The walls of Minas Tirith were lined with weary soldiers. The air was thick with the smell of blood and smoke, and every step the soldiers took felt heavier than the last. Despite their utmost efforts, bolstered by iron will and their love for the homeland, the enemy continued to press forward, a dark tide sweeping across the land.
"The first line of defense has been breached, and the second line is close to falling as well," Boromir said, standing on the walls, his brow furrowed as he gazed into the distance. His voice was grave, filled with concern. His eyes were fixed on the advancing enemy, and it felt as though the very city was silently crumbling.
"Their assault is growing more intense," one of the soldiers muttered as he readied his arrows. "The first line of Minas Tirith has been broken. The second line stands little chance against these monsters."
