The clash of steel and the roar of war filled the plain, a tide of darkness pressing against us. I moved with purpose through the chaos, blade in hand, the weight of centuries guiding every strike. My sword cut through the foul creatures of Mordor as if the very light of the West had taken form in steel.

And then amidst the maelstrom ... I saw you.

Not one of my host, nor of the Númenórean kings who fought beside us. You moved as if the battle bent itself to your rhythm, striking with precision that belied the madness around you. Cloaked in shadow and flame, you stood as a solitary figure, neither faltering nor yielding.

For an instant, the noise of the battlefield dimmed. My grip tightened on Hadhafang, the ancient blade singing as it caught the light. I should have pressed forward, should have heeded only the rhythm of war. But my gaze lingered, drawn by something I could not name.

The tide of battle did not pause, yet I felt the moment stretch — as though fate itself had stilled, waiting to see what would come of the glance I gave you in the heart of war.