The nobles began to discuss with enthusiasm, while Thalion gazed at the fortress designs with great hope. He realized that building defenses was not just about stone and wood, but about protecting the soul of Rohan from the lurking darkness.
Dawn was just breaking over the hills of Rohan, the sky shrouded in a thin mist that slowly faded under the morning light. Thalion mounted his horse, accompanied by several trusted nobles of the kingdom and chosen guards. That day they did not sit in the palace—that day they traversed the land they would protect.
"Today's mapping is crucial," Thalion said before departing. "We must know which points are most vulnerable, and which paths are ideal for becoming our defensive line."
Throughout the journey, they noted the contours of hills, the flow of rivers, gaps in the mountains, and the fields that needed safeguarding. Thalion occasionally dismounted, feeling the soil, taking detailed notes, and even carrying small samples of stone and earth from various locations.
However, not everyone saw what he was truly doing. In the breaks, while the others were busy with maps and supplies, Thalion worked silently—touching the raw materials, harmonizing the elements within, strengthening the stone structures, regrowing wood from small seeds he kept hidden in a small pouch on his belt. He multiplied, refined, accelerated… but all without fanfare.
Noble Aldred (observing a pile of stones Thalion had left behind): "This… is strange. Yesterday there were only a few boulders here. Now it's enough to build a small tower."
Thalion (with a calm smile): "Sometimes the land gives more than we expect, if we know how to ask it nicely."
Noble Eadric (chuckling): "Thalion, you speak like a forest poet. But I won't question the magic if the results are like this."
King Thengel (examining notes and maps): "This mapping is far more detailed than what our usual explorers produce. You sketch as if you've seen all of Rohan from the sky."
Thalion: "I am merely following instinct… and the voice of the land. If we want to protect this realm, we must listen to it first."
That day they traversed valleys, hills, and waterways, marking the paths of the walls and the watchtowers that would be built. The nobles began to understand: Thalion was not just a young noble with grand ideas. He seemed to possess a mysterious connection to nature and its elements.
That night, as the campfire crackled and the nobles fell asleep one by one, Thalion sat alone, his hand stroking a stone he had collected. He closed his eyes for a moment, then whispered softly:
"For Rohan… for the world to come. I will prepare everything."
Spring arrived, bringing new hope. The once quiet plains of Rohan now bustled with the sounds of tools, cheerful shouts, and the footsteps of workers. From the hilly north to the forest-bordered south, the people of Rohan began to move with a single purpose: to build a great protector for their land. A wall, unlike any seen before, that would stretch across strategic points like a giant string of shields.
The valleys where the main livestock farms were located were now surrounded by the initial wooden posts marking the wall's path. In the distance, the morning mist shrouded the growing wheat fields, while the sound of hammers forging stone echoed between the hills. In the eastern farmlands, farmers paused from plowing, wiped their sweat, and then joined in carrying stones and beams.
In the west, where the workshops and small smelting sites stood, blacksmiths were not only forging sword blades but now also creating giant steel spikes and hinges for massive wooden gates. Woodworkers shaped planks and beams that would reinforce the inner side of the wall, while young men and women learned to adapt the fortress's shape to the intricate contours of the land.
In the south, where thin forests grew wild, construction began with small lookout posts built on rocky ground. There, watchtowers began to rise with the typical Rohan thatched roofs, peering towards the horizon, anticipating the movements of creatures from the darkness.
The community worked together like a single beating heart. There were no complaints, no coercion. They knew this was not just a royal project—it was a shield for their children, for their livelihoods, for the lives they had long defended amidst the lurking threats.
Every village the project passed through welcomed it with joy. Children helped pile small stones, mothers prepared warm meals for the workers, and village elders offered advice on where the wall should avoid water sources or not disturb land blessed by ancestors.
And on a hill overlooking the valley, Thalion stood watching everything. The wind billowed his cloak, his keen eyes observing the path he had designed from the sketches hidden in his rolled deerskin. He said nothing, only touched a stone he had shaped himself, letting his fingers absorb the warmth of his people's spirit.
