On the outer wall battlements of Minas Tirith, a sea breeze thick with salty, briny air whipped the torches into a frenzy.
Thomas, a rookie who'd only joined up six months ago, leaned against the rough stonework of the crenels, struggling to light a shoddily rolled tobacco leaf.
It took three strikes of his flint to produce a spark, and he quickly leaned in.
The tobacco had just caught, but before he could even exhale a ring of smoke, he felt a strange tremor through the stone floor beneath his feet.
It wasn't the familiar rhythm of waves crashing against the fortress.
It was a deeper, more regular pulsation.
THUD...
The ring of smoke at his lips trembled and dispersed.
THUD...
The sound seemed to rise from the very heart of the earth, conducting up through the stone walls and into the soles of his feet.
The veteran beside him spat out the grass stalk he was chewing on and pressed his ear to the wall. The scar on his face twitched.
