Thengel crossed his arms, silent for a moment before replying. "If Gandalf calls you, I will not forbid it. But listen to this, Thalion: the world beyond our lands is changing. Even the elves are not as safe as they once were. You must see not only with your eyes, but with your heart. And if you feel your heart waver, return."
Thalion bowed respectfully. "I will always carry the name of Rohan in every action I take."
"And don't be too hard on yourself, Son," Morwen added softly. "It is not the burden of the world you must bear, only your part in it."
In his private workshop hidden behind a small hill east of Edoras, Thalion prepared his final equipment. His storage ring lay open, and he took out and put back items after inspection:
Dried food from the people of Rohan: hard bread, smoked meat, and dried fruit processed in the western workshops.
Several bottles of old wine belonging to the noble families, fermented for two decades.
An ancient, hand-drawn map with secret points that could only be read under moonlight.
Two sword blades: one forged from pure Rohirric iron, the other a secret alloy of materials only Thalion knew.
A lightweight yet strong windproof cloak, and scrolls of incantations in an ancient language he had secretly studied.
Gryffindor, his horse, stood majestically nearby. The horse had once been named Tornado, but some time ago, Thalion had changed his name.
"The old name suited you when you were wild," he had said at the time, patting the horse's neck, "But now you are different. You are brave, calm, and always loyal. You are Gryffindor."
The horse whinnied softly, its eyes looking at Thalion as if understanding that their journey would be important.
Thalion put all his provisions into the storage ring, then touched the chest of his black robe, where the lion emblem sewn with silver thread shone faintly.
He took a deep breath, then looked east, towards Rivendell.
"Time to go. The world will not wait."
He leaped onto Gryffindor, gently patted his old friend's back, then spurred him towards the eastern gate of Rohan. The few guards on duty merely watched and bowed respectfully.
Rohan slowly receded behind them, replaced by vast grasslands, then forests, and then a sky that felt increasingly full of secrets.
The heir's steps continued to carry the name of Rohan towards a meeting that would change everything.
The outer edges of Fangorn Forest began to thin, replaced by denser but not as ancient groves of trees. Thalion and Gryffindor followed a quiet path rarely used, adhering to the route given by Gandalf's messenger bird. But the tranquility did not last long.
Smoke.
Smoke and the smell of burnt flesh hung in the air. Thalion stopped Gryffindor and dismounted slowly, approaching the bushes while crouching low.
From behind the foliage, a group of orcs was visible, setting fire to small patches of the forest. Some of them let out rough laughter, smashing wooden stakes and slaughtering wild animals that had no time to flee. The corpse of a young deer hung from a pole, its blood dripping onto the ground like rain that had forgotten how to stop.
Thalion clenched his jaw.
He stood upright, slowly removing his outer grey cloak. Beneath it, black battle attire with dark red accents on the collar and sleeves was revealed. The fabric was light as air yet still as night. The cut was loose but elegant, following the style of warriors from the far East.
On his left back was the emblem of a golden winged lion, with ruby red eyes that seemed to glow. It was not the official emblem of Rohan, but Thalion's personal sigil—the Symbol of Courage and Perseverance, his mother's heritage from Lossarnach.
He drew the long sword sheathed on his left hip. Its blade was straight, thin, and shone faintly. He had named the sword himself: Ryūjin Jakka, "the dragon king who burns the world."
His hand tightened calmly on the hilt.
"Awaken, Ryūjin Jakka," he whispered.
In an instant, the katana's blade ignited—not with ordinary fire. This was a nearly invisible flame, like condensed sunlight. Its heat could not be felt from afar, but the ground around Thalion's feet began to blacken and dry.
The orcs turned their heads. One of them growled and pointed. "HUMAN!" he shouted.
Thalion stared coldly. "A human who will not stand idly by while the world burns."
He stepped forward.
The first attack came from the right, a large orc leaping while swinging its axe. But before the weapon fell, Ryūjin Jakka was already dancing in the air.
Fire enveloped the blade and seemed to follow its wielder's movements. The sword did not just slash; it burned from within. The orc screamed, its body melting like old wood thrown into a raging inferno.
The others came simultaneously. Six. Eight. Ten.
But Thalion was not just a swordsman. He was the heir of Rohan, trained in tactics, strength, and speed.
His sword sliced through the air. Each cut left a thin trail of fire, encircling the orcs' bodies, then igniting them from the inside out, like the earth's fury finally erupting.
Some orcs began to retreat, but it was too late.
Thalion plunged his sword into the ground. "Jōkaku Enjō!" he uttered in a low but powerful voice.
Instantly, circles of fire erupted from the ground around him, forming a fiery fortress. The orcs left inside were trapped. Their screams were piercing, but Thalion did not flinch. His face was as still as stone. The look in his eyes was like that of a lion before it pounces.
After the battlefield fell silent and only ash and charred bodies remained, Thalion pulled his sword back. The fire slowly disappeared. Ryūjin Jakka returned to its calm form.
He stroked the neck of Gryffindor, who approached calmly, never having fled even though the flames had almost touched his coat.
