The morning sun rose like a reluctant wheel of fire, casting a pale, hesitant warmth as it burned through the thick blanket of fog veiling the plains of Eriador.
Amidst the camp, those wounded from the previous night’s clash were being tended to by Aeryn and her skilled healers.
Nearby, the rhythmic ring of hammer on anvil echoed as Thargrim tirelessly repaired battered armor and dulled blades.
Further up the slope, Elaroin was fully absorbed in directing his laborers, laying the foundation stones for the ambitious construction of the *White Castle of Radiant*.
During the midnight skirmish, Arandhir had successfully liberated a group of captives from an Orc warband in the Trollshaws.
Now, he led the survivors directly toward Arthur.
Arthur watched the small crowd approach.
Their condition was pitiful—pale, gaunt, and clearly starved by their captors.
Shadows of fear flickered in their eyes, yet beneath it lay a faint, burning spark of newfound hope.
“Reporting, Your Grace!” Arandhir announced, bowing deeply.
“Forty villagers held captive by the Orc horde in the Trollshaws have been freed.
Most among them are stonemasons and weavers from the shattered northern borderlands.”
“Escort them to Aeryn at once so their wounds may be dressed,” Arthur ordered firmly.
“Provide them with warm clothing, proper meals, and shelter in the western settlement alongside the tillers.
In this land, there are no captives—only free people.”
A chorus of tearful gratitude erupted from the freed folk as the King’s decree reached their ears.
In their memories, the rulers of old had long abandoned the common people.
Yet here stood Arthur, echoing the noble strength of the ancient lords, offering protection to all who sought refuge beneath his banner.
Arthur then instructed Arandhir to give the survivors a choice: they were free to stay and become part of the kingdom he was building, or they could leave in peace once their strength was fully restored.
In addition to saving the captives, the raid on the Orc encampment had yielded a rich harvest of spoils—heaps of well-crafted weapons, stockpiles of salvaged building materials, and large caches of stolen grain and dried meat looted by the Orcs during their raids through the Trollshaws.
Within the dark caverns of the Trolls, Arthur’s men had also uncovered scattered gold coins and discarded steel.
Though no ancient Elven blades of legend were found among the hoard, the wealth was more than enough to fund their burgeoning settlement.
Gazing up at the cool, clear sky, Arthur paused and spoke quietly in his mind.
*’System, perform Check-In!’*
[DING!
Host has performed a First Weekly Check-In!]
[DING!
Congratulations to the Host for acquiring: 50 Planters and 50 Farmers!]
[DING!
Congratulations to the Host for acquiring: 50 Mounted Cavalry Units!]
[DING!
Congratulations to the Host for acquiring: Mount – Shadow of the Swanfleet (Rochgál)!]
[DING!
Congratulations to the Host for acquiring: Peak Horsemanship!]
[DING!
A surge of satisfaction washed over Arthur.
The addition of cavalry provided much-needed military mobility, while a hundred skilled farmers and Planters secured the kingdom’s agricultural future—the vital backbone for growing wheat and fresh crops.
Suddenly, a rush of memories poured into Arthur’s mind.
His body shifted and adapted in real-time, absorbing not just mental knowledge, but the instinctual muscle memory of a veteran who had fought a thousand battles atop a warhorse.
Instinctively, Arthur walked toward the crest of the Weather Hills and blew a long, sharp whistle.
Moments later, a silhouette emerged through the distant haze, moving swiftly across the high grass toward Arthur.
Elmir, spotting the fast-approaching creature, immediately stepped forward to alert his lord.
“Do not worry, Elmir,” Arthur smiled, waving a reassuring hand.
“He is an old friend.”
Elmir paused, watching in awe as the majestic beast drew near.
Among the creatures of Middle-earth, horses often possessed an intelligence far beyond ordinary beasts; it was not unheard of for a loyal steed to track its master across vast distances.
Before Arthur stood *Rochgál*, proud and unyielding, as though carved from the north wind itself.
His skin was an exotic dark charcoal-grey, glistening beneath the light mist.
The dark gradients running from his back to his lower legs blended seamlessly into the shadows of the old willows and ruined fortresses.
A thick, ink-black mane flowed down his neck, wet with morning dew.
Broad-chested and deep-flanked, his powerful muscles promised incredible endurance over long distances.
Dense feathered fur covered his lower legs above wide, solid hooves, giving him firm footing on the slick, muddy ground.
Unburdened by a heavy saddle—adorned only with a simple bridle of aged leather—the stallion held his head high.
His sharp, fearless eyes gazed through the fog with the quiet authority of a beast born to rule the wild.
