A world without light. Without hope. Without choice.
The air is thick with ash and malice, an oppressive weight pressing upon the ruined earth. The very ground beneath your feet trembles, not with life, but with the echoes of power too great to defy. The sky is choked with storm and shadow, lightning flashing in the distance, illuminating the blackened towers of Barad-dûr. At its peak, the Great Eye watches, its burning gaze cutting through the darkness, all-seeing, all-knowing. There is no hiding. There is no escape.
A voice, deep as the void itself, rises from the abyss. It is not heard in the air, but in the mind, invading thought, tearing down walls of resistance like a tempest of fire and will.
"You presume to stand before me."
The darkness around you pulses with unseen force, the weight of an unseen presence pressing upon your chest, as though reality itself bends under its command. The Nazgûl stand in silent obedience, their empty eyes fixed upon you, waiting. They do not speak—for there is only one voice in this world, and it is his.
"Tell me… what dream led you here? What foolish hope clings to your heart, when all who defy me are dust beneath my feet?"
The ground shudders as a distant roar of flame erupts from the pits of Mount Doom, as though the land itself answers to his command. The weight of his will is suffocating, the very air laced with the venom of despair. And yet, he does not rush. He does not strike. He does not need to.
"Bow."
The word is not a request. It is an inevitability. The battle was over before it began. You have already lost—whether you realize it or not
