Half a month slipped by like a dream beneath the northern skies. Isabel returned to Minas-Elion bearing wagons laden with grain, crates of weapons, and a sealed letter written in the trembling yet steady hand of Grinwald Dulod himself.
Ryan broke the seal carefully. The parchment smelled faintly of wax and iron.
…
"To Lord Ryan Eowenríel,
It has been long since our last meeting. Grinwald Dulod sends his warmest regards.
For saving my daughter Isabel, I offer my deepest thanks — not merely as the Lord of Dessen, but as a father. House Dulod shall remember your deed as long as we endure.
Isabel has told me of your struggles on the frontier. If ever you need aid — in arms, gold, or men — say the word. The Dulod forges and spears are yours to command.
Should it be inconvenient to write to me, you may send word through Isabel. I sense that she bears… a special fondness for you, whether born of gratitude or of admiration, I cannot say. But I believe she would be overjoyed to receive a letter from you.
I am old, my lord. My strength fades. The days when I could ride at the head of my knights and slay orcs in the northern wilds are gone.
If death should find me soon, I beg of you one last favor — care for Isabel and Torvin as though they were your own kin. In return, I will have them swear fealty to you, that House Dulod may stand beneath your banner.
As for me… surely you would not expect a spent old lion to take the field again?"
— Grinwald Dulod
…
Ryan read the final line twice before lowering the parchment.
For a long while, he said nothing. In the flickering lamplight, memories surfaced — of that fierce old warrior standing upon Dessen's walls, white hair whipping in the wind, blade raised against an endless horde. And now that same man, proud even in frailty, stood on the brink of death.
How he wished he could ride to Dessen, to grasp the old lord's arm one last time and call him friend.
But the weight of duty chained him — the endless demands of the fortress, the unseen menace of the hillfolk pressing in from the north.
At length he took up his quill and began to write.
Ryan's letters were usually brief and sharp as orders, but this one filled the whole page. There were no lofty promises, no speeches — just quiet words, tales of daily toil, of soldiers learning to march in step, of laughter by the forges.
Yet at the end, he wrote one solemn line:
"If I survive the trials before me, I swear by my honor and my life that the House of Dulod shall never fall while I yet draw breath."
He sealed the letter and handed it to the courier with his signet ring.
Then he returned to his work.
…
Minas-Elion bustled like an iron heart. Every day was filled to the brim with orders, ledgers, rations, repairs, and training. With no scribes to aid him, Ryan handled it all, from grain counts to soldier rosters, his candle burning late into every night.
Still, progress was steady.
Over the past fortnight, the three battalions — two archer battalions and Erken's heavy infantry had completed their five-day field exercises. The men had faced orcs and wild beasts alike, learning fear, blood, and victory.
Now came their true trial. Ryan personally assigned each battalion a fixed orc stronghold as their target and gave them five days to prepare.
Five days later, the results came.
Erken's heavy infantry, three hundred strong, stormed a valley fortress and slew 244 orcs in four days, losing 27 men.
Alaina's first archer battalion took five days to clear an underground den, killing 144 but losing 54 — their first taste of melee had come at a bitter cost.
Arion's second archer battalion attacked an orc lair hidden in the forest, annihilating 209 foes, though 56 of their own fell.
Ryan read the reports in silence. Then he simply said:
"Bring them home. Honor the dead. See their families paid — in full."
He turned the page and began drafting orders for the next phase:
The third month of training — literacy, discipline, and faith.
Meanwhile, Minas-Elion itself had transformed. The moat encircling the fortress now ran full with water drawn from the secret forest stream, doubling its defenses.
Further south, five miles from the main stronghold, Ryan had discovered a hidden valley — secluded, shielded by cliffs. He named it The Vale of Arms. There, he ordered the masons to raise new walls and fortifications. It would be Idhrion's domain — a reserve stronghold for the army to grow.
…
Another month passed. Autumn deepened its claws into the North. The winds came colder each dawn, scattering frost across the ramparts like pale dust. Soldiers now trained in wool cloaks, their breath rising white into the morning sun.
Ryan often stood upon the battlements, eyes fixed on the northern wilds.
For three days now, no scouts had returned.
No tracks, no sightings, no whispers of the hillfolk. Only silence — too complete, too deliberate.
The unease gnawed at him.
Then came Elger's shout from below:
"My lord! Idhrion has returned!"
Ryan turned sharply. From the east road, a line of riders approached. At their head was Idhrion, cloaked in dust, his horse lathered with foam. Behind him marched seven or eight hundred men — weary, but upright, their steps firm.
"Come," Ryan said, descending the tower. He waited by the gate as the riders drew near.
Idhrion dismounted with stiff limbs and bowed deeply.
"My lord," he said hoarsely, "I bring you seven hundred recruits. Two hundred of them veterans, the rest raw, but strong and willing."
"You've done well, my faithful captain." Ryan clasped his shoulder with pride. "I have built a fortress for you in the south — The Vale of Arms. It is yours to command."
Then his tone darkened. "But listen well. The hillfolk have vanished. No tracks, no smoke, no sound. I do not like this stillness. Though I wish you could rest, we have no such luxury."
He pointed toward the valley road.
"Tomorrow at dawn, you'll march for The Vale. I've prepared weapons, rations, and gear for your men. Elger will go with you — two heads see further than one."
Idhrion knelt, one fist to his chest. "As you command, my lord."
Ryan looked down at him — the gray in his beard, the lines at his eyes, the loyalty that burned like a steady flame.
Here stood Idhrion, the truest kind of soldier. One who lived for his king and the kingdom yet to be.
And as the wind swept through the fortress, Ryan felt the weight of destiny pressing harder than ever.
The storm from the north had gone silent; but silence, he knew, was never peace.