That morning, the mist had not yet fully retreated from the valleys of Rohan, but the sunlight had begun to pierce through the gaps in the clouds, illuminating the rows of workers who were beginning to carry stones, bind wood, and arrange the initial formations for the construction of the defensive wall.
Among the busy crowd, a tall young man strode, wearing a long black robe that billowed to his ankles, open at the chest and fluttering in the wind like the cloth of a far eastern warrior. On his back hung a long katana, and his half-tied hair swayed gently.
"Look at that… our Crown Prince is wearing that strange robe again," whispered an old stonemason with an amused smile. "Yes, but somehow… when he wears it, it looks charismatic, doesn't it?" replied his companion who was mixing mortar.
Thalion walked slowly among the workers. His gaze was sharp, but a faint smile always lingered at the corner of his lips. He patted the shoulder of a young man who was pulling a cart full of stones.
Thalion: "You're strong. How many trips have you made today?" Young Man: "Only three, my Lord… But if you joined in pushing, maybe five." Thalion (chuckling): "You're a smooth talker. But if I join in pushing, who will encourage the others?"
Small laughter rippled through the crowd. People began to gather around him, not out of obligation, but because his presence brought spirit. He was not just a prince on a throne—he walked with them, even in clothes that made him look more like a far eastern war priest than a Rohan noble.
In a corner of the construction site, a middle-aged woman was distributing water to the workers. Seeing Thalion approach, she offered him a cup.
Woman: "Thirsty, my Lord?" Thalion (accepting it with a slight bow): "Thank you, Auntie. This water tastes much more refreshing than the palace wine." Woman (bursting into laughter): "Well then, I'll send a gallon to the palace later!"
They laughed. There was no distance, no formality. Perhaps his strange robe broke the stiffness of protocol. Or perhaps, their hearts already knew: this young man walked not to command, but to understand.
He then climbed onto a large stone, looking towards the east where the stretch of valley would soon be protected by the wall. He raised his voice, loud enough for those working nearby to hear.
Thalion: "Friends of Rohan! What we build today is not just a wall. It is proof that we all stand on the same side. That this land, our home, is worth defending not because of palaces or titles, but because of you—farmers, blacksmiths, stonemasons, mothers, fathers, children. This wall is your hands sculpted into protection. And I… am just a small stone within it."
A moment of silence. Then applause erupted. The sound of hammers echoed once more. Smiles returned to their faces.
Thalion jumped down from the stone, his robe billowing dramatically, and someone from afar shouted,
"My Lord! If your robe gets torn on a nail, I can help sew it!" Thalion (turning with a wide smile): "Please prepare thread that can withstand magic. This is a special robe, a relic of… the past."
The people laughed again. Rohan might be in a dark period, but amidst the dust and stones, there was laughter, there was hope, and there was Thalion—the prince with the strange robe and a heart close to his people.
Night enveloped Rohan with a somber tranquility. The wind carried the cold air from the north, seeping through the small cracks in the tower where the crown prince had built his private workshop. Inside the room, filled with the soft glow of luminous crystals and low-hanging alchemist lanterns, Thalion stood silently before a large stone table.
A set of pitch-black clothing lay spread out on the table's surface. A long, layered kimono, strong wide hakama, and a clean white obi that appeared simple—yet all had been modified with secret techniques unknown to anyone. The fabric's fibers were no longer as soft as they once were, but had fused with materials from rare stones and alchemically engineered particles that had no name in the Rohan language.
Thalion (murmuring, touching the fabric carefully): "Cannot be burned… cannot be cut… and cannot even be pierced by mithril arrows…" He took a deep breath. "Perhaps… this is overkill. But the world is beginning to change."
Then, with slow and respectful movements, he embroidered the symbol of a lion on the chest—an emblem he had designed himself, not just an ornament, but a statement. On the back, the same lion was enlarged, towering in a roaring pose towards the east, signifying the direction from which the first light would emerge. As if to show that the wearer was a guardian on the threshold of dawn.
