An hour later, Arthur stood upon the high walls of Amon Sûl, his keen eyes scanning the horizon.
Through the darkness, he caught sight of a large force making its way toward the hill.
Leading the procession was a man with long, raven-black hair.
As the cold mountain wind blew from behind the distant peaks, the figure stepped forward into clear view.
His thick, dark hair fell to his shoulders in soft waves, dancing gently with the breeze.
It framed a striking, symmetrical face with a sharp, defined jawline and a faint shadow of stubble that gave him a rugged, masculine appearance.
But most captivating of all were his eyes—as deep and black as the midnight sky.
Their gaze was sharp, quiet, and intense, carrying the weight of a thousand journeys, unwavering courage, and absolute resolve.
He wore a dark green traveler’s cloak that parted slightly with his movement, revealing a breastplate of finely crafted, thick leather.
Beneath the leather armor, a shirt of polished chainmail shimmered softly under the golden rays of the breaking dawn filtering through the overcast sky.
His right hand, encased in a leather vambrace, rested firmly on the hilt of a longsword at his waist.
Directly behind him marched fifty armored knight, followed by a massive column of a thousand laborers carrying construction supplies.
Ten knight flanked their left and right, while thirty more brought up the rear to secure the formation.
With his newly heightened physical abilities, Arthur leaped down from the ruined crest of Amon Sûl, landing gracefully and effortlessly on the hard earth below.
Moments later, the commander halted right before him.
“Arandhir greets his Lord!” the leader declared, dropping to one knee before Arthur.
In a split second, every single person behind him followed suit, bowing as one.
“We greet our Lord!”
Arthur looked upon them with silent admiration.
The sight of such unyielding devotion and loyalty filled him with a deep sense of satisfaction.
“You may rise,” Arthur commanded calmly.
Arandhir stood first, followed by the rest of the host as they returned to their feet.
“At long last, we meet you, My Lord!
I truly feared that the bloodline of House Vellinord had come to an end,” Arandhir said, his voice thick with emotion.
“…What do you mean?” Arthur asked, narrowing his eyes slightly.
“Twenty years ago, your father, Lord Erion, vanished without a trace,” Arandhir explained, his gaze locked onto Arthur.
“Then, three years ago, news of his passing finally reached us.
The sword at your hip…
it is absolute proof that you carry the blood of Vellinord.”
Arthur glanced down at the blade at his waist.
To the world, it was *Ester*, the Ice Sword granted to him by the System.
But in truth, before its transformation, it was the very sword given to him by his father just before Erion embarked on his final, fatal journey.
*Erion Vellinord* was Arthur’s father.
Arthur was now nineteen years old—meaning he was born a year after Erion’s mysterious disappearance.
Three years ago, Erion had indeed passed away, though Arthur had never been able to locate his father’s body.
According to Arandhir, Erion had saved their people from an Orc warband forty years ago.
Bound by honor, they swore an oath to protect and serve him.
When Erion disappeared twenty years back, they searched tirelessly until three years ago, when they finally discovered his lifeless body deep within the cold mountains.
Arthur had never known his mother.
Raised solely by his father, he had learned to be independent from a young age due to Erion’s frequent travels.
He had lived in Bree, a town not far from Amon Sûl.
For the past forty years, Arandhir and his men had taken refuge in the Weather Hills.
Over time, they sheltered many refugees and workers, growing into a force of a thousand laborers and a hundred skilled knights.
Then, just a day ago, Arandhir heard a mysterious whisper in his mind—a call declaring that the last heir of House Vellinord was alive and awaiting them at Amon Sûl.
Without hesitation, Arandhir mobilized his entire force and marched.
Seeing Arthur in the flesh—feeling the commanding aura he radiated and recognizing the striking resemblance to Erion—Arandhir was completely certain that the young man standing before him was indeed the true heir of Vellinord.
‘The System really wove a flawless, logical background into this world…’ Arthur thought to himself.
“It is late.
You and your men should rest,” Arthur ordered, turning his gaze toward Arandhir.
“Arandhir, come with me.”
“Understood, My Lord,” Arandhir bowed respectfully.
Turning to his captains, Arandhir barked swift orders.
The men set up camp around the base of Amon Sûl, establishing strict rotation shifts for guard duty while Arthur and Arandhir made their way back up into the ancient ruins.
Up amidst the fractured arches and cold stone courtyard of Weathertop, a small fire crackled quietly, casting long, dancing shadows against the ancient walls.
“You carry his posture, Lord Arthur,” Arandhir began softly, breaking the silence as he tended to the fire.
“When Lord Erion saved our settlement from the Orc raiding party forty years ago, he stood against them with that same calm, terrifying resolve.
We owed him our lives.
To serve his line is the fulfillment of a forty-year oath.”
“He talked little of those days,” Arthur replied, staring into the flames.
His voice was steady, yet thoughtful.
“Growing up in Bree, he taught me how to survive, how to hold a blade, and how to read the winds.
But whenever I asked about his past…
he only said some debts are paid in silence.”
Arandhir let out a low, breathy laugh, a nostalgic smile touching his lips.
“That sounds like Lord Erion.
He never sought glory.
When he vanished twenty years ago, we searched every corner of Eriador.
We refused to believe he was gone…
until we found his remains in the Misty Mountains three winters past.
His sword was missing, but his crest remained.”
Arandhir paused, his dark eyes shifting to *Ester* resting against Arthur’s knee.
“When I received that whisper in the wind yesterday…
telling me the Heir of Vellinord awaited us at Amon Sûl, I prayed it wasn’t a deception,” Arandhir continued, his tone turning solemn.
“But seeing you now—feeling that King presence around you—I know our waiting is over.”
“My father left a legacy, Arandhir,” Arthur said, his hand resting lightly on *Ester’s* hilt.
“But I do not intend to live in his shadow.
We are going to rebuild this hill.
We will turn these ruins into a fortress that neither Orcs, men, nor time can tear down.”
Arandhir’s eyes flared with a spark of deep pride.
He placed his right fist over his chest, bowing his head slightly.
“Then my sword, my men, and the thousand souls below are yours to command, Lord Arthur.
Lead us, and we shall follow.”
“Rest now, Arandhir,” Arthur said softly.
With their oath reaffirmed under the starlit sky of Amon Sûl, the two men took turns keeping watch and resting, waiting for the dawn that would mark the rise of a new Kingdom.