Year 2941 of the Third Age.
At this time, the ruler of the Kingdom of Rohan was King Fengel.
Compared to his father, Folcwine, Fengel was without a doubt a foolish and incompetent king.
Greedy for treasure, dim-witted beyond repair, and constantly at odds with the noble houses of Rohan, he was derisively known as "the spoiled glutton."
His son,Thengel— who would father a prince one day named Théoden, the one who led six thousand Riders to Gondor's aid in the War of the Ring.
But for now, that future king had abandoned his homeland, unwilling to endure his father's folly, and had taken up residence in the Kingdom of Gondor.
Indeed, King Fengel had grown old. The strength and pride of Rohan were no longer what they had been in his father's time.
And yet—
There had been no great invasions during his reign.
No bloody wars.
No natural disasters.
No widespread famine.
And still, Rohan's power had faded.
That fact alone was enough to prove Fengel's utter incompetence.
Perhaps it was the creeping chill of old age, or maybe the fire of his youth had long been snuffed out.
But in his twilight years, the once-oblivious king began to realize just how absurd his rule had been.
He wanted to repent.
He wanted to fix what he had broken.
But he was too late.
If fate were to follow its original course, he would live only another eleven years.
After his death, his son Thengel would take the throne and lead Rohan into a new era of resurgence.
But two months ago, something changed.
A group of strangers arrived.
And with them… came a path to redemption.
When Will, an envoy from the Kingdom of Eowenría, came to Rohan seeking an audience with King Fengel—and boldly requested the purchase of ten thousand warhorses—Fengel's first instinct was rejection.
Yes, he was foolish.
Yes, he had allowed his kingdom to weaken.
But even he knew:
Horses were the very soul of Rohan.
Even though ten thousand horses weren't an enormous number for a horse-breeding nation like Rohan…
He still couldn't hand them over to a kingdom with no known origin and a diplomat of unknown background.
But Will had come prepared. Just as Kaen had predicted.
He presented a small chest.
Inside—mithril.
Even though the aging Fengel no longer craved gold or jewels, the moment his eyes fell upon the shimmering mithril, a thought bloomed in his heart.
He thought:
I've spent my life in folly. My name will be remembered in shame. But perhaps... perhaps this mithril is a gift from the heavens—a chance to reclaim a shred of honor.
He dreamed of forging a legendary crown and a sacred sword, heirlooms worthy of kings, just like Elendil's sword of old among the Dúnedain. Symbols of royal power for the Kingdom of Rohan.
And so—
He agreed to Will's request.
Despite opposition, Fengel overruled them all and sold ten thousand warhorses to the Kingdom of Eowenría.
In truth, few nobles objected.
Why?
Because they, too, smelled profit.
After some negotiation, a deal was struck:
Eight gold coins per horse.
Ten thousand elite Rohan warhorses—sold to Kaen's fledgling kingdom for a total of eighty thousand gold.
As for the mithril chest Will had brought—it was worth no more than ten thousand gold.
Once the contract was signed, King Fengel dispatched a grand escort.
Led by his Minister of Foreign Affairs, accompanied by three hundred Riders of Rohan, and five hundred horsemasters, they drove the massive herd north along the River Bruinen.
Their destination:
The elven-guarded crossing at the Ford of Bruinen.
Crossing there, they entered the borders of the Kingdom of Eowenría.
And now, they were driving the herd westward—toward Elariel.
Beyond the river, a grand caravan followed the East-West Road, heading toward the Forest of Ashenwood.
At the front rode two men.
One was Will, Kaen's Minister of Foreign Affairs.
The other—Cenric, Rohan's Foreign Affairs Minister.
Cenric scanned the desolate lands before him. No cattle. No farmland.
A flicker of disdain flashed through his eyes.
He already knew the Kingdom of Eowenría was less than one-twentieth the size of Rohan, and its population? Barely one percent.
Now, standing amidst the barren plains, his contempt only deepened.
He had come with two missions:
First—to assess Eowenría's national strength and decide if it was worthy of establishing diplomatic relations.
Second—to complete the transaction and use the king's gift to acquire more mithril.
But now, that first mission seemed… pointless.
Rohan, even in decline, still boasted tens of thousands of mounted warriors.
In Cenric's eyes, this so-called "kingdom" of Eowenría was no more than a glorified barony—hardly worth befriending.
As long as they got the mithril and sealed the deal, there was no reason to linger.
Will, though young, had already mastered the art of reading faces.
He saw right through Cenric's disdain.
But there was nothing he could do.
When they'd left Eowenría, it was still the dead of winter.
Now, as they returned, spring was nearly over.
They had no idea what had changed in the kingdom during their absence.
Cenric asked with a trace of mockery:
"So this… is your kingdom, Lord Will?"
Will nodded proudly.
"Yes. Once we cross the hill ahead, you'll see Elariel Town, built by my lord and his people with their own hands."
"Oh?"
Cenric responded with feigned interest.
"I'm eager to witness the prosperity of your kingdom."
Will said nothing, but deep down, he wanted to punch this snide bastard into the dirt.
Don't lose your cool. Don't fight with an idiot.
He chanted it like a mantra in his heart.
Soon, the massive caravan reached the hilltop.
And what they saw—
Took their breath away.
The hill marked a dividing line—
On one side: a lifeless northern wasteland.
On the other: a kingdom brimming with vitality.
Endless fields of wheat stretched to the horizon, thick green stalks crowned with full, golden heads. Countless farmers worked the land with tireless dedication.
The East-West Road was lined with tall fences, high enough to stop even warhorses from leaping over.
As they proceeded forward, the road beneath their feet was laid with smooth, clean bricks.
And at the edge of the fields—a town.
Towering stone walls, strong as fortresses.
People bustling in and out.
Beyond the town—an endless forest, hills and mists rolling within, concealing its depths in mystery.
In that moment—
The arrogance in Cenric's eyes vanished.
All that remained was shock and awe.
Even Will and the twenty Dúnedain rangers who had left months ago stood wide-eyed in amazement.
In just four to five months, the land had transformed beyond recognition.
Every insult, every sneer they had endured along the journey—
All of it melted away, replaced by a swelling pride.
Will took a deep breath.
Even the air here felt sweeter than that of Rohan.
He turned to the stunned diplomat of Rohan.
Smiled, and said:
"Welcome to Eowenría, Lord Cenric.
This is but one small town of our kingdom—Elariel."