same knowledge made him more vulnerable to the One Ring than anyone else in Middle-earth.
The Ring spoke to desire. It promised power to those who could use it, and it recognized expertise. When Legolas eventually encountered it—and he would, the timeline demanded it—the Ring would sense his understanding. It would speak to him as a craftsman, not a victim. It would offer partnership rather than domination.
It will know what I know, Legolas realized. And it will use that knowledge to seduce me.
He stumbled back from the workbench, gasping. The knowledge was already part of him—couldn't be unlearned, couldn't be forgotten. Like the Glorfindel training that his body still struggled to execute, the Ring-craft theory had become permanent.
"I just learned how to make the most dangerous thing in the world," Legolas whispered into the silent archive. "What was I thinking?"
The Inheritance Space offered no answer. It never did.
Legolas sat on the cold stone floor, trying to process what he'd become. A transmigrator with impossible abilities. A soul that didn't belong in Middle-earth, carrying knowledge from both his previous life and this one. And now a ring-smith in potential, understanding the deepest secrets of power-binding that had destroyed Celebrimbor and countless others.
The Shadow had called him "unwritten" back in the corrupted zone—a mistake in the pattern, something that existed outside the Music. The Valar had examined him with cosmic attention, noting an anomaly in their creation.
Now he understood why they might be worried.
Someone who could absorb any magical tradition. Someone who understood Ring-craft at a theoretical level that exceeded anyone except Sauron himself. Someone who would walk beside the Ringbearer, close enough to touch the One Ring, carrying the expertise to wield it properly.
That's what the Ring will see, Legolas thought. Not a victim to corrupt, but a potential ally. Someone who understands what it is and how it works. Someone it can bargain with.
The realization settled like ice in his stomach.
He had to be more careful than ever. When the time came—when the Fellowship formed and Frodo began his journey—Legolas would need to maintain more distance from the Ring than any other member. The knowledge in his head was a liability, not an asset.
You learned this for a reason, some part of him argued. The Inheritance Space doesn't open chambers at random. There's a purpose here.
But purpose didn't mean safety. The First Age light-weaving had served him well, but it had also drawn the Shadow's attention. The Glorfindel training had expanded his capabilities, but his body still struggled to execute what his mind knew.
Knowledge came with costs. This knowledge might cost him everything.
Legolas rose from the floor and walked through the archive one last time, forcing himself to look at what he'd absorbed. Diagrams of rings that had never been forged. Notes on experiments that Celebrimbor had abandoned before Annatar arrived. Theories that could have changed Middle-earth if applied by someone with different intentions.
I could change things, the thought whispered. Create artifacts that counter Sauron's work. Forge protections against the Ring's influence.
Or, another part of him countered, you could become exactly what Celebrimbor became—an expert who thought he could control forces beyond his understanding.
The archive sealed behind him as he left, retreating into whatever dimension the Inheritance Space occupied when not in use. Legolas hoped it would stay closed for a long time.
He returned to his physical body slowly, the transition from spiritual travel to flesh-and-blood awareness taking longer than usual. His chambers were dark, but dawn light was creeping through the windows. Hours had passed while he absorbed knowledge he'd never asked for.
Morning brought noise from the corridors—guards moving with unusual urgency, voices raised in alarm.
Legolas dressed quickly and stepped into the hall, intercepting the first servant who passed.
"What's happened?"
The servant's eyes were wide. "The prisoners, my prince. The Dwarves. They've escaped."
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