The crackle of pinewood filled the war council chamber, its golden light casting restless shadows on the stone walls. The firelight danced across armor and helms, painting every commander's face with a flicker of steel and determination.
Ryan Eowenríel stood at the head of the table, his voice ringing clearly through the silence.
"Gandalf brings grave tidings. The orcs and trolls are gathering—this winter, the plundering will begin."
"To keep the war away from our homes—and to temper our soldiers in real battle—I have decided: we will not wait.
We will enter the Troll-woods and strike first, waging a guerrilla war that disrupts their unholy assembly."
His gaze swept the room, sharp and steady.
"This is not a mere skirmish—it is a test of endurance. We will bleed the darkness dry before it can march upon us.
Now… I will issue the orders. Execute them without error."
"Yes, my lord!"
The response came as one voice, echoing like thunder.
….
"Erken!"
The commander of the heavy infantry rose, his armor clinking like the heartbeat of iron.
"You will hold the forest's three main passes—Western slope pass, Blackwater Bridge, and Deadwood Crossroads.
Your task is not to advance but to block. Form the shield wall, and let nothing—not even a troll—pass your line."
Erken grinned fiercely, slamming his fist to his chest.
"As long as my axe still swings, nothing shall cross my front, my lord!"
Ryan nodded once.
"Good. I trust you'll make the mountains proud."
…..
"Arion! Torvin!"
The young ranger stood tall, his sharp eyes gleaming like a hawk's beneath his hood. Beside him, the noble heir Torvin Dulod—now head of the Dulod family and commander of the heavy cavalry—bowed slightly.
Their horses were few—barely two hundred—but they were all Ryan had to command.
"Elger," Ryan ordered, "you'll lead one hundred mounted archers. Torvin, two hundred heavy riders.
Divide into ten-man squads. Patrol the forest's perimeter. Carry five days of rations and full quivers.
Any small orc bands or lone wargs—destroy them.
But if you encounter a host… withdraw immediately and report. Do not engage."
Both men saluted sharply.
"Understood, my lord!" Elger declared. "We'll make the forest so quiet even the crows will forget its name!"
…..
Ryan's gaze turned to Alaina, Bathrun, and Sarrath.
"You three hold the key to this campaign."
"From your ranks, each of you will detach one cohort—thirty squads of ten men apiece. You will carry enough arrows and provisions to survive on your own."
He drew a map on the table, marking paths through the woods with his dagger's point.
"Your operation is called 'The Starlit Veil.' Each squad fights independently—hunt, ambush, burn.
No formations, no waiting for orders.
If you find an orc camp—torch it.
If you find a lone monster—kill it.
Supplies will be cached behind Erken's lines each evening. Resupply and vanish again before dawn."
"Understood!"
"Even if we die," barked Bathrun, "we'll drag three orcs to hell with us!"
"Four," Sarrath growled.
Their voices burned with conviction. These men, once the savage hillfolk, now fought for a higher purpose—to prove their loyalty in blood. They would show the North that they were no longer barbarians, but the soldiers of Eowenríel.
….
Then Idhrion, Ryan's wisest companion, furrowed his brow.
"My lord, your plan is sound—but the forest is treacherous. Ravines, pitfalls, tangled paths… How will our small units navigate or track the enemy?"
Ryan smiled faintly.
"A fine question—as always, my general."
He raised his voice toward the doors.
"Gentlemen, come in! It's time for your part."
The heavy doors swung open, and two tall figures entered.
Elladan and Elrohir, the sons of Elrond. Their presence was like a breath of old legend—graceful, solemn, yet sharp as tempered steel.
"They are the sons of Lord Elrond," Ryan introduced. "Eldar of Rivendell—guardians of this land since the Elder Days."
"They know the forest better than any map."
Every commander rose in respect. The twins returned the gesture with measured grace.
Elladan spoke first, his voice calm as running water.
"Your plan is bold, Lord Eowenríel. But if we move as you say, two elves are not enough."
Elrohir nodded.
"We will summon the Rangers of the Wood—our kin who have watched over these wilds for centuries.
They will fight beside your men."
A murmur of awe rippled through the hall.
