When the refugees led by Alaina finally reached the black walls of Minas-Elion, their endless procession looked like a dark river flowing through the snow.
At the gate, Erken already stood in full armor, surrounded by rows of soldiers, their halberds glinting coldly in the morning light.
Ailin dismounted, snow crunching under her boots.
"Is everything ready?" she asked.
Erken nodded, his breath misting in the frigid air.
"It should be. The residential quarters have been fully prepared. The clerks are waiting with registry ledgers, and supplies are sorted.
Once we maintain order, we can begin admitting them in waves."
"Good," Ailin replied, relief softening her stern expression.
Then she turned to the immense crowd behind her—the weary men and women trudging through the frost, wrapped in tattered cloaks, their faces marked by both exhaustion and fragile hope.
Her voice rose, strong and commanding, rolling across the plains:
"Listen well! You stand before the Black Fortress of Minas-Elion—the heart of Lord Ryan Eowenríel's realm!
From this moment on, all who seek shelter must register your names, your families, your births.
Order will be kept.
Any who riot or steal shall be banished—or executed if they resist!"
The words, sharp and cold as the northern wind, cut through the murmur of the crowd.
No one dared to disobey.
Under the watchful gaze of the soldiers, the refugees began to line up—family by family—passing beneath the gate towers.
Each name was recorded: age, kin, birthplace, even their lineage if known.
Every household received rations and winter supplies according to their number—and greater shares for the widows and children of fallen soldiers.
The administration was not yet perfect, but the scholars from Rivendell performed their work with meticulous care.
And to the astonishment of the refugees, everything had been prepared for them.
Houses.
Bread.
Blankets.
Firewood.
It was more generosity than any northern lord had shown in centuries.
Many wept openly.
For in the lands they'd fled, lords demanded taxes from the starving and drove out the sick.
But here, this young king had spent his wealth to save them.
Their gratitude turned to devotion.
….
At the distribution yard, Isabel stood upon a platform, the wind whipping her cloak as she addressed the endless line of new citizens:
"From this day forward, you are no longer wanderers.
You stand in Eowenríel, under the protection of His Majesty, Ryan Eowenríel!
The food you hold, the firewood, the bread—all these come from his mercy, and from the blood and courage of our soldiers who won this land for you.
Remember this: when the kingdom faces danger, it will be your turn to protect what you have received."
Her voice carried far and wide, and many bowed deeply toward the fortress walls.
Cries echoed through the snow:
"Glory to Eowenríel!"
"Bless King Ryan!"
The chants spread like wildfire, rolling across the plains and rising to the iron skies.
….
While Minas-Elion processed the refugees, Ryan himself was far to the north—where the white wilderness met the edge of the Troll-woods.
There, he awaited the arrival of another people:
The Trolleans—once the mountain tribes, now reborn under his banner.
With him stood Bathrun, Sarrath, and several newly trained Trollean captains, men who had spent two harsh months drilling in discipline and combat under Ryan's watch.
Sarrath hesitated before speaking.
"My lord… do you truly believe we can live alongside those northern men?"
At that, every eye turned to Ryan.
For though they now wore new armor and swore new oaths, the Trolleans still carried the habits of their ancestors—old superstitions, brutal rites, a language long twisted by darkness.
Their customs clashed with the free folk's ways.
Even loyalty could not erase centuries of division overnight.
Ryan, however, only smiled faintly.
"You need not fear being cast aside," he said. "The kingdom itself is new—and you are part of its very foundation."
Before you are Trolleans, you are citizens of Eowenríel.
Hold to that truth, and no slander can harm you."
Then his tone hardened, his gaze sweeping across them.
"And one more thing.
From this day, our kingdom shall have its own language, a single voice for all our people.
Everyone, noble or peasant, shall learn it from the beginning.
Only those who master it will be called true Eowenríelans."
The Trolleans straightened, eyes burning with pride.
Their king had not only given them a home—he had given them a new identity.
….
Moments later, the horizon darkened.
From the frozen north came a slow-moving host: ten thousand souls, leading herds of cattle and oxen, wrapped in heavy furs.
The Trolleans had arrived.
They halted at the foot of the hill, raising their eyes to the figure standing above them.
Ryan stood unmoving, cloak billowing behind him like a banner of black and crimson.
The wind howled across the snow, carrying his voice far and clear:
"I am proud of you. You have kept your oath and come south with your kin.
From this day, you are no longer hillfolk.
