In Gondor, a vast army of Mordor surged out from the Chiris-Ugó Pass in the Shadow Mountains.
The host was composed of orcs and massive orōgs, trolls bred to endure sunlight without fear.
Half of this army was dispatched toward the ancient city of Osgiliath, preparing to seize the great fortress that spanned the Anduin River and controlled its crossings.
The remaining half bypassed Osgiliath entirely.
They forced a direct crossing of the Anduin and advanced straight toward Gondor's capital, Minas Tirith.
Among Mordor's forces were monstrous wyverns bred by Saruman, ground-bound dragons that could neither fly nor breathe fire, yet whose sheer bulk made them nearly unstoppable on the battlefield.
They charged like living siege engines.
These wyverns, corrupted by Sauron's power and fed on filth and carrion, housed malevolent spirits within their bodies, transforming them into truly demonic beasts.
When they reached the Anduin, the dragons waded into the river.
Their immense bodies formed living bridges, allowing the Mordor army to cross atop their backs.
Thus, the great river, long Gondor's strongest natural defense, was rendered meaningless.
Once across, the Mordor host marched relentlessly toward Minas Tirith.
Within the White City, Regent Denethor II had already foreseen the invasion through the Palantír.
He ordered the beacon fires lit, calling upon Rohan for aid.
At the same time, he mobilized every available force, drawing Gondor's armies back toward the capital in preparation for a final stand.
Yet even as Mordor advanced from the east, a second calamity struck from the south.
Tens of thousands of Haradrim poured into Gondor, led by terrifying mammoth cavalry.
These colossal beasts bore siege towers upon their backs and dragged massive war engines behind them.
Their thick hides deflected arrows and blades alike.
Their tusks, fitted with iron spikes, could tear through entire ranks of soldiers in a single sweep, true living war machines.
Beset from two directions, Gondor was pushed to the brink.
Denethor remained in Minas Tirith, constantly observing the unfolding war through the Palantír.
Using enchanted two-way mirrors, he issued orders across great distances, directing troop movements and responding as swiftly as possible.
Yet he knew the truth.
Gondor's strength could not match Mordor's.
With his forces scattered, defeat in detail was inevitable.
Reluctantly, Denethor ordered his son Faramir, stationed at Osgiliath, to withdraw.
The army was to abandon the city and fall back to Minas Tirith.
Other Gondorian forces received the same command, retreating with all haste to defend the capital.
As a result, the armies of Mordor and the Haradrim encountered little resistance.
They merged into a single, overwhelming tide and advanced inexorably toward Minas Tirith.
The only small comfort Denethor found was news from the south.
The Umbal pirates, long the greatest threat to Gondor's navy, had failed to escape destruction after sailing north to attack the Grey Havens.
Even so, this offered little relief.
Nearly half a million enemies now marched against Gondor, and the presence of the demonic dragons only deepened Denethor's despair.
His greatest solace lay in one thing alone.
His beloved eldest son, Boromir, was not in Gondor.
Boromir had joined the Fellowship of the Ring and was far from the coming slaughter.
Even Faramir, the son Denethor held at arm's length, had survived.
Thanks to the magic he had learned at Hogwarts, Faramir successfully broke through Mordor's encirclement and returned safely to Minas Tirith.
The existence of his two sons kept Denethor II from completely collapsing into despair.
Even so, he had already resolved that if Minas Tirith were to fall, he would fight to the death alongside his soldiers against the armies of Mordor.
What gave him a sliver of hope was something few outside Gondor knew.
Over the past few decades, nearly a hundred Dúnedain, among them both Boromir and Faramir, had received acceptance letters from Hogwarts and completed the full seven-year course of magical study.
These Dúnedain mages had since formed a special wizarding commando unit, led by Faramir himself, tasked with defending Gondor's capital.
Though they could not compare to the Aurors of the Ministry of Magic, they were still vastly superior to ordinary soldiers.
On the Pelennor Fields outside Minas Tirith, the armies of Gondor clashed head-on with the forces of Mordor and the Haradrim.
Faramir's wizarding unit used Apparition to blink across the battlefield, striking where the enemy least expected.
Their primary targets were the dozen or so demonic dragons and the Haradrim mammoths.
Faramir personally struck one of the dragons in the eye with an Eye-Burning Charm.
Blinded and maddened by pain, the beast went berserk, trampling and crushing Mordor's own troops.
The other wizards followed suit.
They knew better than to try killing such creatures outright, their hides were thick, their bodies resistant to magic.
But they remembered their Hogwarts lessons well.
In Defense Against the Dark Arts, their professors had emphasized one truth: even the mightiest magical beasts had weaknesses, and the eyes were always among the most vulnerable.
That knowledge now paid off.
Dragon after dragon was blinded.
Mammoths lost control and rampaged wildly, crushing friend and foe alike.
For a brief moment, chaos spread through Mordor's ranks.
Seizing the opportunity, the Gondorian army launched a charge.
Then the Ringwraiths appeared.
Riding upon corrupted flying beasts, wielding dark magic and terrible weapons, they descended upon the battlefield like incarnations of despair.
Their shrieks pierced the air.
A suffocating pressure rolled across the field, crushing courage and shattering morale.
The Gondorian soldiers, who moments ago had been filled with hope, froze in terror.
Many dropped their weapons.
Some fled outright.
Even the Dúnedain wizards were not spared.
Faramir felt his limbs grow heavy, his mind clouded with fear.
Around him, his comrades trembled, their movements sluggish and uncoordinated.
The Ringwraiths showed no mercy.
Their mounts swooped down.
Massive claws snatched two wizards who stood frozen in terror, lifting them screaming into the air before the beasts swallowed them whole.
The sight was devastating.
Faramir and the remaining wizards clenched their teeth, forcing themselves to suppress their terror, and unleashed spell after spell at the Ringwraiths.
But it was useless.
Their magic passed through the wraiths without effect, as if striking shadows.
Instead, the Ringwraiths charged once more atop their fallen beasts.
They were far stronger than before.
Their dark aura had deepened, becoming more oppressive, like a sudden, unnatural winter sweeping across the battlefield. Wherever they passed, courage froze and hope withered.
Before them, resistance itself seemed meaningless.
Suppressing his instinctive terror, Faramir raised his wand and summoned a guardian spirit.
Silver-white light surged forth, taking the form of a massive bull. Its body radiated calm and resolve, and as it appeared, the crushing fear surrounding the Dúnedain eased slightly, allowing them to breathe again.
The guardian lowered its head, its enormous horns gleaming, and charged straight toward the Ringwraiths.
One of the Ringwraiths let out a cold, contemptuous snort. The red glow within its form flared violently.
Repulsed by the presence of light and hope, the surrounding black mist surged and twisted, condensing into a razor-sharp arrow imbued with curse, malice, and pure darkness.
The arrow screamed through the air and struck the guardian spirit.
The bull let out a silent cry.
Its holy, silver-white body blackened as the darkness spread, corroding it from within. Moments later, the guardian shattered, dissolving into countless fading motes of light.
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