When Ryan descended from the lonely hill that night, his entire aura had changed.
Gone was the restraint, the cautious composure of a man learning to move through power.
What remained was something far sharper—like a blade drawn from its scabbard after years of silence.
He was no longer hiding his edge.
That very night, under the dim golden light of his study, Ryan penned a letter to Lord Elrond of Rivendell.
Each stroke of the quill was steady and deliberate, his words neither humble nor arrogant—merely honest, and filled with conviction.
To the Esteemed Lord Elrond,
I am Ryan Eowenríel.
First, I offer my deepest thanks for the aid you have given me.
The descendants of heroes you sent are now entrusted with great responsibilities in my court; each has been given room to flourish, and I hold them in the highest esteem.
Your Noldorin craftsmen, too, have brought tremendous prosperity to my lands through the use of elven runes and craft.
I now write to you with a request—a bold one, perhaps, but made with careful thought rather than impulse.
I wish to study magic and runes.
I have seen what they can accomplish. I have seen the way they bring life and order to my people's labor, how they shape the world as easily as we shape clay.
I believe that to guide my kingdom to greatness, I must understand this power—not to wield it in arrogance, but to master it with wisdom.
I spoke with Belangar on this matter, but he advised me to seek the counsel of Mithrandir.
I have done so. Gandalf himself believes I have the potential to learn.
He named you—Lord Elrond—as the teacher best suited to guide me.
Thus, I ask you humbly but earnestly: grant me your instruction.
Teach me not only the knowledge of magic and runes, but also the deeper wisdom of kingship that lies in your heart.
With respect,
Ryan Eowenríel
When he sealed the letter, the wax still glowed faintly red from the flame.
Outside his window, the stars over the northern sky gleamed like a thousand ancient eyes watching silently from eternity.
….
For days, there was no answer.
Then a week passed.
Then two.
Each morning Ryan found himself glancing toward the western horizon, half-expecting a messenger to appear among the white hills.
But Rivendell was far—and its lord not quick to decide in matters that touched the deep threads of fate.
At last, after fifteen days, a rider cloaked in silver and frost galloped through the snow to Minas-Elion's gates.
The letter bore the sigil of Rivendell: two trees entwined beneath a crown of stars.
Ryan broke the seal and read:
To Ryan Eowenríel,
I have read your letter and considered it long.
More than once, I thought to refuse—not from doubt in your worth, but from the weight this choice might carry.
Yet each time, a quiet voice seemed to stir in the depths of memory…
As if fate itself whispered that I must do this.
Thus, I accept.
When your burdens lighten, come to Rivendell.
There I will teach you what I can—of runes, of wisdom, and of the light that guides both king and mage.
— Elrond Half-elven
Ryan let out a long breath he hadn't realized he was holding.
Joy surged through him—not the wild thrill of victory, but a deep, steady flame.
Magic.
The one thing he had dreamed of since awakening in this world—something that had always shimmered just beyond reach—was finally opening its gates to him.
He could hardly wait.
But he also knew it would have to wait.
For winter had come, and with it, the true test of his newborn kingdom.
,,,,.
The following month brought a string of triumphs.
Through the combined effort of men, elves, and craftsmen, all three towns—Minas-Elion, the Vale, and Dessen—were completed before the snows fully set in.
Minas-Elion's outer district, now named Hope Town, could house thirty thousand souls.
The Vale became Stonehold, able to shelter ten thousand.
Dessen, newly expanded, grew to hold twenty thousand.
And as if the heavens themselves approved of Ryan's work, the very night the last roof was thatched, the snow began to fall.
By dawn, the North was blanketed in white.
But this time, they were ready.
Ryan's foresight—ordering Isabel to stockpile grain and supplies from Bree, the Shire, and the southern towns—now proved invaluable.
The storerooms overflowed. Fires burned bright in every hall.
For the first time in a thousand years, the North faced winter not with dread—but with hope.
….
That hope soon drew others.
From the west came the first great tide of people: twenty thousand refugees, following the frozen course of the Hoarwell River northward toward Dessen Town.
Torvin of the Dulod family, the town's steward, sent word to Minas-Elion the moment they arrived.
"A host of people has reached our borders. I've deployed troops to guide them. The new governor, Morven, has them organized already.
There is no unrest."
Ryan immediately sent word to Isabel:
"Record every soul. List the families of fallen soldiers. Give them the best homes and enough food for the winter."
It was a symbolic act—but one that struck deep.
The refugees would see with their own eyes that in this land, the warriors who fought and died were not forgotten.
That their families lived under the protection of the crown.
And that simple truth would inspire countless more to join Ryan's banners.
….
Days later, another report came—from the Bruinen River valley to the west.
"Three great bands of refugees—nearly thirty thousand souls—are marching toward Minas-Elion."
Ryan did not hesitate. He dispatched Ailin and Elger, the siblings whose names were already whispered with awe among the troops.
They rode with thirty horsemen across the snow, and when they reached the ridges overlooking the plains, even their seasoned hearts faltered.
Below them stretched an endless sea of people—black dots moving through the blinding white, a tide of humanity so vast it blurred into the horizon.
Elger let out a low whistle.
"By the Valar… I've never seen so many in one place. If every able-bodied man joined the army, the lord could march on the Troll-woods tomorrow."
Ailin's expression hardened.
"First we keep them alive. Then we build their faith."
She pointed toward the south.
"You take a third of them to Stonehold. I'll take the rest to Hope Town.
Send riders to warn the fortresses—tell them to prepare the garrisons for order and safety."
They spurred their horses down the slope, snow spraying like silver mist.
When they reached the forefront of the great procession, Ailin raised her voice, clear and commanding:
"By order of Lord Ryan Eowenríel, halt your march! You have reached his lands!"
The moment his name rang out, the crowd erupted.
"Ryan Eowenríel! Praise the new king!"
"He kept his word! The North lives again!"
"He will shelter us!"
One old man stepped forward, tears freezing in his beard.
"My lady, I was a village elder of a hamlet by the Bruinen. Half our men marched with the lord's army.
One of my sons died in battle; the other lives. We received gold for the fallen—and his message of refuge.
So we came, all of us, with our families and our flocks.
We are not beggars—we come to live under the king's law!"
"And I wish to enlist!" another shouted.
"I'm a healer!" called a woman. "The lord's people need medics!"
Ailin's stern face softened. She remembered the faces of the dead—their blood on the snow, their loyalty etched into history.
She nodded, voice steady but warm.
"Then hear me! Follow my lead, and you will have food, warmth, and a home.
The king has prepared all for you.
You are no longer wanderers—you are citizens of the North!"
A cheer rose, echoing over the frozen plains like the roar of a storm.
That day, under a grey winter sky, the dream of a kingdom began to take shape—not in stone, but in the hearts of its people.
….
And far to the north, in the shadowed valleys beyond the Troll-woods, another host was on the move.
Ten thousand strong.
They drove herds of goats and oxen, their cloaks made of furs and their eyes hard as flint.
Once, they had been the hillfolk, the scourge of the North.
Now they marched beneath a new banner.
For they had sworn loyalty to Ryan Eowenríel—and he had given them a name.
They were no longer mountain savages.
They were Trolleans.
And they were coming home.