Inside the now-silent cavern, the soldiers of Arandhir moved swiftly to secure the perimeter.
Meanwhile, Elmir and his archers descended from the upper cliffs, their movements near-soundless against the stone.
Elmir approached Arthur and Boran, inspecting the pristine tips of his arrows before sheathing his bow.
“This cave is no mere lair,” Elmir noted, his eyes scanning the cavernous expanse of *Zhar-Gij*, taking in its natural, well-placed ventilation shafts.
“With a few structural reinforcements to the forward walls and the main entrance, this site could become a formidable outpost to watch over the entire eastern pass of the Trollshaws.”
Arthur nodded in agreement, running his hand along the cold stone wall.
“And the people who know every inch of this region best are Boran’s folk.”
He turned to face the old Chieftain.
“Boran, I do not intend for the *Gargor-Dun* Clan to remain mere refugees behind my battle lines,” Arthur declared firmly.
“I am appointing you Warden of the Trollshaws Vanguard.
This place will be rebuilt as the primary fortress for both your tribe and my forces.”
Boran stood frozen.
For decades, his people had been treated as little more than wild scavengers—hunted by Orcs and ignored by the lords of the realm.
Now, the young King was offering them more than just sanctuary; he was offering them trust, honor, and the duty of guarding their ancestral lands.
“Arandhir!” Arthur called out.
“At your command, Your Majesty!” Arandhir stepped forward, rendering a crisp salute.
“Send messengers to the main camp at Amon Sûl.
Escort the remainder of the *Gargor-Dun* Clan—the women, children, and elders—to this outpost.
Secure supply lines to deliver adequate rations, building materials, dried meats, and grain.
From this day forth, they shall never again hunger in the dark.”
“It shall be done, Sire!” Arandhir turned immediately to issue orders to his lieutenants.
Boran gazed at Arthur, deeply moved.
The pride of a chieftain—a spark that had lain dormant for decades—flared back to life with brilliant intensity.
“The youths of our tribe can track enemy sign for thirty miles without stirring a single leaf, Your Majesty,” Boran said, his deep voice trembling with newfound resolve.
“So long as the *Gargor-Dun* draw breath, not a single Orc from Gundabad or Moria shall slip through the Trollshaws toward Amon Sûl unseen.”
“I hold you to your word, Boran,” Arthur replied, clapping a firm hand on the Chieftain’s broad shoulder.
By late afternoon, the atmosphere surrounding the cavern of *Zhar-Gij* had transformed completely.
Emotional cheers echoed through the valley as the rest of the *Gargor-Dun* arrived from the Weather Hills encampment.
Children ran freely without fear under the watchful eyes of armored soldiers, whom they now viewed as guardians rather than strangers.
Plumes of hearth smoke rose from within the cavern, carrying the rich aroma of hot meat stew and fresh bread—a luxury the clan had not known in over twenty years.
Kael, the young warrior who had once been Arthur’s fiercest skeptic, stood near a fire with several young men of his tribe.
He watched Arthur, who was perched upon a high rock, deep in discussion with Arandhir.
“Do you still doubt him, Kael?” asked Morna, an old woman clad in a wolf-skin cloak, approaching him with a wooden mug of warm drink.
Kael shook his head slowly.
His gaze remained intent, but it was now filled with profound respect.
“He fought at the very front beside our Chieftain, Morna,” Kael said softly.
“His Ice Sword shattered the monster that slaughtered my father…
and today, he has given us a home, not chains of servitude.
I would gladly lay down my life for a King like him.”
High upon a rocky crag overlooking the east, Arthur stood gazing across the vast, shadowed canopy of the Trollshaws.
A chilly twilight breeze pulled at his mantle.
Arandhir stepped up beside him.
“Clearing *Zhar-Gij* and securing our alliance with the *Gargor-Dun* gives us complete control over this border pass,” Arandhir reported.
“Yet this is only the beginning, my Lord.
News of the Orc lair falling and the rise of your power will inevitably seep into the deeper darkness.”
Arthur rested his hand on the hilt of his sword, feeling the steady, pulse-like hum of frost magic residing within the steel.
“Let them hear,” Arthur replied, his eyes fixed on the distant horizon.
“The Dark Power must learn that the North is no longer abandoned.
