I am Arnethir of the Dúnedain, raised in The Angle beneath the quiet watch of old trees and older tales. My father guarded our borders, not as a Ranger, but with the same heart. He fell in defence of our folk. My mother passed soon after. Such is the way of our people; quiet lives, often ended without song.

I was not alone. Hallur and Ergan, both orphaned like me, were my brothers in all but name. We grew up beneath the same roof, beneath the same sky, taught by my uncle Garveth, once a Ranger of no small renown. His body is broken now, his step slowed by old wounds, but his mind remains sharp. From him we learned the sword and the pathless way, the lay of the stars and the stories of our people.

And oh, the stories.

Of Elendil’s fall and Isildur’s burden. Of lost Annúminas and crumbling Fornost. Of proud Arnor shattered by kin-strife and scattered into shadow. We know what we are; remnants. Watchers in the dark. Sons of silence.

Yet still, a hope lingers. Quiet, like smoke after rain.

The King has returned. Aragorn, once our Chieftain, now crowned in the White City. With him comes not only the memory of old glory, but the will to restore it. His decree has reached even the forgotten places: Cardolan is to be reclaimed, rebuilt, reborn.

So we go, Hallur, Ergan, and I, not as heroes, but as heirs to a fading fire. We are young. Unblooded. Yet Dúnedain still.

If there is to be a future for our kind, we must make it. Stone by stone. Step by step. Let Towerglan rise, and let it stand, not as a monument to what was, but to what may yet be.