At dawn the next day, the morning mist had yet to lift, but sunlight was already streaming down upon the valley below.

Thousands had gathered under Joanna's direction, each occupied with their tasks—digging foundations, gathering stone, firing bricks, and carving out the road that would one day link this hidden realm to the outer world.

All was ablaze with energy and purpose.

Kaen led a group to rebuild the mithril mine nestled beneath the hill. Once, it had been destroyed by Lairon and the Dúnedain rangers, reduced to ash and rubble. Now, it rose again from ruin.

This time, they used no timber. The miners chiseled stone steps by hand, carving a steady path down to the mine's depths. Along the stone walls, they etched runes of strength and warding—ancient sigils that made the rock harder than iron.

Hidden within the stone chamber lay a hoard: 150,000 gold coins glittering in the dark, and ore rich with unrefined mithril—prized silver-steel, unearthed by orcs but left untouched. It was worth no less than 100,000 in gold.

Kaen ordered everything brought forth and handed over to Tifa, the Minister of Finance. She was to distribute the wealth among the three fledgling towns outside the forest, ensuring they had enough to continue their building and sustain their growth.

To hasten construction further, Kaen sat down and wrote a letter to Lord Elrond of Rivendell, his mentor and King of Imladris, to reveal a secret too great to be kept:

"To my beloved teacher, Elrond, Lord of Rivendell.

Your student has unearthed a treasure deep within the forest—mithril, the rarest and noblest of all metals.

I do not hide this from you, for I believe in your wisdom and goodwill.

I have sent you a gift—ores of mithril—as a token of trust.

If it pleases you, let us form an alliance, one not of master and student, but of kingdoms.

The Kingdom of Eowenríel shall offer mithril; Rivendell shall lend us your artisans—Elven smiths of old—to aid in the raising of our capital, Elarothiel in the Valley Elohir, until it stands proud and complete."

In the hall of Rivendell, beneath arching stone and golden boughs, Elrond held Kaen's letter in his hands, his gaze lingering on the box of mithril ore before him.

A memory stirred within him—of Moria, of the dwarves of Khazad-dûm, and his dearest friend, Durin III.

Once, in ages past, the dwarves had shared a sliver of their mithril, and a pact was forged between Elf and Dwarf—a bond of blade and shield.

But that time had long since passed. Durin was dead, Khazad-dûm had fallen, and Moria lay cloaked in shadow and silence.

Yet now, Kaen's letter rekindled those memories. Elves have never coveted the treasures of other kin. Elrond, who held Kaen as his own foster son, answered the plea.

He dispatched a thousand Elven craftsmen, each a master of their art. They were of the Noldor, descendants of those who had crossed the sea from Valinor in the elder days, wielding ancient knowledge that surpassed even the works of this current age.

These were artisans who had survived the passing of the Second Age, some bearing memories over ten thousand years old. With skills refined over millennia, each was as great as a hundred mortal craftsmen.

When these Elves arrived at the heart of the Ashenwood, they were met with warmth and reverence from Kaen and his people.

One grey-haired Elf, ancient and noble, stood before the ring of mountains that cradled Elarothiel. Tears welled in his eyes as he spoke:

"This valley… it calls to memory Gondolin, the Hidden City of the Noldor. It was as fair as this, and we, too, once passed our lore to Men as we now do again. Then, we were like kin—brothers of the flame."

From that day forth, the sweet voices of the Elves echoed often through the air of Elarothiel. As they worked, they sang—melodies both haunting and radiant.

In Middle-earth, where all life flows from the Great Song of Eru Ilúvatar, such songs were never mere sounds. They were power itself.

Kaen could feel it—the works wrought by the Elves were suffused with natural harmony. Their songs gathered elemental strength, enfolding the whole valley in a quiet, living magic.

Indeed, it has always been thus.

From the dawn of days, Elves were guides to Mankind. The two races—Elves, the Firstborn Children of Eru; Men, the Secondborn—were siblings in the grand design of the Creator.

Long ago, when Men were still crude and primitive, the Noldor had returned from Aman, the Blessed Realm. Like elder brothers, they nurtured the race of Men, sharing their knowledge and craft.

But all was changed in the First Age, at the Battle of Unnumbered Tears. Morgoth, the dark enemy, sowed lies among Men, turning some against the Elves. Thus was trust shattered.

Since that day, the First and Secondborn had never looked upon one another the same way again.

Now, seeing Elven craftsmen and Men toiling side by side, one aged Elf whispered:

"It is as if we have shed the scars of betrayal and are kin once more."

One month passed.

Under the touch of Elven hands and the blessing of the system's accelerating panel, the residential quarter of Elarothiel was completed at thrice the expected pace. The road connecting it to Elariel was finished as well.

This road, paved in greenish stone, wound its way through the Ashenwood, following the forest's hills and hollows. Narrow and hidden, it was called the Path of Whispers—wide enough for one cart or two walking abreast.

Through it, builders, supplies, and stone flowed into the valley like a river. In turn, gold and jewels from Elarothiel were sent out to fund the walls of Elariel, and the founding of three new settlements: Aurienel, Thalorien, and Virelmar.

The kingdom was rising. And with every passing day, good tidings multiplied.

First came news from Azure Spring. After an ambitious expansion, its size had grown fivefold, and it was now officially named Azure Spring City.

Then came the word from Elariel. Over thirty thousand acres of farmland had been reclaimed and planted. The crops, under the system's magic, were thriving—some already nearing harvest. With the System's favor, they would yield three harvests per year.

Meanwhile, Aurienel, Thalorien, and Virelmar were swiftly building their residential quarters and working on the roads to connect them to Elarothiel.

As Elarothiel had but one entrance to the south, the Elves offered new plans. At their suggestion, Joanna redrew the blueprints.

Trees atop the cliffs surrounding the valley were cleared, and a ring road was built. From the four cardinal directions, white towers were erected—tall and proud.

Beneath each tower stood a fortress, home to vigilant guards. These towers served as beacons, guiding road builders to their destinations and acting as watchposts against any who might threaten the peace.

They were named the Towers of Vigilance, symbols of the alliance between the Noldor Elves and the Kingdom of Eowenría.

At last, as midsummer approached, a final missive arrived.

The joy of this blossoming spring found its end in solemn tidings—

An envoy from the Kingdom of Rohan had come.

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