The snows fell thick upon the land of Eowenríel, muffling every sound except the clash of steel and the rhythm of marching boots.
Beyond the fortress walls of Minas-Elion, the king and his marshal—Ryan Eowenríel and Idhrion —oversaw the final deployment for the winter campaign.
Three passes marked the outer rim of the Troll-woods, once proud fortifications of the fallen kingdom of Rhudaur, now nothing but crumbling ruins swallowed by frost and time.
The ghosts of ancient battles lingered in the wind, whispering through broken battlements and shattered towers.
….
The Western Slope Pass
Nestled in the southwest, where ridges rose like jagged teeth, the West Slope Pass was the only navigable road through the mountains—narrow, steep, and perfect for defense.
There, Ryan stationed a single battalion of heavy infantry, their shields forming an unyielding wall of black and silver.
Snow buried their boots, yet none shifted from their post.
"If the enemy comes," Ryan told them, "you will be the mountain itself. Let no creature pass."
…..
The Blackwater Bridge
The so-called "bridge" was merely a frozen stream winding past the remains of a ruined fort.
Yet its position, closest to Minas-Elion, made it ideal for supply and defense.
Ryan ordered the fort repaired by craftsmen and masons; Ailin's field hospital and the logistics corps would also be established there.
The wounded would have a place to return, and the dead a place to rest.
….
The Deadwood Crossroads
To the southeast stretched a forest of withered trees, their leafless limbs tangled in skeletal embrace.
The ground reeked of rot, riddled with the tracks of orcs, trolls, and wargs.
Ryan assigned three hundred heavy infantry there—his strongest line—and two rotating mounted archer patrols to scour the region day and night.
The Deadwood Crossroads would be the storm's heart.
….
When the infantry were settled, the cavalry received their orders.
Three hundred armored riders of the Dulod family, and one hundred swift mounted archers, were divided into forty small units, tasked with patrolling the forest's perimeter under Torvin Dulod and Elger.
Every ten men became a spearpoint—lean, fast, and silent.
"You will circle the Troll-woods like wolves," Ryan told them.
"Kill what you find.
Report what you cannot kill."
….
Then came the archers—the true edge of this war.
Three battalions, nine hundred soldiers in total.
Two battalions of Trolleans, one of northern men.
Each battalion was broken into thirty squads, ten warriors each, each guided by a single Elven Ranger.
Before their departure, Ryan gathered them all upon a snowy hill overlooking the shadowed forest.
The wind howled, cold enough to flay the skin, yet every man stood straight as a spear.
…..
Ryan's voice rose against the storm.
"Warriors of Eowenríel—tell me, what do you think of our kingdom?"
At first, a scattered murmur—then a roar:
"It is Beautiful!"
The cry rolled like thunder across the frozen plains.
These were men who had once been outcasts and raiders, nameless in the wilds.
Now, they had homes, families, language, and pride.
They had dignity.
Even in this bitter winter, their hearths burned bright.
Their children slept warm.
They owed all of it to this kingdom—to their king.
Ryan pointed his sword toward the black edge of the forest.
"Within those woods gather monsters—trolls and orcs who would steal everything you've built.
Tell me—what shall we do?"
"Kill! Kill! Kill!"
The answer thundered from their throats, shaking snow from the trees.
Ryan smiled grimly.
"Then listen well! The safety of this realm rests upon your shoulders.
For one month you will fight in those woods.
Those who return alive—will be heroes.
Those who fall—will be remembered as martyrs.
Your names will be carved in white stone, your deeds sung for generations.
And your families will be cared for all their days."
He raised his sword high, its blade gleaming with pale light.
"Are you ready to fight for this kingdom—for the future of Eowenríel?"
"For Eowenríel!"
The soldiers roared, blood surging with purpose.
Their breath steamed like smoke, their hearts burned like fire.
"Then march," Ryan commanded. "To war!"
With a single motion, he slashed his sword downward. Snowflakes drifting near the blade split in two.
Nine hundred soldiers moved as one, dissolving into the storm—squads scattering like sparks across the vast white wilderness.
,,,,,
Inside the forest, the Starlit Veil Operation began.
One squad, led by a young captain and guided by a silent Elf, crept through a narrow ravine. The frost crunched beneath their boots, each step measured and deliberate.
Suddenly, the elf raised a hand.
"Stop."
He pointed ahead. Smoke curled from a cave fifty paces away; the guttural growls of orcs echoed faintly from within.
"Archers, ready," the captain whispered. He drew a flaming arrow, lighting it with trembling fingers. "On my mark—fire!"
Three arrows streaked through the snow, trailing fire.
They struck.
A moment later, the cave belched smoke and screams. Orcs burst out, howling and blinded, only to meet the spears of waiting soldiers.
When the battle ended, the ground was littered with corpses.
The cave burned behind them, a black wound in the white world.
The captain wiped the blood from his weapon and nodded to the elf.
"Thank you, friend."
The elf smiled faintly and gestured for them to move on.
And they did.
For weeks, this was the rhythm of the war—small fires in the dark, brief clashes of steel and screams.
The forest seemed alive with death.
Some squads returned with trophies.
Others never returned at all.
In the stillness of night, their absence spoke louder than any victory.
….
After establishing the outer defenses, Ryan relinquished command of the front to Idhrion and began the long, snow-choked ride back to Minas-Elion.
Beside him rode Reginor, the grizzled commander of the Royal Guard.
"My lord," Reginor said gravely, "forgive me, but I believe your place is at the front.
The men would fight twice as hard if their king stood among them."
Ryan shook his head.
"No, Reginor. A king must choose his battles.
Though I have no throne yet, no crown—still, I must learn to be more than a sword.
I have generals who can command the field; I cannot lead every charge myself.
My war is not only of steel. It is of rule, of people, of the future.
I must learn what it means to be a true king."
Reginor was silent for a long time, then bowed his head.
"You're right, my lord. I still think like a soldier."
"There is no shame in that," Ryan said with a faint smile. "It is why I value you."
….
When he finally returned to Minas-Elion , the snow had eased into a silent drizzle of flakes.
At the gate waited Belangar, the elven advisor sent by Elrond. His white hair shimmered faintly in the grey light.
"Welcome back, Lord Ryan," he said, bowing. "Was the journey peaceful?"
"Peaceful enough," Ryan replied, dismounting and brushing snow from his cloak. "The men are deployed. The forest will soon burn."
Belangar fell into step beside him as they entered the fortress.
"Before you rest, my lord, you should know—someone has been waiting for you in the council hall."
Ryan glanced at him, puzzled.
"Who?"
The elf's lips curved faintly.
"Lord Elrond of Rivendell."
Ryan froze mid-step.
For a heartbeat, even the whisper of snow outside seemed to stop.
Then, slowly, he exhaled.
"So," he murmured, "the teacher has come to meet his pupil."
And as the firelight danced across the stone corridors, Ryan Eowenríel turned toward the council chamber—
where the master of ancient wisdom awaited the king who would change the fate of Middle-earth.