"The world is dying, friend," Thalion whispered softly. "And we haven't even reached Rivendell."
With a fluid motion, he remounted Gryffindor. The evening sky began to dim, but Thalion's eyes only grew sharper. In the distance, the mountains began to appear faintly. Beyond them, Rivendell awaited—and with it, a destiny greater than just war.
Several years before the journey to Rivendell…
The skies of Rohan were cloudy that day, but underground—behind the cliffs of Rohan's western valleys—lay a vast and warm space that radiated a golden light from various alchemical tools and magical furnaces. The space was not just a workshop. It was a temple of creation.
Thalion stood in the center, wearing his work clothes: old grey linen, a dragonhide leather apron, and gloves that glowed faintly due to contact with magisteel dust—a magical metal powder that was easily ignited by emotions.
On a circular stone table, various materials had been arranged:
Shards of dragon bones, from a dragon that died of old age, not slain.
Lava essence from the volcano north of Dunharrow.
Drops of his own blood—a mixture of will, purpose, and a curse.
And a nameless black metal, which he had found in ancient ruins and was not recorded in any book. The metal could not be broken, but neither could it be shaped… except with high-level alchemy.
Thalion stared at the materials. "Today, I am not just making a sword… but a legacy."
He lit the furnace. Blue flames flickered with a soft crackling sound. His hands moved nimbly, mixing the metal and dragon shards into a spiral-shaped crucible. He began to whisper incantations that did not originate from a single language… but a combination—ancient Rohirric, High Elvish, and even words from the extinct language of the alchemist world.
"Receiving the world's heat… yet not burning. Cleaving the darkness… yet not losing direction. Become the form of my intent. Arise, blade of my soul."
The magisteel dust in the air began to swirl slowly, forming luminous lines above the crucible. The molten metal began to take shape: a long, light katana, with an elegant curve like a burning wind.
However, this process was not without its trials.
From within the burning metal, a sound began to emerge. Not an ordinary echo, but a whisper.
"What is your purpose in creating this sword, Son of Rohan?" "To kill?" "To protect?" "Or merely to satisfy the ego of becoming a legend?"
Thalion did not flinch. He placed his hand on the hot crucible—his skin burned, but he did not pull it away.
"Not to kill. But to finish what cannot be finished with words. To speak when human tongues fail."
The metal stilled.
Then the fire erupted upwards, like a second sun born from the furnace.
When the light subsided, the sword floated, not touching hand, not touching ground. It was made of seemingly ordinary metal, but every inch of its blade contained a flicker of embers. Its hilt was simple—wrapped in white cloth with a small handguard shaped like the head of a winged lion-griffin.
Thalion held it for the first time.
And as he drew Ryūjin Jakka from its scabbard, which he had made from old dragon scales… a small burst of flame swept across the ground.
He smiled faintly.
"This sword is no ordinary sword. It lives. It knows when to be silent. But when it speaks, the world will know the meaning of controlled fury."
Since that moment, Ryūjin Jakka had only been drawn when Thalion truly needed power beyond human logic. He never displayed it during training. Most of the people of Rohan did not even know he possessed such a sword.
And only Gryffindor had witnessed that night, when an heir to the throne of Rohan had forged his fury into a whispering blade.
In his dimly lit private workshop, with the warm glow of the furnace flickering, Thalion stared intently at the Ryūjin Jakka lying on the stone table.
Initially, the sword only emitted a burning heat and flames that licked its blade when drawn from its sheath. But today, he had created something new.
Carefully, he plunged the tip of the sword into the cold stone floor. Instantly, the flames flared higher—like a small dragon roaring, licking the ground beneath it. The fire did not only burn on the blade, but spread out to form a protective circle around him, shimmering in shades of golden-red orange.
Thalion smiled widely, his eyes gleaming with pride.
"This is just the beginning," he murmured softly, then lifted the sword and slowly twirled the still-flaming blade.
Suddenly, he chuckled softly, a sound rarely heard from his serious lips.
"Ryūjin Jakka, you are beginning to show your potential. Perhaps one day you will roar like a true dragon."
He knew there was still much work to be done to perfectly control the flames and use them at will. But now, the sword was not just an ordinary weapon, hot and fiery—it had begun to become an extension of his soul, a tool to protect and burn away the encroaching darkness.
Within his chest, a new hope blazed.
Behind the dense and silent thickets of Rohan's forests, Thalion moved stealthily, carrying Ryūjin Jakka in his left hand. The sound of rustling leaves and the whisper of the wind were the only witnesses to his secret training.
Not a single citizen of Rohan knew where he spent hours every afternoon. This place was far from sight, far from curious gazes. Here, Thalion was free to channel his abilities, forging a bond with the fiery sword that grew stronger day by day.
With steady breaths, he rotated the blade of Ryūjin Jakka slowly. The fire that had previously blazed at the sword's tip was now under his control. With a gentle movement, the flames shot into the air, forming small circles that danced following the direction of his swing.