Thalion (whispering, gazing at his handiwork): "War attire is not always made of metal. Sometimes, protection comes from conviction… and silent hard work."
He touched the sleeve of the garment and felt a faint energy field flowing from within its fibers. There was no clanging of metal, no shining gleam. But anyone who approached would know—this was no ordinary clothing.
He glanced at the shelf where other materials were piled. Some were depleted, others almost impossible to find again. Black vine stone from the western valleys, blue crystal dust from the crevice between the northern peaks, and a transparent liquid resulting from the reaction of five sacred metals.
Thalion (sighing): "Not enough to make another… at least not for now." He folded the clothing slowly, then held it tightly. "If the world begins to burn… then this lion will stand between the flames and those who wish to live."
The morning sun swept across the plains of Rohan with a warm golden light. Dew still clung to the tips of the grass and the vast wheat fields stretching as far as the eye could see. In the distance, the silhouettes of farmers were faintly visible, bowing and rising, cultivating the land that had sustained them for generations.
In the small villages scattered throughout Rohan, life continued as usual. In the bustling stables, the bleating of goats and the mooing of cattle echoed. A young man gently patted the neck of his horse before leading it to the pasture. On the other side, several blacksmiths were busy lighting their forges and sharpening metal. The clang of hammers hitting steel mingled with the cheerful sounds of conversation from the workshops—places where wooden wheels and gears turned, creating carts, farming tools, and simple combat gear.
Not far from there, the small market began to fill with visitors. Merchants from other regions—Gondor, Dale, even from as far as Ered Nimrais—arrived with wagons full of goods. They were warmly greeted by the people of Rohan, known for their friendliness yet shrewdness in bargaining.
"Five silver for one roll of wool cloth? That's like the price of gold, you!" exclaimed a mother, laughing heartily. The merchant from Gondor shrugged. "Rohan wool cloth, warm and light, what can I say? Your horses are famous throughout the land."
But amidst the cheerfulness and trading activity, a new sight could not be ignored.
In the distance, a great stone wall began to rise. Not just one, but at various points—near the fields, near the workshops, even near the main roads where caravans usually passed. The wall was high, sturdy, and unlike ordinary defenses. The neatly arranged stone structure, with watchtowers at intervals, seemed to announce that Rohan was preparing to face something larger than just a winter storm.
Two newly arrived merchants stopped by the roadside, gazing at the construction.
"Why… is Rohan building such a large wall?" asked one of them, an old man in a grey robe.
A young man of Rohan, who was moving crates of vegetables, paused for a moment, wiping his sweat. "To protect our fields and villages," he replied briefly.
"Protect… from what?" continued the merchant.
The young man looked at the half-finished wall, then sighed softly. "Orcs… and goblins. They've started appearing more often again. Not like before—now they attack villages, kidnap livestock… even people."
"So this is like… preparing for war?" asked the other merchant, his eyes narrowed.
"I don't know," replied the young man in a softer voice. "But the Crown Prince said it's better to build before everything is destroyed."
On a small hill not far from there, Thalion stood silently observing the construction. His black robe fluttered gently in the wind. He watched his people work—with hoes, hammers, and spirit. They didn't understand the entire grand picture he envisioned. But they trusted him. And that was enough.
He murmured to himself, as if to the very ground he stood upon: "If this must be the last fortress protecting them from the darkness… then I will ensure these walls stand longer than history itself."
The morning wind swept across the vast plains of Rohan. Dew clinging to the tips of the tall grasses shimmered in the sunlight. The sound of hooves broke the silence, steady and rhythmic.
A golden-brown horse sped along the dirt path, magnificent with its glossy coat and the powerful muscles rippling beneath its large frame. Its breath steamed in the morning air, yet its eyes were full of spirit and loyalty.
Upon the horse's back sat Thalion, clad in dark outer garments and a long, flowing cloak. One hand held the reins, the other gripped a large roll of parchment containing sketches and construction notes.
"Easy, Gryffindor," he whispered, gently patting the horse's neck. "Today we ride southwest."
