"What?! You say Kaen has returned — and that he has founded a kingdom beyond the mountains?"
A voice like rolling thunder burst forth from the stone hall of the Ancarim Tribe.
There stood Ankharan, chieftain of the tribe — a seasoned warrior of sixty winters, whose sinewed form still held the strength of a mountain bear. His hawk-like gaze pierced the young scout who had come bearing news from Carrock.
"You're certain it was our Kaen?" Ankharan asked grimly. "The very same who once hunted the monsters of the valley?"
The scout nodded with conviction.
"Aye, Chieftain. I swear it by the river and the rocks. I saw him with my own eyes. It is Kaen, the Monster-Hunter. But he is no mere hunter now — he bears the bearing of a king."
He paused, as if the truth he spoke was too grand to carry on the tongue.
"He came clad in regal armor, accompanied by a legion of golden-armored guards — each one tall, disciplined, and armed like warriors of old. And with him... the Dwarves. Not just any, but the Prince of the House of Durin himself."
"The Prince of Durin's Folk?" Ankharan muttered, his brow furrowing. "Thorin Oakenshield, if legend serves."
"Indeed. They are camped now at Carrock. Captain Andric is escorting them across the Anduin, even now as we speak. They march this way."
Ankharan fell silent. His weathered face was still, yet a storm brewed behind his eyes.
"A Monster-Hunter turned King... the heir of Durin beside him... and an army clad in gold…" he murmured. "So the tales are true, after all? The Dwarves of Durin truly plan to drive out the dragon and reclaim their halls."
"And Kaen," he added after a pause, "it seems he too seeks a share in that glory. The only question that remains is whether he returns in peace… or comes to conquer."
A dark shadow flickered in his gaze.
"Regardless," Ankharan declared, rising to his full height, "this valley shall not remain quiet."
"Send the word," he commanded. "Let it be known: the Guardian of the Valley has returned, and now he wears a crown. Tonight, we feast — a bonfire banquet for all the chieftains. Let every tribe send their finest. Let them see Kaen with their own eyes."
And so the word flew on wings.
From the watchtowers of Ancarim, hawks were loosed to carry the message far and wide. Across the slopes and hollows of the Anduin Valley, the summons rang like a thunderclap. The tribes stirred — some with awe, others with caution — and their leaders gathered their warriors and set forth by boat and by trail, all making their way toward the Ancarim stronghold.
…
By dusk, Kaen and Andric had arrived before the gates of Ancarim.
The wooden palisade stood as it had a year before, but its air seemed changed — less welcoming, more wary. Kaen looked up at the watchtower where once he had declared his call for volunteers — the very spot where Caden and the others had sworn loyalty and joined his cause.
Creeeak—
The heavy wooden gates opened slowly.
From within emerged Ankharan, flanked by his kin. Despite his age, his frame remained mighty, and he strode forth with the authority of one who had ruled the hill-tribes for decades.
"It's really Lord Kaen!" someone cried.
"He's even more handsome than I remember!" swooned a young woman.
"By the stars, look at his armor! He looks like a hero from the songs!"
"Are his soldiers truly plated in gold?"
"Gold! Imagine the fortune he commands!"
"I fought trolls beside Lord Kaen once!"
"So did I! We shared blood and steel!"
Excited murmurs spread like fire through dry grass. Maidens sent coy glances his way, while children watched him with awe.
Kaen offered a calm smile and nodded in return, his gaze composed yet kind.
As he stepped forward to meet Ankharan, his eyes met those of the older man — and in that brief glance, Kaen perceived it.
Wariness. And beneath it, fear.
A man like Ankharan, a seasoned leader, could veil his heart from most — but not from Kaen.
He understood it well.
A year ago, he had been a lone warrior, beloved by the tribes for slaying beasts and protecting their homes. When he left on his expedition, he had taken only six men — no threat to any chieftain.
But now…
He returned with an army.
The common folk might celebrate. But the chieftains? They would measure his power, weigh his intentions, and guard their own.
Ankharan's eyes had already done so — sweeping over the golden-armored guard, noting their height, their power, their unyielding discipline. Kaen knew what he was thinking.
These men alone could raze the entire Ancarim tribe to the ground.
And yet the old chief masked his disquiet with ease. He drew a deep breath and plastered a wide smile upon his face.
"Ha! Look who returns to us!" he boomed. "The Guardian of the Valley — the slayer of monsters — Kaen!"
"It brings me great joy to see you again, lad. Word is that you've accomplished much — that you've founded a kingdom of your own?"
Kaen inclined his head with courteous grace.
"I'm honored you remember me, Chieftain. It is true — beyond the Misty Mountains, I've carved a realm. It is called the Kingdom of Eowenría."
Ankharan's smile widened, but a subtle shift came to his voice.
"Then I offer my congratulations, Your Majesty."
The title was polite — yet laced with warning.
Then his eyes turned to the Dwarves. And there, amidst them, stood a figure of nobility and unyielding pride.
"You must be Thorin Oakenshield," Ankharan said, bowing respectfully. "Heir to Erebor. The hero who once clove the orc Azog in two."
Thorin bowed in turn.
"Azog yet lives," he replied quietly. "And I am no hero — only the leader of a band of wanderers."
He had grown more humble with time, Kaen noted.
Ankharan raised a brow at this, though he seemed unmoved. Moria and the goblins that dwelt there were far from the valley — no threat to his people. What mattered now was what stood before him.
"Even so," Ankharan said, "you are a hero in our songs. We were raised on tales of Erebor and your kin."
With that, he turned once more to Kaen.
"I've prepared a feast in your honor," he declared. "A bonfire banquet. I've sent word to the other chieftains — they ride to join us even now."
"For your return," he said meaningfully, "is no small matter. It is not merely a concern of the Ancarim tribe… but of all who dwell in the valley."
Kaen's gaze did not waver. The meaning behind those words was clear.
"We welcome you," Ankharan was saying, "but if you seek to lay claim to the valley — then know that the chiefs will judge whether your crown holds any weight here."
So the old wolf is still sharp, Kaen thought, eyes narrowing just slightly.
Once, he might've ignored such posturing. But no longer. Elrond of Rivendell had taught him the craft of diplomacy and the game of politics. Kaen was no longer a mere hunter — he was a king, and kings could not afford naivety.
Originally, he had hoped for a simple rest — to greet the tribes and ease the path for the coming union of the Eowenría, Rivendell, and Lothlórien forces. But now?
He would need to send a message. A quiet one. A demonstration.
Especially to the likes of Ankharan.
…
Beside them, Andric — who lacked his father's cunning — beamed with boyish excitement.
"A feast!" he exclaimed. "Kaen, you've always been my hero! Tonight we must drink together until the stars fade!"
Ankharan's expression twitched — a stiff grimace flashing across his face.
This boy's too soft, he thought bitterly. I've raised a fool.
Kaen chuckled softly.
"Of course," he said. "I've always believed in you."
"Ha! That's the greatest honor of my life!" Andric grinned ear to ear like a lad praised by his elder.
Watching him, Ankharan's eye twitched again.
The boy is hopeless, he sighed inwardly.
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