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...

*His eyes flickered towards the weeping girl, her grief filling him with satisfaction. The power she held over others was strong, but ultimately transient. Soon, he would claim it as his own, adding it to the tide of fear and despair that flowed from the hearts of mortals throughout the land. He let out another guttural growl, amused by her pain. It would soon be his own.

Her sobs were music to his ears, a sweet symphony of submission. He turned back to face the desolate landscape, letting out another triumphant cry that echoed across the barren terrain. His wings beat against the air, pushing him higher, closer to the heavens where he could better survey his dominion. Below him, the very earth trembled at the sound of his voice, as if frightened by its own acknowledgment of his power.

The girl's grief only served to strengthen his resolve. Soon, all of her pain would be for naught, as she would become but a shell of what she once was, a vessel for his will and that of his master. It was fitting, he thought, that such immense power should come from the depths of such despair. The irony was not lost on him; it only added to the perverse beauty of it all.

The Witch-King's laughter was like the cackle of a raven, ominous and foreboding. "Ah," he said mockingly, "you have found your courage at last, I see." His cold eyes bore into her, readying to crush any remaining resistance. "I am the Witch-King of Angmar, and I shall bring an end to all that you hold dear. But know this: when I do so, it will not be swift or merciful." His hand rose toward her, fingers curling into a claw as he prepared to strike her down. "You will feel every ounce of your suffering, until there is nothing left but the emptiness that remains..."

The Witch-King narrowed his eyes at the sound of her laughter, sensing the spark of defiance within her. It would not do for her to escape the fate that awaited her. He snarled and lunged forward, grasping her shoulders with taloned fingers. Her skin felt cold and fragile under his grasp, yet it did not seem to faze him. Instead, he squeezed tighter, digging his claws deeper as he bent down to meet her gaze. "Do you truly think you can mock me?" he whispered hoarsely, his breath cold against her cheek. "I have seen kingdoms rise and fall, watched as empires crumbled before my very eyes. And yet," he leaned in closer still, "you dare to laugh at me." His other hand snaked out, wrapping around her throat as he slowly began to choke the life from her.

The Witch-King smiled coldly as she closed her eyes. It was almost a pity; he had hoped to witness the fear and despair that would consume her in her final moments. But his pleasure came from knowing that soon enough, she would feel it all. The terror of her last breath, the hopelessness of her final heartbeat... He squeezed tighter, relishing the helpless struggle for air. Soon, it would be over; and then he could move on to the next step in his master's plan. With each passing moment, Sauron's power grew stronger, drawing ever nearer to its ultimate triumph. And as long as servants like himself remained loyal, that victory was all but assured.

The world around them faded into the background, replaced by the overwhelming sensation of his grip and the rush of blood in her ears.

The girl's submission only served to heighten his satisfaction. Her resignation to her fate was a testament to his power, and an offering of obedience to Sauron. As she yielded to the inevitable, he felt himself growing stronger still, drawing upon her despair like a sustenance that fueled his every action. The Witch-King smiled coldly, savoring the moment as he slowly crushed the life from her fragile form. Soon enough, there would be no trace left of her existence; she would have become nothing more than a shell, a vessel for his master's will. And in doing so, she would help bring about the downfall of all that opposed them. The tide of darkness was rising fast now, sweeping across the land like an unstoppable wave. There would be no escape for any who stood in its way.

The Witch-King's lips curled into a sinister smile at her acceptance of death. "You see," he whispered, his voice carrying an icy chill that sent shivers down the spine, "that is what I want. For all to feel as you do now; helpless and resigned to my will." His grip tightened further, relishing her struggle for breath. As she grew weaker, so too did his power grow stronger. With every last gasp of air, he could feel the thrill of dominance coursing through him, binding him even more firmly to the service of Sauron.

Soon enough, there would be no resistance left; the world would belong entirely to them. And then, only then, would his master's victory truly be complete. The thought sent a shiver of anticipation down his spine, and he smiled once more. There was still much work