Gryffindor, as the horse was named, whinnied softly. He was no ordinary steed—he had been with Thalion since he was a foal. And since then, he had grown on choice feed and elixirs concocted by his master's own hands. His strength was not just the result of training, but the product of care and a strong bond between creature and man.
Thalion guided Gryffindor down a small slope overlooking the wall construction in the Lóthharn region, one of the most fertile farming areas in Rohan. Workers were visible in the distance—some lifting large stones, others carving Rohan's symbolic decorations, and some inspecting the thickness of the foundations.
Upon arriving at the site, the workers immediately turned and greeted him.
"Morning, Prince!"
"Morning," Thalion replied, dismounting Gryffindor. "How are the archer positions on the fourth tower?"
A stout man holding a map scroll approached.
"We adjusted the positions according to your suggestions last week. Now the line of sight covers two hill gaps and one flat path. But we were thinking of adding firing slits on the lower level… perhaps two layers?"
Thalion nodded, his eyes fixed on the massive stone structure that now stood almost two stories high.
"Create firing slits on two layers," he said firmly. "And leave space in the tower for flaming arrow pulleys. I will prepare the fuel."
One of the stonemasons raised an eyebrow. "Fuel from where, Lord?"
Thalion only offered a faint smile. "I have it prepared in the north workshop. A safe mixture, but hot enough to melt iron if necessary."
All the workers nodded, some exchanging glances of admiration—there had never been a leader like this before. One who came directly to the field, listened to their opinions, and even joined in the work when needed.
The day wore on. The sun traversed the sky. Gryffindor waited faithfully, occasionally being fed carrots and dried grass by passing village children.
Suddenly, the midday sky was disturbed by the sound of flapping wings. A large white raven, unusual for the Rohan region, descended slowly and landed on the wooden fence near Thalion.
Tied to its leg was a small, neatly folded letter with a silver-grey wax seal—Gandalf's seal.
Thalion immediately recognized the mark and opened the letter. His eyes narrowed as he read the neat but urgent sentences.
Thalion,
Your time in Rohan has been invaluable, but darkness does not wait. Meet me in Rivendell before the date written below this letter. There are great matters we must discuss. You are needed.
Mithrandir
Thalion sighed, then looked towards the east, beyond the valleys and mountains.
"It seems… another adventure is about to begin."
Gryffindor whinnied softly, as if understanding.
Dawn greeted Rohan with a pale golden hue, illuminating the thatched and stone roofs of a land now bustling not only with fields and workshops, but also with the construction of tall walls in the distance. But that morning, there was another, equally important activity: the departure of a crown prince who would embark on a long journey to the heart of the elves—Rivendell.
Thalion walked calmly through the corridors of the Meduseld palace. His steps were steady, but there was a weight in his chest that could not be denied: he would be leaving his homeland for a time, just as Rohan was beginning to transform.
He arrived in the golden hall, where King Thengel, his father, sat on the oak throne adorned with horse carvings. Beside the king stood Morwen, the queen of Lossarnach, who, despite having lived in Rohan for a long time, still retained the grace of Gondor in her face and speech.
Thalion bowed respectfully. "Father, Mother. Today I ask for permission to leave."
King Thengel looked at his son with a sharp gaze full of authority and a father's concern. "Gandalf summons you to Rivendell, and you intend to heed his call?"
"Yes, Father," Thalion replied calmly. "I believe that if Gandalf sends a letter by messenger bird, then what he has to say is no small matter. I cannot ignore it."
Morwen stepped forward slowly, her blue gown sweeping the stone floor. She approached, gently touching Thalion's face. "You have always had a great calling, my Son. But Rivendell is far. You will cross forests, mountains, perhaps even pass through unfriendly lands. Are you sure, alone?"
Thalion offered a small smile. "Not entirely alone, Mother. Gryffindor will be with me."
"Ah, that beloved horse of yours," Morwen smiled, shaking her head slightly. "You gave him a heavy name for a horse."
"He is more than a horse, Mother. He has been my friend since childhood." Thalion then looked at his father. "I have prepared everything. This journey may hold great guidance for the future of Rohan."