This land has a protector…
Earlier that morning, Arthur had completed his daily System Check-in.
To his disappointment, he received only 5 common peasants.
The rewards from the System were truly random.
The extraordinary rewards he had received during his first Check-in were likely a one-off beginner’s bonus.
Moving forward, he could not simply rely on luck.
As afternoon gave way to dusk, clearing operations reached the deepest subterranean corridors of *Zhar-Gij*.
The foul stench of Orcs was steadily replaced by the crisp scent of pine resin from new torches mounted by Kaelan’s soldiers.
Suddenly, a heavy metallic clatter echoed from behind a stone wall covered in thick moss and battle debris.
“Your Majesty!
Chieftain Boran!
Over here!” shouted a young soldier, clearing away thick layers of dust.
Arthur, Boran, and Arandhir hastened toward the darkest corner of the cavern.
A group of *Gargor-Dun* youths were heaving aside massive boulders that the Orcs had deliberately stacked to conceal a hidden passage.
With the final rock removed, an intricately carved, circular stone gateway stood revealed.
In stark contrast to crude Orc craftsmanship, this portal was carved from polished black granite, etched with intricate *Cirth* runes—the hallmark of the ancient alliance between the Dúnedain and the Dwarves of Khazad-dûm.
Boran stared at the relief in disbelief, running his calloused fingers across the cold surface.
“This is…
the *Star Gate*,” Boran whispered, his voice shaking.
“Our tribal legends spoke of this place, but we believed it to be nothing more than a fairy tale to comfort children.
Long ago, before the Orcs of Gundabad overran the pass, this was a minor *Nogrod-dûm*—a secret outpost and forge belonging to the alliance of Elves and Dwarves.”
Arandhir stepped forward, raising his torch toward the center of the gate.
There, a recessed eight-pointed star and a circular keyhole were visible.
“This gate is sealed by ancient magic,” Arandhir observed as faint silver veins suddenly pulsed with soft light along the runes.
“The Orcs dwelt here for years, completely unaware that they were sleeping atop ancient treasures.
They saw only ordinary stone.”
Arthur approached the threshold.
As he drew closer, the runic blade at his hip let out a low resonance.
The ice element within his sword reacted with the warding magic, causing the silver runes on the stone door to flare brilliantly in shades of glacial blue and gold.
“Your blade resonates with the seal, Your Majesty,” Arandhir said in surprise.
“The ancient power within your sword shares the same magical harmonic as the gate’s ward.”
Arthur gripped his hilt and pressed his palm directly against the center of the eight-pointed star.
*WROOOM…*
A low vibration reverberated through the cavern.
Dust cascaded from the ceiling as massive stone gears within the walls turned for the first time in centuries.
The circular stone portal parted down the middle, sliding silently into the rock walls to reveal a vast chamber.
As fresh air rushed inside, crystals of *Glow-stone* embedded in the ceiling automatically ignited, illuminating the vault in brilliant light.
The air within was cold yet remarkably fresh.
In the center of the hall stood rows of iron weapon racks decorated with unblemished mithril trim.
Complete suits of gleaming plate armor, thick bows crafted from *Lebethron* wood, and iron-bound teak chests remained pristine and untouched by rust or rot.
Atop a master forge table in the center lay a massive metal map detailing an entire network of subterranean tunnels running from the Trollshaws straight into the roots of the Misty Mountains.
“Incredible…” Elmir murmured as he stepped inside, his eyes widening at the armory’s contents.
“There are enough arms and armor here to equip two hundred soldiers!”
Boran approached a wooden crate in the corner, looking inside to discover dozens of pristine, unworked bars of refined forge-steel.
“With this steel, our young men can re-forge their weapons of defense,” Boran said, turning to Arthur with profound reverence.
“Your arrival has done more than purge this place of monsters, Your Majesty…
you have restored the lost heritage of our people.”
“The cavern of *Zhar-Gij* is no longer just a lookout post,” Arthur declared, his eyes catching the blue reflection of the illuminated hall.
“With these subterranean passages, we can do more than monitor the Trollshaws…
we can strike directly into the heart of the enemy before they even realize we are there.”
Arandhir smiled faintly, studying the dark tunnels mapped on the metal slate.
