After the fall of the Dark Lord Sauron, a great shadow lifted from Middle-earth, unveiling lands long hidden in fear and despair. The One Ring, forged in the fires of Mount Doom, was unmade, and with it, the will of its maker was shattered. The free peoples of Middle-earth rejoiced, for it was an age of endings, and of new beginnings.

The Elves, weary from the long struggle, heeded the call of the sea. One by one, their ships departed, fading into the mists of Valinor, leaving the lands of men behind. The Dwarves retreated to their mountain halls, delving ever deeper into their stone homes. The Ents, having lost many of their kindred, wandered into the heart of Fangorn Forest, where they entered a deep and timeless slumber. Even the orcs, their dark masters gone, scattered and dwindled until they became little more than whispers in forgotten tales.

It was the time of Men, a time of peace and prosperity such as had not been seen in countless ages. Gondor and Rohan thrived under their kings, their banners fluttering proudly in the golden sunlight. Villages sprang up along the rivers and valleys, their people building lives untouched by the horrors of war.

And yet, even in peace, the echoes of the past lingered in the hearts of those who lived near the scars of old battles. These lands held stories, some spoken in the light of day, others in hushed tones around firelight.

In the shadow of Helm's Deep, nestled by the rushing waters of the Snowbourn River, lay the small fishing village of Alderdale. Its people were hardy and content, bound to the rhythms of the river and the seasons. To them, the great events of the world were stories passed down by travelers or sung by wandering bards. They spoke of Aragorn, the king who united men, and of Frodo, the Ring-bearer who delivered Middle-earth from ruin. But these were distant tales, belonging to a world far removed from the quiet life of Alderdale.

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In this village, there was a young man named Calen. Neither noble nor extraordinary, Calen was like many others of Alderdale, a fisherman by trade, with strong arms and a sharp eye for the glint of trout in the waters. He had never seen the great cities of Gondor or the glittering halls of Rohan. His days were spent tending nets, mending boats, and listening to the murmur of the river that had shaped his life.

Calen’s mother often told him stories of the war against Sauron, tales she had heard in her youth. She spoke of the Riders of Rohan charging across the Pelennor Fields, of the might of Gondor's armies, and of the brave hobbits who had walked into the very heart of Mordor. But to Calen, these stories were like dreams, a world of heroes and kings, of dark lords and shining blades. His world was the river, the village, and the woods that bordered Alderdale.

As the sun dipped low on the horizon, casting a warm golden light over the river, Calen stood at the edge of the water. The evening air was filled with the hum of crickets and the occasional splash of a leaping fish. He had no reason to suspect that his life was about to change. The days of war and peril were over, and he lived in an age of peace.

But peace, like the surface of the river, could be deceptive. Beneath its gentle flow, unseen currents stirred.

And so, in the village of Alderdale, where the shadow of Helm's Deep stretched across the land, a new tale was beginning, one that would take Calen far beyond the riverbanks he had always known. For even in times of peace, the echoes of the past and the whispers of the unseen can awaken forces long forgotten. And Middle-earth, though quiet, was never truly free of its secrets.