Third Age, 2941.

At this time, the King of Rohan bore the name Fungal.

Unlike his father, Folcwine, Fungal was—without question—a foolish and wayward monarch.

Greedy for treasure and blind to reason, he was constantly at odds with the noble houses of Rohan. In whispers behind closed doors, and even aloud among his own people, he was called "the Spoiled Glutton."

His son, however, was of a different mold. That very son would one day lead six thousand horsemen to the fields of Pelennor in the War of the Ring, remembered in ages hence as King Théoden.

But now, weary and ashamed of his father's folly, that young heir had long since left the Riddermark, choosing instead to live among the men of Gondor.

Fungal, now in the twilight of his years, ruled over a realm whose strength had greatly diminished since the days of his father.

This was no time of war or invasion. No famine had struck, nor had plague or pestilence come upon the land.

And yet the kingdom had weakened year after year, a decline owed not to fate or doom, but to the incapacity of the man who sat upon its throne.

It may be that, with age, the flames of youthful avarice faded.

The old king, once blinded by desire, had begun to see—if only dimly—just how deeply he had erred through the years.

He wished, in his heart, to atone. But some wrongs, once sown, are not so easily reaped.

And time was a cruel master.

In the known course of history, Fungal had but eleven more years to live. Then would come his death, and Théoden would ascend to the throne, leading Rohan once more into strength and renewal.

Yet something had happened, two months past, that stirred a ripple through fate's still waters.

A delegation had arrived—and in it, Fungal saw a chance at redemption.

When Will, the emissary of Kaen, came before the throne of Rohan and made a bold request—to purchase ten thousand warhorses—Fungal's first instinct had been swift refusal.

For though he had driven the realm into decline, he had not lost all sense.

The horse was the soul of Rohan, its very root and strength.

Ten thousand was no small number, not even for the Riddermark, whose very way of life was bound to the breeding and keeping of steeds.

And they would not be sold to some unknown power from afar.

This, Kaen had anticipated.

Will presented a single wooden box—and within it lay mithril.

Though old and dulled to gold and silver, the sight of that gleaming star-metal stirred something long dormant in Fungal's soul.

I have ruled poorly, he thought. When I am gone, my name will be reviled. But this—this may be the hand of providence. A chance to leave behind more than shame.

He would have a crown forged.

A crown not of gold, but of mithril—enduring and pure. And a sword too, a relic to echo Narsil, the blade of Elendil.

Symbols of true kingship for Rohan, so that when his line was remembered, there would be some spark of pride amid the ashes.

And so, Fungal agreed to the purchase.

Despite murmurs among his council, he stood firm in his decision.

A contract was signed: ten thousand of Rohan's finest warhorses, sold to the Kingdom of Eowenríel—Kaen's realm—for the sum of eight gold coins apiece.

The mithril Will had brought—though it gleamed with starlight—was but a small portion, valued around ten thousand gold coins.

With the deal struck, Fungal dispatched a great convoy:

The Minister of Foreign Affairs, three hundred Riders of Rohan, and five hundred herdsmen.

They drove the steeds northward, bearing the king's gift, following Will along the banks of the Bruinen River, until they reached the elven-guarded crossing.

There, at the river-ford, they passed into the lands of Eowenríel.

Now they journeyed eastward along the Great East Road, toward the forest of Cinderspeech, driving their vast herd with steady hands.

At the head of the procession rode two men:

One was Will, Kaen's trusted emissary; the other, the envoy of Rohan—Cenricer.

Cenricer gazed out at the land, dry and barren, with no cattle nor fields in sight. A flicker of disdain crossed his eyes.

He had heard before that Eowenríel's lands were but a fraction of Rohan's—less than one-twentieth its size—and its people, fewer than one percent of Rohan's host.

Now, seeing this wilderness, he dismissed the fledgling kingdom entirely.

He had come with two purposes:

First, to evaluate whether Eowenríel was worthy of diplomatic ties; and second, to complete the trade and offer the king's gift in exchange for more mithril.

But the first task now seemed pointless.

Rohan, even diminished, was second only to Gondor among the realms of Men, and still fielded tens of thousands of horsemen.

To Cenricer's eye, this "kingdom" was no kingdom at all—perhaps little more than a particularly bold frontier holding.

All that mattered now was the mithril. Once he had it, his business here would be done.

Will, though still young, had a keen eye for men's hearts. He read Cenricer's contempt plainly but said nothing.

When they had left Eowenríel, winter held the land fast. Now, with spring nearly past, they returned—yet they knew nothing of what had changed.

Cenricer gave Will a sideways glance.

"So," he said, voice edged with condescension, "this is your kingdom?"

Will nodded proudly.

"Yes. Beyond the next hill lies Elariel, raised by my lord's own hand and heart."

"Is that so?" Cenricer murmured, his tone unreadable. "I look forward to witnessing its… grandeur."

Will said nothing more.

But in his heart, he longed to strike the man.

Patience, he told himself. Don't stoop to a fool's level.

Soon they crested the hill—and every man halted in his tracks.

The view beyond drew gasps from every throat.

The hill stood as if it were a boundary between two worlds.

To the north lay the lifeless wilds, grey and grim.

To the south… was life.

Fields of wheat stretched to the horizon, green and gold under the sun.

The grain stood tall and full, heavy with ripening seed. Farmers moved between the rows, toiling with purpose.

The Great East Road cut cleanly through the land, lined on both sides with high fences—even a warhorse could not leap them.

The road itself was laid with brick, smooth and straight.

And at the end of the fields stood a town: walls high and strong as any fortress, with gates wide open and people bustling in and out.

Beyond the town rose a vast forest—the Cinderspeech Wood—its mists thick and the land within rising and falling with unseen hills.

Cenricer said nothing. The contempt in his eyes was gone, replaced by stunned awe.

Even Will and the twenty Dúnedain Rangers who had returned with him were wide-eyed with disbelief.

They had not imagined such a transformation could occur in the space of four or five short months.

The bitterness of being looked down upon all this way… it vanished, replaced by something brighter—pride.

Will drew a deep breath. The air here, he thought, tasted sweeter than that of all Rohan.

He turned to the speechless envoy, smiling.

"Lord Cenricer," he said, voice calm but proud, "welcome to Eowenríel.

This is but one of our humble towns—Dawnlight."

CHECK THIS OUT- THE WRITING STYLE:

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."