Each slash was accompanied by a following burst of fire, burning the dry twigs around without touching the large tree trunks. Thalion repeated the movements, strengthening his control and the precision of his attacks.
"This is not just a sword," he thought, his eyes narrowed in focus. "It must become an extension of my soul. My weapon to protect Rohan from the darkness."
He lowered his body into a defensive stance, imagining the attacks of the orc enemies that were beginning to lurk. Suddenly, he thrust his sword into the dusty ground, creating a wave of fire that spread rapidly, burning a large log until it turned to embers.
Sweat began to dampen his forehead, but a small smile still graced his lips. He knew that without this secret training, he would not be able to summon fire in a real battle.
As the sun began to set and the sky turned golden orange, Thalion carefully returned Ryūjin Jakka to its sheath, covering the fiery sword with thick black cloth.
"This is my weapon, my secret," he thought. "With this, I will guard Rohan."
And he strode away from the place, leaving behind traces of fire that soon extinguished without a trace.
The Journey
Thalion began his journey from the vast plains of Rohan, riding Gryffindor with steady steps along the paths that cleaved through green valleys and rolling hills. Magnificent Rohan, with its wheat fields and wild horses, became the last sight he left behind before venturing into wilder and more dangerous territories.
The journey from Rohan to Rivendell was estimated to take about two weeks of riding at a moderate pace, traversing varied terrain ranging from grasslands and dense forests to rugged mountains.
The first few days were spent passing through Fangorn Forest, filled with giant trees and thick fog, a place full of mystery and the soothing yet precarious sounds of nature. Thalion remained vigilant as dark creatures like orcs often lurked here. Several times he had to ambush bands of orcs trying to infiltrate this region, using the ignited Ryūjin Jakka to burn his opponents with intimidating flames.
After emerging from Fangorn Forest, his path led north towards the slopes of the Misty Mountains. Here the terrain became more challenging, sharp rocks and piercing cold winds posing their own difficulties. However, the sight of towering mountains and clear, watery valleys became a reward for the travelers.
In the shadows of the mountains, he passed through narrow gaps and caves that had once been orc lairs. Each time he encountered a band of orcs, Thalion did not hesitate to use his skills, making his opponents fixated on the burning heat of his upgraded sword.
Towards the end of his journey, he entered Lothlórien, the sacred forest of the elves. Its leaves shimmered with gold, and the air felt cool and peaceful. The atmosphere here was very different from the harsh and dangerous terrain he had traversed, allowing Thalion to replenish his energy and spirit.
After passing through the golden forest, Rivendell—a peaceful and luminous hidden valley—awaited before his eyes. The place was like an oasis in the midst of a long, tiring, and dangerous journey.
Thalion stepped into the valley of Rivendell, and immediately his breath caught in his throat. The sight that unfolded before him far surpassed his imaginings of an ancient sanctuary.
From a modern world filled with tall buildings and concrete, he was accustomed to a cold, man-made grandeur. But here, Rivendell greeted him with an entirely different beauty—a natural beauty that harmonized with delicate and graceful architecture.
Rows of white stone buildings shone, adorned with arches and stained-glass windows that cast rainbow hues when sunlight touched them. Roofs curved like the wings of birds ready to take flight, surrounded by a dense, soothing green forest.
The sound of small waterfalls in the distance mingled with the chirping of birds and the rustling of wind caressing the leaves. The fresh air carried the scent of wildflowers and damp earth—a scent long lost from the crowded cities of Thalion's former world.
He stood at the edge of a stone bridge connecting two parts of the valley, gazing at the clear river water that sparkled like crystal. The water flowed calmly, soothing a soul weary from a long journey.
"This is like a dream, or a living painting," Thalion thought in amazement. "Truly unlike anything I have ever seen."
Graceful and serene elves passed by him, their clothing soft and their movements full of courtesy. They seemed like a part of nature itself—an eternal beauty, as if transcending time.
Thalion felt small amidst the grandeur and peace of Rivendell, but also inspired. This place was not just a fortress or a palace—it was an oasis for the soul, a meeting point between the past and the future, the mortal and the eternal.
He took a deep breath, ready for the meeting that awaited him.
Thalion stood tall, wearing black clothing resembling a kimono with hakama and a white obi, complete with the golden lion emblem emblazoned on his chest and back. His imposing figure and calm yet powerful aura drew the attention of passing elves.
A silver-haired elf with sharp eyes approached, his steps light yet full of authority. "Greetings, traveler. What brings you to Rivendell?" he asked in a soft but firm voice.
Thalion replied with respect. "My name is Thalion, son of Thengel, King of Rohan. I was sent here by Gandalf to await further instructions."
The elf nodded slowly, as if weighing the sincerity of Thalion's words. "Rohan is a distant land, yet you have come alone bravely. We respect your courage. Allow me to escort you to our host, Elrond."
"Thank you," Thalion replied, raising his head slightly as a sign of respect.
They walked together along a path surrounded by large trees and graceful, timeless buildings. Thalion observed his surroundings with reverence and awe, realizing that his journey had just entered a new chapter.