By dawn the next morning, the alliance between Rivendell and Ryan Eowenríel's young realm truly came to life.
The long, gleaming column of men and elves divided before the gates of Minas-Elion Fortress—some remained to train and advise, while the rest followed Idhrion, Torvin Dulod, and other commanders toward the Hidden Vale and Dessen Town.
Thus began the first organized expansion of Ryan's domain.
Six ministries had been born; now their seeds were to be planted across the North.
Within days, the fortress and its outskirts became a thunderous hive of activity.
…..
In the newly laid districts outside Minas-Elion's walls, Dianeth and her cadre of architects—working side by side with Noldorin craftsmen—transformed chaos into order.
Before their arrival, the work had been clumsy but earnest: the men would pick a plot of ground, dig the foundation together, raise walls together, and heave the roof beams as one exhausted crowd.
Now, Dianeth reorganized everything.
The process was divided into flowing lines of labor:
one group dug the foundations,
another laid the bricks,
a third sealed the roofs,
and the last fitted doors and hearths.
As used by Ryan himself in the forgeries of Dessen
Like the rhythm of clockwork, the construction flowed unbroken.
A thousand men moved as one, and every dawn saw new rows of houses rise from the frost-hardened earth.
Where once it had taken ten days to finish a dwelling, they now built dozens each day.
To sustain the momentum, Ryan ordered that every elven craftsman take on three apprentices.
The Noldor, proud yet generous in spirit, shared their ancient craft freely—teaching geometry, balance, enchantment, and the subtle art of drawing strength from the earth itself.
Soon, even the rough-handed masons of the North began tracing rune-lines on their tools, whispering the Elvish words for "endurance" and "harmony."
By the week's end, Dianeth and her team departed for the frontier—splitting their forces to aid construction in both the Vale and Dessen Town.
…..
Not long after, a message came from Torvin Dulod in Dessen.
"The work advances faster than our supply. The brickworks can no longer keep pace."
Ryan frowned when he read it—but the letter continued.
"The Noldor have altered our furnaces. They carved runes of flame and breath upon the kiln walls. The fire no longer sputters, the heat never wanes.
Each batch now burns faster—and harder. The bricks no longer crack. They sing beneath the hammer."
Even the forges were not spared the touch of Elven craft.
At the armory, where waterwheels from the River once drove the hammers, production had slowed with the fall of autumn. The river's strength dwindled as the snows drew near.
But the Noldor engineers reworked the entire system.
They built runic turbines that harnessed the river's pulse—every swirl of current feeding a constant, thrumming rhythm into the steelworks.
Now, molten metal poured and hissed from the furnaces like living fire.
Ryan's command was clear:
"Two thousand suits of heavy armor.
Three thousand of light.
All before the winter deepens."
In any ordinary land, such an order would have been madness.
But here—where flame and rune sang together—the impossible began to look inevitable.
….
Amid all this progress, Ryan found himself drawn to one topic above all: magic.
It was not the spectacle that intrigued him, but the principle.
He summoned Belangar, the elven envoy, to the council hall one evening and asked simply:
"Tell me everything you know of magic and runes."
Belangar's expression softened into something between amusement and reverence.
"We Elves," he said, "do not call it 'magic.' That is your race's word.
To us, it is merely being. A harmony between ourselves and the world."
He explained that the Elves were born with a deep kinship to creation itself—able to feel the whisper of leaves, the breath of stone, the pulse of starlight in every living thing.
"When we shape an object," Belangar said, "we pour our thought and will into it.
A sword might sing sharper, a cloak might breathe softer, a jewel might hold a faint memory of light.
But none of this is sorcery to us. It is simply the craft of our souls."
Ryan listened, spellbound.
Then Belangar spoke of runes.
"The runes were the gift of Aulë the Smith, one of the Valar.
They bind matter and meaning—strengthen the bond between word, will, and world.
The Dwarves still use a crude echo of them, but once… once the Men of Númenor wielded them with power enough to command the seas."
He sighed.
"Now that knowledge is dust. Only Gondor may still hold fragments of it, if any at all."
Ryan's eyes gleamed.
"Could I learn it?"