You are Trolleans—the loyal and the brave, the people of Eowenríel.
I am your king.
Under my banner you will be free from hunger, cold, and tyranny.
Here, you will live with honor—your heads held high, your hearts unchained!"
Steel rang as Bathrun and Sarrath drew their blades, raising them high.
"Long live Eowenríel!" they cried.
A thousand voices answered.
Then ten thousand.
"Long live Eowenríel!"
And one by one, every Trollean fell to their knees, their shouts echoing through the white valley like thunder.
…..
That night, ten thousand Trolleans and thirty thousand northern refugees were resettled in Hope Town.
To encourage unity, Ryan ordered mixed housing—Trolleans and northerners side by side.
Armed patrols were stationed on every street, their armor gleaming in the torchlight.
His laws were strict:
First offense—ten lashes.
Second offense—banishment or death.
Under such discipline, peace held.
…..
A week later, Ryan convened a full council.
Inside the newly finished Great Hall, the firelight danced on stone pillars as his ministers gathered.
The first report: the kingdom's population now exceeded seventy thousand.
A Torvintone.
Each department received new orders.
> Isabel, Treasurer of the realm, was to oversee census and resource allocation, ensuring none starved through winter.
> Halmarad, Warden of Justice, was to establish law posts on every street, enforcing the first codex of Eowenríel.
> Yalman, Chancellor of State, was tasked with implementing the "Unity Decree"—abolishing tribal customs, encouraging intermarriage, and preaching loyalty to the crown.
> Malgoneth, Master of Scholars, was to lead the scholars in learning and spreading the Anglian tongue Ryan had introduced. During the long winter, every town would operate under strict military order, which made education easy to enforce.
> Dianeth, Master Architect, was to preserve every bit of Noldorin craft before the elves returned to Rivendell.
> And finally, Ryan himself, as Warden of War, commanded an expansion of the army—five full regiments, totaling five thousand men.
…..
The kingdom roared to life.
The Education Ministry became a furnace of learning—students and scribes laboring by candlelight to memorize the new alphabet Ryan had gifted them.
Its structure fascinated them: precise, rhythmic, balanced.
They whispered in awe that their king must possess wisdom far beyond this world.
Meanwhile, the War Ministry filled its ranks in record time.
Every man knew that to wear armor was to gain honor, to die in battle was to secure his family's future.
Within two weeks, the recruitment was complete.
Two Trolleans regiments, commanded by Bathrun and Sarrath, formed the archers and skirmishers—masters of mountain warfare.
Erken took command of the heavy infantry.
Alaina led a mixed regiment, including a company of three hundred heavy foot.
Elger was given the mounted archers, and with him went nearly all the kingdom's horses—his task: to guard the borders and scout the wilderness.
All officers were veterans of the War of Foundation.
And thanks to the mysterious "growth boon" granted by Ryan's system, their strength and skill increased thrice as fast as ordinary soldiers.
On paper, Eowenríel now held five thousand troops.
In truth, it possessed far more power.
Hidden beneath the surface were two elite forces:
The Royal Guard—Reginor's three hundred handpicked warriors, the sharpest blade of the crown.
The Dulod Heavy Cavalry, a few hundred horsemen—the last remnant of old nobility and Ryan's ace in reserve.
A strong army cannot be forged in peace; only time and battle would temper them into legend.
…..
As winter deepened, two regiments remained garrisoned at the fortresses, while the other three took to the wilderness for live exercises—hunting orcs and beasts across the snows, turning practice into survival.
….
But beyond the reach of any patrol, deep within the Troll-woods, a grey figure moved among the frozen trees.
Gandalf the Grey, staff in hand, face grim beneath his hood.
Since his last meeting with Ryan, he had felt a dark stirring in the forest—so he ventured north to investigate.
Now he understood the cause.
Trolls lumbered through the thickets in packs, their eyes gleaming with hunger.
Bands of orcs moved between the shadows, gathering in alarming numbers.
Each year, winter drove them together—but this time, the scale was different.
They were assembling.
And worse, they were organizing.
Gandalf slew a few trolls along his way, yet he knew these skirmishes meant little.
A greater host was forming.
He stopped suddenly, eyes narrowing toward the black heart of the forest.
"No," he murmured. "This is no mere hunger… this is the hand of command."
The wind carried distant roars, echoing like drums beneath the frozen canopy.
Gandalf turned south at once, his cloak whipping behind him.
"I must warn Ryan," he whispered.
"Before the storm breaks."