The Hidden Valley—Middle-earth's last haven east of the sea—was known by a more familiar name: Rivendell.
Founded by the Elven Lord Elrond, Rivendell nestled deep within a secluded valley, flanked on three sides by mountains. It was a natural fortress—easy to defend, difficult to find—blessed with serene beauty and a tranquil atmosphere.
Home to thousands of Noldorin Elves, as well as the descendants of many ancient heroes of legend, its population hovered around ten thousand.
Kaen Eowenríel and his six companions followed an elven scout along a narrow path clinging to the edge of a cliff, finally making their way into Rivendell.
Once inside, the elven captain turned and said,
"Travelers from afar, the residential quarter lies just ahead. There you'll find inns, taverns, blacksmiths, and more. You may rest there as you please—we won't intrude further."
"Thank you for your escort," Kaen replied with a polite bow, echoed by the others as they took their leave.
In the original tale, the dwarven company had been personally received by Lord Elrond upon their arrival in Rivendell—after all, among them was Thorin Oakenshield, a dwarven king, and Gandalf, a Maia in disguise.
But Kaen's group? They were just ordinary folk. In the eyes of Middle-earth, they held no fame, no status. Meeting Lord Elrond was not even on the table.
The Elven quarter was lively, but not chaotic. Merchants didn't shout or hawk wares; instead, everyone went about their business quietly and efficiently.
Despite the flow of people and the abundance of trade, a gentle rhythm pulsed through the streets. It was bustling, yet unhurried.
The seven wandered among the elegant stalls and finely built homes, eventually stopping at an inn. Inside, the atmosphere was electric—bursts of cheers echoed now and then.
Peering in, they saw a drinking contest underway. The prize? A free night's stay.
"Lord Kaen," Mundar said, licking his lips as he stared hungrily at the rows of ale-filled mugs. "I think I could enter."
He hadn't touched a drop since they left the Anduin River Valley. Now, just the scent of ale was enough to make him ache with longing.
"Go on, just be able to get up tomorrow," Kaen chuckled. "Everyone can take the evening off."
Here in Rivendell, sheltered under the might of the Noldor, there was no need to worry about danger. It was a rare chance for the team to unwind.
Mundar beamed and rushed off to sign up. Not to be left behind, Caden, Zakri, and Lairon joined in—eager to enjoy free drinks as well.
Cathril and Ameliah, after securing their rooms, set off together to explore the elven markets.
That left Kaen alone.
He asked a passerby for directions, then made his way straight to the weapon smithy, hoping to purchase new gear.
The clang of hammer on anvil echoed rhythmically through the air.
A few humans and elves were hard at work, forging steel under the warm light of the forge.
The Elves of Rivendell were Noldor—some of the oldest beings still walking Middle-earth. They preserved the ancient smithing arts of their forefathers. Their craftsmanship rivaled that of the Dwarves, and in some ways, even surpassed it.
Kaen picked up a beautifully crafted longsword from a display table, inspecting its fine edge and balance.
A calm voice drifted from nearby.
"Cold-iron longsword. One gold coin. Non-negotiable. I'll engrave your mark for free."
He turned toward the voice and saw a middle-aged man with a scruffy beard seated in a chair, watching him.
"One gold coin?" Kaen raised a brow. The sword at his hip had cost him just three silvers.
In this world, one gold coin = twenty silver coins = two hundred coppers—enough to support a commoner for half a year.
This sword was outrageously priced.
Frowning, he asked, "At that price, what's so special about it?"
The man replied evenly, "It could slice clean through that piece of scrap metal you're wearing."
"Scrap?" Kaen's eyes narrowed.
To a master swordsman, a blade was more than steel—it was a companion. His sword had been with him for over a year, his silent partner in every battle. To have it dismissed as trash was an insult.
Shing!
He drew the sword in one fluid motion. His tone remained calm.
"This sword has followed me for over a year. It has slain seventeen trolls and more than two hundred orcs. Do you truly believe your sword is worthy to be compared to it?"
The middle-aged man paused, clearly taken aback. His eyes narrowed. He stood from his seat and walked toward Kaen, giving him a careful once-over.
"Young man," he asked, "you're not here to sell something?"
Kaen smiled faintly. "Your sword is well-made. Excellent craftsmanship. But looks don't make a blade great. And since you just insulted my partner—yes, I'll return the favor. A sword that lies sunbathing in a forge all day, never tasting battle, is the real piece of scrap."
"You—!" The man's face flushed as he pointed at Kaen, mustache bristling.
"You dare call my sword trash?!"
"Obviously, smith. Unless you can tell me what glorious feats it's achieved?"
"I—!" the man sputtered. "A sword's quality lies in its make! Mine could cleave yours in two!"
"Oh? Then what's the difference between that and plain old scrap metal? My sword might break too if I smashed it against an anvil, but it's known glory. Yours? It'll sit here all day, catching sunbeams."
The man fell silent.
Because Kaen had a point.
In Middle-earth, the great blades all had legends—deeds that echoed in songs and scrolls. A sword's true value lay not just in its forging, but in its legacy.
The man took a deep breath, then gave Kaen a serious look.
"I apologize for my words. Your sword has indeed earned its glory. Still—my blade is not without merit. It was forged by my own hand. I am Adante Ironsoul."
"Never heard of you," Kaen shrugged. "I'm from the Eastern Continent. I know little of the West. You sound famous?"
A voice chimed in beside them. A young boy had wandered over, smiling as he said,
"Master Adante is Rivendell's most renowned human blacksmith. He's called Ironsoul—the hands that temper steel."