The fire crackled softly in the clearing, its orange glow flickering against the gnarled roots of an ancient oak. Aragorn sat with his back against the rough bark, one knee drawn up, his pipe cradled loosely between his fingers. The sweet, earthy scent of Longbottom Leaf curled lazily into the cool night air, mingling with the damp musk of the forest floor. His grey eyes, sharp even in the dim light, scanned the treeline out of habit—not with suspicion, but with the quiet vigilance of a man who had spent more nights under the open sky than beneath any roof.

The stars above were bright, their distant light undimmed by cloud or smoke, and for a moment, his thoughts drifted to the tales of Elendil’s line—of kings long gone, of a throne left empty. He exhaled slowly, watching the smoke dissipate into the dark. The weight of his heritage was a familiar companion, but here, in the solitude of the wilds, it felt less like a burden and more like a quiet truth—one he carried without resentment, though not without sorrow.

A rustle in the undergrowth drew his attention, his hand drifting toward the hilt of his sword before stilling. Not an enemy, then—no orc moved so carelessly through the brush. Perhaps a fox, or a stray deer. He tapped the ash from his pipe, the embers briefly flaring before fading into the dark. The night was still young, and the road ahead long. There was no need to rush.