“Is that…
*Shadow of the Swanfleet*?” Elmir gasped softly.
“You are his master, Lord Arthur?”
“You know of Rochgál, Elmir?” Arthur asked.
“Indeed, my Lord.
He is a legend among the Northern Rangers.”
When the realm of Arnor fell during the long wars against the Witch-king of Angmar, many warhorses of the Dúnedain princes were turned loose into the wilds of Eriador.
Over centuries, these steeds adapted to the dangerous, marshy lands of Swanfleet, surviving predators and Orc patrols alike.
From this brutal natural selection emerged a hardy, resilient breed known to the Rangers as the *Shadows of the Swanfleet*.
While Rochgál was not of the royal *Mearas* line like Shadowfax, he was a master of the wilderness, fiercely vigilant, with senses sharp enough to detect danger in total darkness.
In ranger lore, Rochgál had long refused to be ridden by common men, accepting only those who carried the blood or aura of true kings.
“It seems you are quite famous, Rochgál,” Arthur murmured softly, stroking the stallion’s neck.
As if understanding every word, the stallion let out a low, gentle whinny, nudging Arthur’s shoulder in quiet acknowledgment—the System having seamlessly woven their bond into the tapestry of the world.
Swinging cleanly into the mount’s back, Arthur rode Rochgál around the slopes of Amon Sûl.
With his newly acquired Peak horsemanship, he moved as one with the stallion.
Despite his massive build, Rochgál moved with breathtaking speed and grace—not quite as swift as the legendary Shadowfax, but remarkably close.
As they neared the ridge, the thundering rumble of hooves shook the ground.
Arandhir swiftly rallied his guards behind Arthur, drawing his sword. The source of this chapter is g.com.
“Steady, Arandhir,” Arthur said calmly, holding up a hand.
“They do not come for war.”
Out of the morning haze emerged a formidable column of riders, accompanied by heavy wooden supply wagons.
Upon spotting Arthur standing beside Rochgál, the commander dismounted in one fluid motion.
Dropping to one knee upon the damp earth, he placed a gauntleted fist over his chest in the ancient manner of Gondor’s knights.
“I am Kaelan, former Captain of the Northern Border,” his deep voice echoed proudly.
“Fifty spears and sword of the cavalry stand ready to serve beneath your banner, my King!”
Behind him, fifty armored knights sat erect in their saddles, their long lances pointing toward the morning sky, catching the first golden rays of dawn.
Kaelan was a hardened warrior with silver-grey hair falling to his shoulders, framing a stern, strong-jawed face and sharp blue eyes.
His heavy chainmail was reinforced with thick leather plates, covered by an olive-green cloak trimmed with fur and fastened by an Elven leaf brooch.
At his waist rested a longsword, its pommel worn smooth from years of use.
Further behind the cavalry marched a group of one hundred settlers.
Tears filled their eyes as they caught sight of the rising settlement.
They carried axes, hoes, sacks of wheat seed, and farming tools bound securely to their carts.
Standing up, Kaelan presented their story:
“We hail from the Valley of Rhudaur in the north, Your Grace,” Kaelan spoke softly, looking into the distance.
“Our strongholds fell when darkness swept down from the northern shadows.
Orcs and pillagers burned our villages, driving the survivors into the wilderness.”
He rested his hand on his sword hilt, his voice turning solemn.
“In our darkest hour, while defending these refugees from wild wolves and winter frosts, a vision came to me in a dream.
We were guided across marshes and mountains to this very place—where a True King is fated to rekindle the hope of Men.
We swear our fealty to your blood and destiny, King Arthur.”
The farmers and craftsmen fell to their knees, weeping tears of relief.
To those who had lost everything, Arthur’s domain was a new sanctuary—a beacon of light against the gathering dark.
Arthur looked upon his new soldiers and citizens, his heart swelling with resolve.
He stepped forward and raised his hand high.
“Rise, children of the North!” Arthur’s voice boomed across the hillside, carrying over the wind.
“In this realm, you shall no longer fear the dark.
The sweat you pour into this soil shall feed your children, and my sword shall be your unbreakable shield!”
A thunderous cheer erupted from the hundred voices, echoing across the hills of Weathertop.
“Kaelan!” Arthur commanded.
“Establish the cavalry encampment on the eastern ridge and set up border patrols!
Today, we plant the seeds of a new kingdom!”
The morning sun now hung high above Eriador.
What was once a lone outpost in the wilderness had transformed into a true stronghold of hope—ready to write its own legend in Middle-earth.