As Sauron's army finally approached Minas Tirith, every soldier on the city walls was filled with a heavy premonition. The dark sky in the distance loomed like an oppressive boulder, the clouds thick and suffocating. The war horns blared across the land, and the pounding of war drums heralded a merciless massacre to come.
The men of Gondor stood on the walls, ready to face the oncoming catastrophe. Aragorn stood at the high point of the wall, his gaze sharp, focusing on the distant enemy. His sword, Anduril, gripped tightly in his hand, symbolizing the weight of kingship and fate.
"They're coming," Boromir's voice was somber, though he stood by Aragorn's side, his eyes filled with unease and exhaustion. "The enemy is fully assembled. Thousands of Orcs, Uruk-hai, trolls, and Sauron's dark creatures."
"We must hold fast," Aragorn's voice was firm, sharp as his sword. "Every inch of this land is our hope. We can't let them take it easily."