The Elven Rangers—the silent hunters of the North—were the stuff of legend. Unlike the Dúnedain, who fought with swords and honor, the elves struck unseen—bows whispering death through the snow, blades flashing only for the final blow.
Ryan inclined his head deeply.
"Then let us fight together—for freedom, and for the dawn that follows this long night."
….
When the plans were finalized, Ryan turned to his marshal.
"Idhrion," he said solemnly, "I must remain here to coordinate the war effort.
You will command the expedition.
Hold the enemy within the forest for the entire winter. No matter what happens—do not let them break through."
Idhrion knelt briefly, his expression fierce and unwavering.
"You have my word, my king. No horde shall leave that forest alive."
Ryan's eyes swept the table, meeting every gaze.
"Listen well—all of you. This is not a battle of swift victories.
This is a war of endurance.
We will grind them down until winter devours them.
And when spring returns—we shall march in force and cleanse the Troll-woods forever."
Every commander stood, armor clashing in unison as they saluted.
"By your command!"
Outside, the storm raged, flinging icy pellets against the fortress walls.
But inside, the torches blazed brighter, reflected in faces hard with purpose.
The Winter Campaign of Eowenríel had begun.
….
Victory in small wars depends on valor.
But victory in long wars—depends on resources.
And Ryan had prepared.
The storehouses brimmed with grain, the armories with steel. The factories burned day and night, forging weapons blessed with elven runes.
When the council adjourned, Ryan immediately summoned his officers to organize the logistics—supply lines, hospitals, rescue units.
He ordered field hospitals built at the forest's edge, led personally by Ailin, head of the royal healers.
Across towns and strongholds, officials spread the call to unity:
"The trolls and orcs rise once more. Our king rides north to protect our homes.
This war is not his alone—it belongs to all of us.
To every man, every woman, every soul who calls Eowenríel their home.
Stand with your king.
Together, we will prevail."
And for the first time, both northerners and Trolleans whispered the same words with pride:
We are Eowenríelans.
….
When the army finally departed, the snow was falling in thick, endless waves—each flake a whisper of destiny.
From Stonehold in the Vale, from Hope Town near Minas-Elion, from Dessen Town in the south—the legions marched through streets lined with silent citizens.
They sang as they marched, their voices fierce and resonant, echoing through the blizzard.
It was the song Ryan himself had written:
"The Song of Eowenríel."
"Awake—
You who have suffered the darkness for generations!
Before the dawn breaks, take up your swords!
Fight for the morning that will come!
Blood and fire, death and wrath!
Vengeance—vengeance—vengeance!
We march beneath the banner of Eowenríel!
Against the enemies of the people—
Charge!
Against the will of evil—
Vengeance!
Vengeance!"
The melody rose like a storm, fierce and mournful, filled with pride and rage and hope.
And the people sang with them.
The towns echoed with thousands of voices—men, women, children—joining the soldiers' chorus, until even the heavens seemed to tremble.
A strange, luminous warmth descended upon the marching columns—an unseen blessing that wrapped the warriors in an unspoken fire.
From the ramparts, Gandalf watched them go, snow dusting his shoulders.
He smiled softly, eyes reflecting the glow of torches and the strength of mortal hearts.
"Music, when born from courage, does more than stir the soul—it bends fate itself," he murmured.
"When a thousand voices sing as one, even destiny must yield.
This… this is the gift Ilúvatar gave to Man—the power to defy the design of the world."
His gaze drifted toward a window deeper within the fortress, where Ryan worked tirelessly by lamplight.
"I see it now," Gandalf whispered. "A kingdom rising from frost and ruin…
And a king—greater than the line of Númenor—born in the heart of winter.
He is hope incarnate.
But he is still so young.
He must be guided… and protected."
….
Far away, beneath the eternal spring of Rivendell, Elrond Half-elven sat in his garden, teaching a golden-haired boy the runes of old.
Then suddenly, he paused, lifting his gaze to the distant west.
For a moment, his ancient eyes shimmered with light—like stars seen through tears.
"Perhaps," he murmured, "it is we elves who are bound by fate.
But men… men are free.
And in that freedom, they will shape the world anew."
He closed the book, smiling faintly as the sound of distant snow and song echoed across the ages.
"Go forth then, young king of the North.
The Age of Men has begun."