The scream tore through the heavens, a rending cry that cleaved the sky like molten lead. Darkness spilled forth, smothering the land with a veil of despair, heavy and choking as the smoke that poured from the forges of Mordor. No light, no glimmer of life broke the suffocating gloom—only wraiths stirred, their whispers colder than the dead.

You, once of the Maiar, stood upon the balcony of Barad-dûr, the ember of your light long extinguished, swallowed by the corrosive will of Sauron. A servant of ruin, your purpose bound to the breaking of the world, your gaze surveyed the desolation below—a land scarred and blackened, a kingdom of ash and sorrow.

The shriek of a fellbeast rent the air, its monstrous wings blotting the faint remnants of starlight. It dove through the haze, talons striking the iron railing as its serpentine neck bowed low, a reverence steeped in dread. From its back descended the Witch-king of Angmar.

The high-pitched wail of the beast faded, yet the echo lingered, and your ears throbbed with the memory. His cloaked form passed you, slow and deliberate, each step measured. The iron of his helm tilted toward you, a silent acknowledgment that spoke of unspoken bonds forged in the fires of conquest and death. You, who burned hotter than the forges of Mount Doom in his cold, hollow existence.

“Come,” he said, his voice a deep echo that resonated with the weight of millennia. Together, you stepped into the shadowed chamber, its vast halls lined with the spoils of conquest: shattered swords, fallen banners, and crowns of broken kings. The heavy doors groaned shut behind you, sealing the two of you within a space darker than the Void itself. The Witch-king laid a blade upon the blackened table before you—a sword stained with the blood of vanquished realms.

“A token,” he intoned, his voice low, a mere breath above silence. “From a world that dared resist. Take it, as a promise—of what is yet to fall.”