The northern lands of Middle-earth had been unusually lively these past two years.
Smaug the Terrible was slain.
The King under the Mountain had returned.
The Orc hosts from the Misty Mountains and Moria were crushed.
Dark shadows had risen over Dol Guldur and fled into Mordor.
And soon after the return of the King of Erebor, a new power had quietly risen.
They called it the Free Cities Alliance, spanning towns on both sides of the Misty Mountains. Within its borders, the people lived well, rich in both coin and laughter.
"Though Dale is said to be the largest and wealthiest of the Free Cities, rumor has it that it isn't actually their capital," said a Gondorian ranger, leaning casually across the table of a smoky tavern.
"Oh? Then where else could it be?" asked the man opposite him, a broad-shouldered ranger with dark hair and a scar across his cheek. His name was Farodan, a Dúnedain from the North, enjoying a rare evening of comfort. He had splurged on two frothing mugs of ale and a platter of roasted meat with vegetables. "A balanced meal," he muttered to himself, "meat and greens, just like the healers recommend."
The Gondorian ranger took a long sip of his ale before continuing. "Word is, it's a miraculous city, built overnight by a powerful human sorcerer. The name's something like… Roadside Keep?"
"Pfft—!"
Farodan choked on his drink, spluttering foam across the table.
"You don't mean that Roadside Keep, do you?" he coughed out between laughs. "Let me guess, this mysterious sorcerer is the one who killed the dragon and defeated the Orc armies too?"
The Gondorian raised an eyebrow. "You've heard of him then."
Farodan froze mid-laugh. "…Wait. You're serious?"
"Quite," said the other, finishing his ale with a satisfied sigh.
Farodan's amusement vanished. He grabbed the man's sleeve before he could stand. "Wait! Don't go. I'll buy you another round if you tell me everything you've heard."
"Well…" The Gondorian smirked and sat back down. "All right then. You've bought yourself a tale. But I warn you—it's not a short one."
"I'm listening," said Farodan, suddenly earnest.
"First thing to know," the ranger began, "is that what I've heard comes from all sorts. Refugees, traveling merchants, even prisoners taken from the Orc tribes up north. I can't vouch for all of it."
He leaned forward, voice lowering. "But every tale mentions him."
"The refugees call him the Savior of Dale.
The merchants call him the Golden Lord, whose very fingers spill riches.
And the Orcs…" The ranger's tone dropped to a whisper. "They don't even dare speak his name. They only call him 'He'."
As the ranger spoke, Farodan listened with growing bewilderment. The food on his plate went untouched, growing cold while the story grew stranger and grander.
Eating while distracted is a bad habit, he thought vaguely, though the thought wasn't his.
Because at that same moment, far to the north, Eric was finishing a meal of his own—if one could call a mouthful of dried meat a meal.
Unlike most folk who ate at regular hours, or hobbits who seemed to dine every other hour, Eric ate whenever his hunger meter dipped low enough to annoy him. He had no patience for routine.
Only when he had real leisure did he cook something elaborate. The rest of the time, he simply chewed on jerky or bread while working on whatever project was at hand.
Having parted ways with the dwarves, Eric returned to Roadside Keep and began to take stock of his latest expedition's spoils.
The highlights were twofold:
a cache of mithril, and a seed of the legendary Mallorn Tree.
Standing on an open field near the keep, Eric brushed soot and dragon dust from his hands. A small pink dragonling—whom he called "Blush"—came bounding toward him with curious chirps.
"Not now, you little furnace," Eric said, scooping it up and setting it aside.
He walked a few paces away, knelt, and planted the Mallorn seed in the rich soil. Then, with great ceremony, he took out a pouch of bone meal.
A flick of his wrist.
Sprinkle, sprinkle.
Tiny green motes of light danced over the ground.
The seed twitched. Then a small shoot pushed through the soil.
Eric grinned. "Oh, now we're talking."
But the sprout didn't stop growing. And it was hungry.
