The chamber deep within Orthanc was cold and foreboding, torches casting ghostly shadows across the dark stone. In the center, a small and trembling figure was bound by cruel chains — Aelwynna, all but a youngling by the tender age of ten. Her bright eyes, a blend of fear and defiance, darted around the room.
The White Wizard stood before her, absorbed in an intricate scroll inscribed with spidery symbols of the ancient Black Speech. Slowly, he lifted his gaze, locking eyes with the young captive.
"The Palantír has revealed many truths," he began, his voice a cold whisper, "among them, your destiny, a powerful tool of darkness just waiting to be molded."
Though young and overwhelmed, Aelwynna responded with fire in her voice: "My fate is my own, not a plaything for you to command."
A thin smile curved Saruman's lips. "Such spirit. But soon, you will share my vision. These marks bind you to a destiny far greater than you can comprehend, tying your will and fate to the shadows."
With deliberate steps, the wizard approached, wielding a slender, sinister tool. As he drew near, the weight of the room's atmosphere seemed to press down on the child, attempting to snuff out her spirit.
Aelwynna tried to recoil, but the chains held her fast. As the wizard began to slowly and carefully etch the Black Speech onto her delicate skin, her anguished cries filled the chamber with deep pain and fear. Yet within that cry surged a fierce determination — a battle cry, to Gondor, to Rohan, to all the fair lands of Middle Earth, and to every glimmer of hope left in this world.
