The war council convened in the great hall of Minas-Elion Fortress. Every surviving officer was present—Idhrion, Arion, Erken,Elger, Alaina, Ailin—and among them stood Torvin and Isabel Dulod, representing their house.
One by one, they reported the grim toll of the battle.
The once-proud Thousand-Mixed Regiment of Minas-Elion Fortress had been reduced to a few hundred.
Of the heavy infantry, only a hundred remained.
From the two archer battalions, scarcely two hundred still stood—many maimed or crippled for life.
From Idhrion's Hidden Valley host, of two hundred heavy infantry, barely half survived; of three hundred archers, only two hundred.
Even counting every man still fit to fight, Ryan could muster no more than one full battalion.
As for the House of Dulod, who had ridden to war with eight hundred of their kin—three hundred cavalry had dwindled to a hundred; five hundred infantry, to two hundred.
Victory had been theirs—but it was a victory steeped in blood.
Ryan sat in silence, eyes on the parchment before him, the ink of casualty lists still damp.
No one dared to speak. The room felt heavy with the ghosts of the fallen.
At length, he exhaled deeply and spoke, his voice low but steady:
"This was no perfect victory," he said. "We have won—but we have lost far too much.
A great lord… and countless brave souls."
He paused, looking around at the faces of his commanders.
"Such is war. No matter the outcome, it leaves behind only grief and regret.
For war is not the art of a single man—it is the dirge of a generation."
A stillness lingered in the hall. Then Ryan straightened his back, and the cold resolve in his eyes began to warm with conviction.
"But we should be grateful," he continued. "For our sacrifice was not in vain. We have secured the right to survive—and from this day forth, the North stands unshackled.
There shall be no more enemies to bar our rise."
His voice grew stronger, burning with vision.
"Soon, we shall summon the scattered tribes of the Dúnedain, gather the lost refugees of the North, and purge the Troll-woods of its darkness.
Then we shall raise a kingdom—our kingdom!
Our ascent is inevitable. Our strength is ordained. And our glory… is near."
The hall, once somber, began to stir with life again. Eyes that had been dulled with sorrow now glimmered with purpose.
As Ryan spoke, it was as if a fire rekindled in every soldier's heart. Their losses still ached, but now they saw meaning in their suffering. This imperfect victory had bought them a dawn worth bleeding for.
When the murmur of determination settled, Ryan continued:
"For the fallen heroes—we shall keep our promise. Their families will receive the full death compensation pledged at enlistment.
For the wounded—they are the heroes of the realm. We will provide them homes and work, so they may live out their days in dignity.
And for those who survived and remain loyal—they shall be rewarded and trained further, for they are the roots from which our strength shall grow."
Then his gaze turned toward Torvin and Isabel Dulod.
"As the Guardian House of my realm, the oath you swore binds you as part of the kingdom.
The Dulod warriors who fell shall be honored as our own—they will receive the same rewards and care as any soldier of the crown."
Torvin rose and bowed deeply.
"My lord, we heed your every command."
Ryan nodded slightly.
"Then hear this decree: From this day forth, the House of Dulod shall stand as the royal guardians of my throne.
Dessen shall be your seat. You are granted the right to maintain one battalion of heavy cavalry and one of heavy infantry as your private force.
Their upkeep in peace shall fall to your house—but in times of war, the kingdom shall supply and sustain them. Compensation for the fallen shall also be borne by the crown."
He turned to Isabel.
"Isabel Dulod, from this day, you will assume full authority over the armory, the brickworks, and the forges.
These enterprises shall gradually transition into crown holdings; the Dulods will retain a share of profit, but governance shall belong to the state."
"When the kingdom is formally founded, we will refine these laws. For now—let it stand as so."
Both siblings bowed low. "As you command, my lord."
….
The council continued for hours. Ryan established the compensation standards for the dead, clarified the Dulods' authority, and unveiled his new plans for recovery and expansion.
He addressed the realm's greatest challenge—population.
Though they had triumphed, they were far from being a true kingdom. Their people were too few.
Thus, Ryan ordered that envoys be sent to the scattered frontier villages—those without lords or protection—to invite the villagers to settle under his rule.
Three centers of growth were named: Minas-Elion Fortress, The Valley, and Dessen Town.
From these, he would grow cities.
As for the scattered Dúnedain tribes, Ryan appointed Elger and Arion to lead envoys to them. They were to tell the tribes:
"Upon the lands of ancient Rhudaur, a new kingdom is rising."
Then came his final decree of the night—the rebuilding of the army.
Ryan announced his intent to expand to five full regiments—five thousand men in total.
For vengeance, for reclamation.
"We will march into the Troll-woods," he said, "and reclaim the ruins of old Rhudaur. We will take back its fallen capital—and there, we shall proclaim the birth of our realm."
….
But one issue still loomed, shadowing even victory itself:
The fate of the hillfolk captives.
Over three thousand of them now sat behind the walls of makeshift camps—disarmed, beaten, but alive.
If handled wrongly, they could become a spark to ignite war anew. And his weary army could not endure another campaign.
The room fell silent once more.
Suggestions flew like arrows:
"Execute them all."
"Release them to the wild."
"Enslave them—we can use their labor."
Ryan listened to every word, unmoved.
He knew none of these men could see beyond the blood feud between the Dúnedain and the hillfolk—a hatred centuries deep.
At last, he rose, voice calm yet sharp as a blade:
"I will make the hillfolk bow—not through fear, but allegiance."
The room stilled. Every commander turned to him in shock.
Peace with the hillfolk? After the slaughter they'd unleashed? After generations of betrayal?
Idhrion was first to speak, voice heavy.
"My lord… we have never doubted you. But can the hillfolk ever truly live beside us in peace?"
Erken slammed a gauntleted fist on the table. "They are oathbreakers! Their forefathers betrayed the Dúnedain once before!"
Alaina added coldly, "And their blood still stains our hands. I do not believe our soldiers can forget that."
Even Ailin frowned. "They've long since fallen into savagery. How can we make them… human again?"
Ryan's gaze swept across them all—serene, unyielding.
"We cannot endure another war," he said quietly. "If hatred lives on in our hearts, then so too will war.
This must end with our generation—or our children will drown in the same blood."
"I will go to them myself. If they can let go of their hate, then our future kingdom may yet find a place for them."
His next words fell like a whisper of prophecy:
"War may end wars—but only forgiveness brings peace.
History is a warning bell—it reminds us of the pain we've endured, not the road we must take."
What Ryan did not tell them—but held close within his thoughts—was the power of his "Oath of Loyalty".
If the hillfolk swore fealty to him, they would be bound forever by their word. As long as he did not will their betrayal, their loyalty would be eternal.
That was the seed of his gamble—one born not from trust, but from resolve.
For now, it was enough. The dream of a kingdom could wait. Survival must come first.
….
When the council at last adjourned, Ryan gathered a handful of his closest captains.
The next step was clear.
He would go to the war camp himself—
to speak with the three thousand captives who once sought his death.
And perhaps, from the ashes of hatred, plant the first seed of peace.