“The Dark Power believes the Trollshaws are their gateway to conquering the North.
They do not know that the gate is now locked…
and the King holds the key.”
Over the next three weeks, the quiet dawns at *Zhar-Gij* were replaced by the relentless din of industry and preparation.
The ringing of hammer on anvil echoed from the secret forge, blending with shouted commands and the clash of steel from the training grounds outside the fortress.
Under the instruction of Arandhir and veterans from Amon Sûl, the youths of the *Gargor-Dun* were equipped with ancient, mithril-trimmed iron armor polished to a mirror shine.
The wargear once hidden behind the *Star Gate* now fit securely onto the broad frames of the local hunters.
Their crude stone and wooden implements were replaced by fine-forged steel swords, double-headed spears, and supple yet powerful *Lebethron* bows.
Boran wore a bear-hide cuirass inlaid with silver runic shoulder guards.
The Chieftain stood atop an observation outcrop beside Arthur, watching his young kin practice shield-wall drills under Arandhir’s command.
“Your footwork is too wide, Kael!” Boran roared from above, his voice cutting through the wind.
“Overlap those shields!
Lock shoulder-to-shoulder!
Give them an inch, and an Orc will split your neck in a heartbeat!”
Kael instantly corrected his stance, slamming his iron shield into the turf and locking ranks tightly alongside the royal soldiers.
His face, once hollowed by hunger, now shone with the discipline and fire of a true warrior.
“They learn remarkably fast,” Arthur remarked, noting the impressive natural endurance and agility of the *Gargor-Dun*.
“They fight for more than just orders, Your Majesty,” Boran replied proudly.
“They are fighting for a home they can finally call their own.
We used to hide like rats in rock crevices.
Now, with this armor and your guidance, we are an unyielding wall of stone.”
Concurrently, Elmir trained the finest trackers of the tribe on the upper cliffs.
Combining their natural stealth with precise archery doctrine, these newly formed marksmen could strike moving targets from hundreds of paces away without making a sound.
Beyond physical conditioning, the defenses of *Zhar-Gij* were heavily reinforced.
The pass entrance was widened and fortified with steel-reinforced teak barricades, fitted with dual portcullises and murder holes for boiling oil.
Secret vantage points along the cliffs were converted into permanent guard posts, connected directly to the central command chamber via hidden tunnels.
In less than three weeks, *Zhar-Gij* ceased to resemble a grim monster’s den; it had become a deadly forward bastion, fully prepared to absorb any assault from the eastern frontier.
During this period, Arthur made frequent trips back to Amon Sûl to inspect his forces and manage his domain.
Through his daily Check-ins over these weeks, he amassed a total of 150 Knights, 20 Cavalry, 30 Archers, and 100 Peasants.
Each was immediately integrated into their respective units.
However, no new Commanders were granted by the System during this time.
Arthur spent most of his days in the Trollshaws, knowing it would bear the brunt of any incoming invasion.
Amon Sûl remained safely under the stewardship of Kaelan and the rest of the garrison.
At *Zhar-Gij* itself, roughly 250 people were now stationed: 150 from the *Gargor-Dun* Clan and 100 of Arthur’s personal troops.
Out of the *Gargor-Dun*, 80 were capable combatants—giving the forward garrison a total of 180 battle-ready warriors.
As dusk settled at the end of another rigorous day, Arandhir approached Arthur and Boran carrying a logistical ledger.
“All troops are fully equipped and provisioned, Your Majesty,” Arandhir reported with a bow.
“The defense lines at *Zhar-Gij* are completely operational.
Furthermore, Boran’s scouts have just returned from a long-range patrol deep in the eastern pass.”
Boran turned his gaze toward the valley, which was slowly being swallowed by evening shadows.
“My trackers spotted dark smoke rising from the direction of the Misty Mountains,” Boran warned.
“The Orcs of Gundabad have noticed that their regular patrols through the Trollshaws are no longer returning.”
Arthur tightened his grip on the hilt of his frost-blade, feeling the dormant magical pulse respond to his touch.
“Let them come,” Arthur said, his eyes piercing through the darkening valley.
“For what awaits them in the Trollshaws is no longer frightened prey, but a fortress of steel and guardians of the Realm who will not retreat a single step.”