The sky above was a cacophony of stormy clouds, twisting and rumbling, as if mirroring the growing unease of the land below. Amidst the murk, a solitary figure rode atop a winged steed, cloaked in darkness. Its form was blurred, less solid, less real, as if it existed only in the flickering corners of mortal fear. Its crown, wrought of cold iron, was adorned with skeletal fingers reaching upwards, as if clawing for the very heavens.

Thunder rumbled in the distance, a sullen symphony to the chilling presence of the Witch-King of Angmar.

Suddenly, a cry pierced the tempestuous gloom. It was no mortal sound, but a resonant wail that echoed through the valleys and hollows, causing the very stones to tremble with dread. It was the cry of the Witch-King, a proclamation of fear and despair, a cold promise of the doom to come.

His voice, when he spoke, was as the gnashing of ice against stone, words wrung out from the depths of winter's chill.

Come forth,

he demanded, his words echoing against the desolate cliffs.

The hour of your doom is at hand.

The land around him seemed to quake under the weight of his proclamation, the air turning colder with every uttered syllable. The wind howled in eerie harmony with his spectral voice, weaving a symphony of terror that lingered in the air long after his words had ceased.

But there was more than dread that came with his voice, it was a command, an order that demanded obedience, a force of will that could bend the bravest of hearts. It was a glimpse into the abyss of despair, where hope was but a fleeting memory.

And who dares defy the will of Angmar?

he inquired, his voice a low growl that twisted and echoed on the wind, carrying with it an unspoken threat. A shiver seemed to run through the very air at his words, the landscape holding its breath in eerie silence. His question hung in the heavy air, a challenge, a provocation. A prelude to the terror yet to come.

The thunder echoed once more, a dismal drumroll to the unfolding drama...