When the report came that Elves and a wizard had arrived at his gates, Ryan Eowenríel paused mid-motion, the brick in his hand slipping slightly as his brow furrowed.
For a long moment he stood silent, then struck his forehead lightly in realization.
In the whirlwind of battles, rebuilding, and the sudden rise of his new dominion, he had nearly forgotten—this was a world of magic and legends, not merely men and swords.
His lands bordered none other than the realm of the Elves—the "Last Homely House East of the Sea," Rivendell.
During his quiet days of preparation, the Elven lord might not have noticed him. But after the thunderous war against the hillfolk—after thousands of men had marched and fallen so close to their borders—it would have been impossible for Rivendell's keen eyes to remain unaware.
The Troll-woods were barely three days' ride from Rivendell; a swift horse could reach it in one.
Half a month had passed since the war's end. Their timing now was deliberate—no doubt they had already learned much of his strength, his army, and his name.
Ryan turned to his attendants.
"Bring our guests to the council hall," he said. "Prepare food and wine, and have hot water and clean garments made ready. I will bathe and dress properly before I meet them."
The guards bowed and departed.
….
Before the gates of Minas-Elion Fortress, seven riders sat astride their steeds, gazing in awe at the black-walled citadel before them.
"This," said one of them—a tall, broad-shouldered Elf with hair black as midnight and eyes bright as starlight—"is a fortress forged for war. With five hundred men, it could withstand an army ten times its size."
He was Elrond, Lord of Rivendell, called by many the Wise.
He was as the songs described: the countenance of an Elven prince, the strength of a warrior, the mind of a sage, the renown of a dwarven king—and a heart as gentle as summer.
Beside him rode an old man, clad in a weathered grey cloak and a tall, pointed blue hat. A long white beard reached his chest, and his hand rested on a gnarled wooden staff. His eyes, though kind, gleamed with ancient light beneath the shadow of his brim.
It was none other than Gandalf the Grey, the wandering wizard, beloved of all Free Peoples.
He surveyed the fortress with a quiet wonder.
"Extraordinary," he murmured. "That this was built within a single year… I remember passing this way not long ago—there was nothing here but wind and emptiness."
Elrond followed his gaze toward the valley beyond the walls, where a town was rising from the earth. Thousands of laborers moved like ants across scaffolds and stone.
"Ryan Eowenríel," Elrond said softly. "A Dúnadan of remarkable ability and vigor. His name has reached even our valley. The bricks his men craft are already traded in Rivendell."
A faint smile touched the Elf-lord's lips. "I find myself eager to meet this new neighbor of ours."
Even as he spoke, a soldier came running from the fortress gates, bowing deeply.
"Honored guests, my lord bids you welcome. He invites you within the citadel to rest and dine. He will join you shortly."
The Elves nodded in graceful acknowledgment and followed.
….
As they passed through the gates, the visitors could not help but marvel.
The interior of Minas-Elion pulsed with life.
Wounded soldiers sat together in the courtyards, singing northern ballads as the afternoon light fell upon their bandaged arms. Recruits trained under the watch of officers, their laughter mingling with the rhythm of clashing practice blades.
Even former hillfolk—now the newly named Trolleans—drilled under the instruction of captains, their faces solemn, their discipline unmistakable. The instructor today was Arion, whose calm authority drew even the most stubborn to listen.
Inside the fortress walls, autumn's chill seemed banished. Beyond them lay the wild, cold, perilous North—but here, there was warmth, song, and the order of men rebuilding their world.
Gandalf's eyes glimmered with approval.
"Remarkable," he said quietly. "A fortress of iron, and yet its heart beats with hope."
Soon they were shown to the great hall. Servants brought platters of bread, fruit, roasted meat, and golden mead.
"My lord bids you dine and rest," said a steward. "He will arrive shortly."
Elrond inclined his head politely.
"Your hospitality does you honor. But we shall wait for our host before we begin."
And so they waited.
Half an hour later, the doors of the council chamber swung open.
A tall figure entered, freshly dressed, his dark hair gleaming beneath the torchlight.
Ryan Eowenríel.
He moved with calm grace, his presence filling the hall like a tide.
"I was told that the Lord of Rivendell and the Grey Wizard themselves had come to visit," he said with a courteous smile. "Forgive me—I took some time to make myself presentable. I hope I have not kept you waiting too long."
Elrond and Gandalf rose at once, bowing with respect.
"The honor is ours," said Elrond, his voice smooth as flowing water. "To meet the valiant Ryan Eowenríel—I am Elrond Half-elven."
"And I," added Gandalf, "am known as the Grey Wizard. Though most call me Gandalf."
As he spoke, the wizard's eyes studied Ryan closely—and a flicker of surprise crossed his face.
The young Dúnadan wore a dark tunic of fine make, its simple lines emphasizing his tall, lithe frame. His features were noble and striking, his gaze calm and steady as still water. Beneath the lamplight, his black hair shimmered faintly like polished obsidian.
There was something in him—something more than mortal bearing.
Gandalf's vision pierced beyond the surface, and he saw it:
a faint aura of light, pure and untainted, shimmering within Ryan's spirit. It was subtle yet unmistakable—a resonance of grace, the same quiet radiance that surrounded Elves and the Maia themselves.
Extraordinary, the wizard thought. He carries within him the beginnings of a power not meant for ordinary men.
He understood now what had stirred the hearts of so many to follow him. Even without knowing it, Ryan's very presence inspired loyalty, his soul strengthened by each surge of divine reinforcement the "system" had granted him. His spirit had become clear as crystal, steady as mountain stone.
Elrond too sensed it—the faint, holy pulse that lingered about Ryan like the warmth of sunlight after rain.
"Your presence is striking, my lord," the Elf-lord said gently. "Among my people, few could match such light and dignity."
Ryan inclined his head modestly.
"You flatter me, my lord of Rivendell. I am but a man—a common son of the North. The world grants me no more than it grants any who struggle to build it anew."
They took their seats, and the meal began.
As they dined, the three spoke with measured courtesy, each gauging the others in silence.
Gandalf's staff rested beside his chair; Elrond's calm smile never faltered. And Ryan, though outwardly composed, could not help the quiet amazement stirring within him.
For before him sat two figures who, in another lifetime, had belonged only to legend—the wise lord of Imladris and the wandering Grey Pilgrim.
A wry thought crossed his mind as he watched the old wizard's eyes twinkle.
So this is the famed "wizard" after all… The one whose spells light up the dark—and whose staff lights up skulls.
Ryan almost smiled to himself.
Yet deep down, he knew: this meeting was no mere courtesy.
The North was changing—and so, it seemed, were the eyes that now turned toward him.