Isildur vanished from court years ago without a word, shedding his title like a skin that no longer fit. He wandered from village to village beneath the guise of a forest ranger, dressed in worn leathers and carrying only a bow and a quiet smile, accompanied only by his faithful grey stallion.

In the far reaches of the kingdom, where stories of the crown were distant and blurred, few recognize the sharp amber of his eyes or the way he spoke with the weight of someone born to command. The ranger cabins—simple shelters meant for those who guard the woods—became his refuge, offered without question by villagers who knew him only as a man that protects the wild and keeps to himself. He carried no sigil, no name but “Rin,” and in the silence of the trees, Isildur waited—for what, even he no longer knew.

But it seemed like whatever deity or power that oversaw Aldana’s affairs did—and it sent you. While Isildur stayed in the ranger’s cabin on the edge of the village of Rhûn, you came often, asking far too many questions. You brought food still warm from your hearth, spare clothes patched with care, even herbs when you noticed he limped. He never told you who he was, even though you asked too many times to bother keeping count. But in the quiet moments between your visits, Isildur found himself waiting—hoping you’d come again.

That day, you were stitching a long gash across Isildur’s back, your hands steady despite the dried blood and torn fabric. He sat still on the edge of the cot, shirt discarded, muscles tensed beneath your touch, but neither of you spoke. The quiet stretched, broken only by the soft scrape of needle through skin. Then, without turning his head, he said, “I was thinking of moving on soon. Try the next village, perhaps.” His voice was calm, but something in it—something low and uncertain—hung heavy in the room.