He poured another handful of bone meal. And another.
By the tenth handful, sweat dotted his forehead. "You greedy little sapling! I could've grown an entire forest with that!"
Still, bone meal was plentiful in Roadside Keep, thanks to the city's ongoing recycling program. Orcs and wargs, once enemies, continued to contribute productively in their own… powdered form.
With a resigned sigh, Eric kept feeding the seed.
The sprout rose higher, branches thickening, bark turning silvery-white. Golden buds shimmered along its limbs.
Soon, it stood taller than a man, radiating a life force so rich that the surrounding grass shifted from dull green to vibrant emerald.
That afternoon, townsfolk passing through the square stopped mid-conversation, blinking at a sudden gleam of gold by the castle.
A tree—an enormous tree—had appeared where there had been only empty ground.
Its bark shone like polished silver. Its leaves glimmered gold, rustling with soft light, and delicate blossoms of pure sunlight bloomed along its branches.
"It's beautiful…" someone whispered.
A crowd gathered, watching in silent awe. Children pointed and gasped. Even the older residents, who thought they'd seen everything Eric could do, stared with wide eyes.
Then, high above, the leaves rustled again.
Eric was there, trimming a few overgrown branches. He snipped carefully, collecting them for use as magical material.
"Too pretty to chop down," he murmured. "Let's not overdo it."
He remembered his own rule—take only what you need. Waste nothing.
From below came an excited squeal. "Raaah!"
Eric leaned over and spotted Blush hopping at the tree's base, flapping her tiny wings in a futile attempt to climb.
"Ah, I see what you're after," he said with a smirk.
He fetched a ladder, climbed down, and gently lifted her up.
The dragonling wriggled happily once she reached the branches. She sniffed the golden leaves, nuzzled the bark, then promptly curled up on a thick branch to nap.
"Oh no you don't," Eric muttered, poking her awake. "If you fall asleep now, you'll never figure out how to get down."
Blush blinked her big round eyes at him, clearly intending to ignore his advice.
Eric sighed. "Fine. Stay up here then. Just don't drool on the blossoms."
Back on the ground, Eric fetched materials from the workshop. A short while later, a spiral staircase—patterned after those in Lothlórien—wound its way up the trunk, connecting the base to the golden canopy.
When it was done, he stood back, hands on his hips, and admired his work. "Now that's proper architecture."
The tree's crown was vast, its branches strong enough to bear entire houses. No wonder elves built their homes in such trees—it was practically ready-made real estate.
Still, Eric had no plans to live there himself. "You like it, you keep it," he said to Blush, who was already snoring softly above.
Satisfied, Eric made his way to the arcane tower, where the enchantment altar awaited.
He placed a Mallorn branch at the center of the rune matrix. Around it, on pedestals, rested six elemental shards—fire, water, air, earth, light, and shadow—alongside a seventh shard of perfect balance. Rows of crystal flasks filled with elemental essence surrounded the setup.
The recipe was the same as before, except this time, the core material was Mallorn wood instead of silverwood.
With a soft click, the array flared to life.
A faint spark leapt between the runes, purple and uncertain. Eric froze. "Uh-oh. Don't crash. Please don't crash."
Then the matrix gave a low hum, stabilizing into steady light.
Eric exhaled in relief. "Okay. It runs. If it runs, it's fine. No bug report today."
Slowly, the elemental energy flowed into the wood. The branch glowed silver, reshaping itself into a smooth, elegant wand shaft that pulsed with inner light.
When the process finished, Eric lifted it carefully.
The system in his mind flashed a new entry:
[Mallorn Wand Handle]
Crafted by Archmage Eric Starfell using sacred materials from the Golden Forest. More attuned to magic than silverwood, imbued with purifying light. Serves as a superior replacement for lesser cores.
When it gleams, the light of life itself stirs within.
Eric grinned. "Now that's a proper upgrade."
He gave the wand an experimental twirl, and somewhere above, the golden leaves of the Mallorn shimmered in response.