Several months had passed since the completion of the Tower of Shadows, and in that time, Mordred, the Lord of Shadows, had not rested. The desolate ruins that once stood as a testament to forgotten glory had been transformed into a thriving fortress—a symbol of his burgeoning power. He had spent countless days hunting the wilds of Arnor, stalking creatures both mundane and monstrous: wolves, boars, and even fiercer beasts like wargs and mountain trolls. Each kill fed the pulsing energy of his dark magic, allowing him to summon hundreds of new minions through the Tower's Heart. His army now numbered over five hundred loyal creatures, ready to carry out his every command.
At the heart of the fortress, the forge burned without pause. Day and night, the air reverberated with the relentless clang of hammers on anvils, punctuated by the hiss of molten metal plunged into cold water. The atmosphere was thick with the acrid scent of charred coal and iron, and the glow of the furnaces cast flickering shadows across the stone walls. Minions, despite their small stature, worked with surprising dexterity, forging weapons and armor for the growing army. Swords with razor-sharp edges, axes capable of cleaving an orc's skull in a single blow, and shields emblazoned with the Lord of Shadows' sigil—a black flame on a blood-red field—piled up in neat stacks.
Every piece of equipment was meticulously crafted. The armor, though lightweight, was designed to protect the minions from enemy blows, while the weapons were forged to wreak havoc on the battlefield. Mordred, clad in his black armor, walked through the forge, his presence commanding silence from the laboring minions. Their sweat-streaked faces turned to him, their eyes reflecting both fear and reverence as they redoubled their efforts under his golden gaze. The forge was no longer just a workshop; it had become the beating heart of his war machine, pumping strength into his forces.
From the forge, Mordred made his way to the arena, where the sounds of combat grew louder with each step. The sand beneath the minions' feet was packed tight, scarred by countless bouts. The chaotic skirmishes that once defined their fighting style had given way to disciplined precision. Under the stern oversight of Gash, the Dungeon Overseer, the minions trained in formations, working in pairs or small groups to practice swift strikes, dodges, and counterattacks. Their movements were synchronized, their actions honed to break enemy lines and fight as a cohesive unit.
Mordred paused at the edge of the arena, observing their progress. One minion, armed with a short sword and shield, sparred with another wielding an axe. Their strikes were quick and calculated, the clash of metal ringing through the air like a prelude to war. The Lord of Shadows nodded in approval. His army, though composed of small and seemingly frail creatures, was becoming a force to be reckoned with. He knew that victory would hinge not just on numbers but on strategy—and he intended to perfect both.
Leaving the arena, Mordred inspected the outer walls of the fortress, where Gnarl oversaw the construction of fortifications. The old minion, hunched yet brimming with vigor, barked orders at his underlings, his gnarled staff tapping rhythmically against the ground. Minions swarmed the site, digging deep trenches, erecting spiked palisades, and reinforcing gates with massive beams. On Mordred's orders, the fortress was to be capable of withstanding any attacking army—a precaution against the uncertainties of war.
Mordred approached, and Gnarl, noticing him, bowed low, his sharp teeth glinting in a deferential smile.
"My lord, the fortifications rise as planned," Gnarl reported, gesturing to the newly strengthened walls. "Trenches are deep, traps are set, and the gates will hold against any battering ram. This stronghold will be impregnable."
"See that it is," Mordred replied, his voice calm but unyielding. "We don't know what the future holds. I will not tolerate any weaknesses."
Gnarl's eyes gleamed with malicious delight. "Fear not, my lord. Should they dare approach, these walls will be their tomb."
Mordred said nothing, his gaze drifting to the horizon. The fortifications were a safeguard, but the true battle awaited beyond the walls—in Mount Gram, where the orcs had dared to challenge him.
Returning to the tower, Mordred ascended the winding stairs to the throne room. The chamber was a monument to his ambition: the black marble floor gleamed under torchlight, and dragon-shaped columns stood as silent sentinels. The throne, carved from dark stone and adorned with the skulls of vanquished foes, dominated the room. Mordred took his seat, clad in his armor. His golden eyes stared into the distance, his mind turning over the challenges ahead.
With a gesture, he summoned a minion-messenger. The small creature scurried forward, bowing so low its nose nearly brushed the floor.
"Take this parchment," Mordred commanded, handing over a sealed letter. "Deliver it to Rosa and her Dunedain clan. Tell them that in a few weeks, we march on Mount Gram with my army to destroy the orcs that have settled there. If they wish, they may join us."
The minion nodded eagerly, clutching the parchment, and darted off into the shadowed corridors. Mordred leaned back in his throne, his fingers tapping the armrest. An alliance with the Dunedain could prove valuable, but he would not rely on it. His army was his strength, and he was its soul.
Moments later, Gnarl entered the throne room, his staff clacking against the floor. The old minion approached the throne, his eyes alight with anticipation.
"My lord, the time is near," Gnarl said, rubbing his hands together. "Soon, those filthy orcs will be slaughtered to the last. Nothing will remain but their bones, scattered across Mount Gram. Their pathetic stronghold will crumble to dust."
Mordred met his gaze, his expression impassive, though a spark of interest flickered in his eyes. "Do not underestimate them, Gnarl," he warned. "Orcs are brutal and relentless. They may lack finesse, but they make up for it with strength and numbers."
Gnarl let out a rasping chuckle, like the rustle of dead leaves. "Oh, my lord, with your minions and my strategies, they stand no chance. In a few weeks, their blood will stain the earth, and their screams will be music to our ears."
Mordred nodded, his hand tightening on the throne's armrest. "Ensure every minion knows their place in the formation. There will be no room for error. Mount Gram will fall, and the orcs will perish—but only if every detail is flawless."
Gnarl bowed again, his grin widening. "It will be done, my lord. Middle-Earth will soon tremble at your name."
Mordred remained on his throne, staring into the distance. The fortress was ready, the army armed, and the fortifications complete. The message to Rosa had been sent, and Gnarl was finalizing the plans. The time had come to march on Mount Gram and crush the orcs.