"Grandson of Turin, son of Turgon, young Lord Ecthelion, Steward of Gondor, if you wish to end this war as quickly as possible while learning the enemy's true strength, this would be an excellent suggestion."
A clear, compelling voice rang out. The newcomer was Gandalf, his hair and beard white.
Several days earlier, the ailing Turgon had fallen into a coma, exhausted in both body and spirit.
A realm could not go a day without a ruler, nor could the White City be left without a governing Steward.
And so, at this critical moment, Ecthelion had temporarily taken over his father's position as Steward of Gondor.
Of course, he was only acting Steward. A formal ceremony would be held after the war ended.
Yet Ecthelion had not mentioned this to Allen.
It was hardly something to boast about. His succession would mean his father's death.
Whatever things might be like elsewhere, the bonds of affection within the House of Húrin remained strong.
Gandalf the Grey emerged slowly from the darkness and approached the campfire, casually handing his reins to Aragorn, who stood nearby.
After taking out his tobacco pouch, he plopped down beside Allen.
He blew a smoke ring, turned his head, and said with a warm smile, "Allen, I'm glad to see you here."
It was certainly something to be glad about. The fact that the three of them could meet here meant that most of the beautiful Land of the Moon had returned to Gondor's embrace.
And the enemy's malicious designs had been thwarted.
Gandalf had been able to reach the Crossroads at this moment only because the half-orc army stationed east of Cair Andros had abandoned the besieged Variags.
That enemy force, which had been locked in a relentless struggle with the Rohirrim, had suddenly fled toward