Belangar hesitated.
"Perhaps… though I do not know if your spirit is attuned.
You should ask Mithrandir. He would see deeper than I."
….
That evening, Ryan sought Gandalf outside the fortress walls.
He found the Grey Wizard seated upon a rocky hill, the pale light of dusk wrapping him in quiet shadow.
Ryan came straight to the point.
"I wish to learn magic—and the runes. Belangar said you could tell me whether I have the gift."
Gandalf did not look at him at once. His eyes were fixed on the dark outline of the Troll-woods to the north, where faint ruins still clung to the fog.
"Tell me, young lord," he said finally, his voice low, "why would you seek that path?
Magic has undone empires. It shattered continents and drowned kings."
He spoke then of ages past—of the First Age, when the Noldor had waged war against Morgoth and unleashed such wrath that Beleriand itself sank beneath the sea.
He told of the Second Age, when the mighty kingdom of Númenor mastered runes and sorcery, raising fleets no storm could touch—
until pride, and the whispers of Sauron, led their king to assault the Undying Lands.
The island was swallowed by the waves, and with it, the greatest magic of Men.
"Since then," said Gandalf, "the Valar have set bounds upon Middle-earth.
Even we, the Maiar, may not wield our full power here.
The world was broken once for arrogance. It must not be broken again."
Ryan said nothing for a long while. Then, slowly, he drew his sword—Glamdring, its edge glinting with faint blue fire.
"You know this blade," he said. "I've slain orcs, trolls, and the hill-chief Sakaban with it. Would you call it a good sword?"
Gandalf nodded.
"Aye. Forged by Elven hands, no doubt. A true king's weapon."
Ryan's smile was faint, thoughtful.
Then—without warning—he turned the blade and drew it across his own palm.
A sharp hiss, a streak of crimson.
"Now it has cut me," Ryan said quietly, watching his blood drip into the frost.
"Tell me, my friend—does that make it evil?"
Gandalf frowned, eyes narrowing.
"No… I see your meaning. A blade is neither wicked nor good.
It is the hand that wields it which decides its purpose."
Ryan nodded.
"Then so it is with magic.
I do not fear it. Nor do I crave it.
But I will not turn from it because others misused it.
To carry a sword and not draw it is one thing;
to have no sword at all—that is another."
He rose, meeting Gandalf's gaze squarely.
"Fear of power is for cowards. Abuse of it is for fools.
But guiding it—that is wisdom."
Gandalf's brows lifted.
"You speak boldly. Such words might offend the very Powers themselves."
Ryan's reply was calm, resolute.
"Then the Powers are not so great as they claim.
A truly great being is not angered by mortal questions."
The two locked eyes, silence stretching between them like a drawn bow.
And then—for the briefest heartbeat—Ryan felt something vast staring back through the Grey Wizard's gaze.
It was as if the stars themselves had opened.
When Gandalf finally spoke, his voice was softer, distant.
"You may learn. But I will not be your teacher."
Ryan tilted his head.
"Then who will?"
"Elrond," Gandalf said. "Of all in Middle-earth, he knows most of what remains.
His blood bridges Elf and Man. He can show you balance."
He turned toward the north again, his cloak stirring in the wind.
"Write to him, when the time comes. He will answer."
Then his tone changed—deepened, resonant, almost… divine.
"You are different, Ryan Eowenríel. More than you know.
Do what you must—but never stray from the light within you."
Ryan bowed his head.
"Praise be to Ilúvatar."
When he looked up again, Gandalf was gone.
Only the soft breath of snow drifted down around him.
He glanced at his palm. The wound was gone—no scar, no blood, only warmth.
And in that instant, Ryan understood.
The being who had spoken through Gandalf was not merely the Grey Wizard.
It had been the One Himself—Eru Ilúvatar, the prime source of all creation.
He had seen Ryan—the stranger from another world—and judged him not an intruder, but a rightful actor in the unfolding song of Arda.
The doubts that had shadowed Ryan since his arrival—the fear that he was a trespasser in a story not his own—fell away like mist before dawn.
For the first time since crossing the veil between worlds, Ryan Eowenríel felt not like a traveler.
He felt chosen.