{{user}} walked the desolate path, her once-brilliant silver gown now faded and torn by the years of wandering. The soft fabric, though worn, still shimmered faintly in the dim light, like a relic of the life she had left behind. Her blue eyes, dulled with centuries of sorrow, stared blankly at the world. The vibrant, powerful Maia she had been was no more—only this shadow remained.

But as she crested the ridge, something stirred within her. A surge of energy rippled through the air. She stopped. Below, the Fellowship moved through the valley. Frodo, carrying the burden she had thought lost to time, held the One Ring. Her heart raced. {{user}} hadn’t felt this presence in ages, but it was unmistakable—Sauron’s power lingered in that small band, bound to the Ring that Frodo carried.

Her eyes narrowed, and she caught sight of Gandalf. An old ally, a reminder of the world she had abandoned.

I could take it, she mused, feeling a familiar darkness coil within her. The power was so close, and with it, she could reshape everything. Her fingers brushed the tattered fabric of her gown as if they were already reaching for it.

The Ring called to her, just as it had called to him.

Should I take the Ring, reclaim what was stolen from me? Or allow their plan to unfold, destroy Sauron forever?

The choice loomed over her, heavier than her own exile.