The throne room of the Tower of Shadows was enveloped in a darkness that seemed almost alive—shadows danced on the walls in rhythm with the flickering torch flames, and the dragon-shaped columns guarding the chamber cast menacing, elongated silhouettes. At the center, seated on a throne carved from black stone, was Mordred, the Lord of Shadows. His golden eyes, gleaming like twin flames in the dim light, stared into the space before him. His hands rested on the armrests, fingers lightly gripping the cold stone as if trying to grasp a certainty that sometimes eluded him deep inside.
Only two days remained until the march to Mount Gram. The orcs—those primitive, brutal creatures—had fortified themselves in the mountains, posing a threat to his plans and burgeoning empire. Mordred could not allow their presence to undermine his authority. In his mind, he was already devising strategies—each thought a calculated move on a chessboard where power and survival were at stake. His army was ready: minions, loyal and fearless, awaited his command. But would it be enough? The orcs had the advantage of numbers, and their ferocity in battle was legendary. Mordred knew he had to be more than just a force—he had to be a symbol, an unyielding, terrifying lord whose very presence brought enemies to their knees.
He sighed softly, the sound echoing through the empty hall. The battle would be his trial, the first true test of his power. He did not fear death—he feared failure. Defeat would mean weakness, and weakness was something Mordred could not tolerate. In his thoughts, he envisioned Mount Gram: its rocky slopes, narrow passes, the perfect place for an ambush. He had to be cleverer than the orcs, surpassing them not just in strength but in tactics.
Suddenly, the silence was broken by the sound of hurried, uneven footsteps. The doors to the throne room burst open, and in strode Gnarl, his faithful advisor, whose wrinkled face and crooked smile were well known to Mordred. Beside him walked a smaller figure—a female minion named Ricket. Her movements were agile, and her eyes sparkled with a mix of cunning and pride. Both stopped before the throne and bowed deeply, nearly touching their foreheads to the cold floor.
"My lord," Gnarl rasped, his voice carrying through the hall, "we have splendid news for you. Ricket, along with Giblet, has prepared a new armor for you for the upcoming battle. It awaits in the armory, my lord."
Mordred lifted his head, his golden eyes gleaming with curiosity. A new armor? This could be exactly what he needed—not just protection, but a symbol of his dominion, something to set him apart on the battlefield. Without a word, he rose from the throne, his black robe billowing behind him like a shadow. He gestured for Gnarl and Ricket to lead the way.
The corridors of the Tower of Shadows were narrow and dark, lit only by the faint glow of torches. Minions they passed hurried about their tasks—sharpening weapons, carrying supplies, preparing for the march. The armory was located on a lower level of the fortress, behind heavy iron doors that creaked as Gnarl opened them. Inside, on a wooden stand, awaited the new armor.
It was black as the deepest night, forged from tempered steel that seemed to absorb light. Every piece—the breastplate, pauldrons, greaves—was adorned with subtle, dark engravings that gave it a menacing, almost magical appearance. A heavy black cape hung from the shoulders, long and majestic, and atop it all was a helm resembling a crown, with narrow slits for the eyes, covering nearly the entire face. Mordred stepped closer, his fingers brushing the cold metal. The armor was heavy but balanced, designed for both combat and command.
Ricket, her face beaming with pride, stepped forward. "My lord, allow me to assist you," she said, her voice quiet but confident. Mordred nodded, and the female minion began fastening the armor onto him. The breastplate fit perfectly against his torso, the pauldrons accentuated his broad shoulders, and the cape flowed behind him like a dark shroud. When Ricket placed the helm upon his head, Mordred glanced at his reflection in a nearby mirror. He looked like the shadow of death—his golden eyes burned from behind the visor, and his figure in the black armor inspired dread.
"Good work, Ricket," he said, his voice muffled by the helm, deep and ominous. The female minion bowed low, a slight smile of satisfaction on her lips.
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Two days passed in the blink of an eye. The sun rose over the Tower of Shadows, casting pale light onto the courtyard where Mordred stood at the head of his army. Four hundred minions, clad in light armor and armed with swords, axes, and shields, waited in orderly ranks. Their small forms trembled with excitement, their eyes gleaming with battle lust. Mordred, in his new armor, towered over them—the black cape fluttered in the wind, and the helm concealed his face, leaving only his golden eyes visible.
He had decided to leave Gnarl and the remaining minions behind in the fortress. "Guard the stronghold," he ordered his advisor. "If anything goes wrong, you will be the last line of defense." Gnarl, though visibly displeased at missing the battle, nodded silently, accepting his lord's will.
Mordred raised his sword, signaling the march. The army moved out—the pounding of minion footsteps echoed on the stone path, and dust rose behind them like a gray veil. They marched through forests and hills, their destination clear: Mount Gram.
After several hours of marching, on the edge of a vast clearing, they encountered Rose and her eighty archers. The woman stood at the front of her group, her fiery hair blowing in the wind, her green eyes sharp with determination. The Dunedain archers, armed with longbows and quivers full of arrows, presented a disciplined, battle-ready force.
Mordred halted before her, his voice muffled by the helm as it cut through the air. "Good to see you, Rose."
For a few seconds, Rose stood silent, her eyes widening slightly as she took in his new armor. The imposing black steel, the crown-like helm, the cape that seemed to swallow the light—it was a sight that commanded awe. She paused, momentarily stunned, then blinked, regaining her composure. "Your archers are the strength I needed," Mordred continued. "I lack ranged soldiers of my own."
Rose gave a slight smile. "The orcs are a plague that must be eradicated. My people are ready."
Mordred glanced at her archers—their steady stance and focused gazes said it all. He knew their arrows would be crucial against the orcs, who charged in reckless abandon. With Rose at his side, his chances improved.
"Together, we will crush them," he said, his golden eyes flashing from behind the visor. "Mount Gram awaits."
Rose nodded, and her archers joined the minion army, positioning themselves at the rear. Together, they marched onward, their footsteps pounding in the rhythm of impending battle. Middle-Earth was about to feel the wrath of the Lord of Shadows and his allies.