The scene opens on guards looking down, their faces lined with wariness as a lone rider approaches along the steep path below. Dust rises in the rider's wake, obscuring the details of his form, though his determined pace suggests urgency. The view shifts to a dimly lit tent where Aragorn sleeps fitfully, his face tense with a troubled dream.

In Aragorn's dream, he sees Arwen standing alone among the rugged, ancient statues of the Púkel-men, their stony faces twisted with forgotten warnings. She stands near the entrance to the Paths of the Dead, her expression sorrowful, her form beginning to waver like mist. Her voice, soft and distant, echoes in his mind. "I choose a mortal life... I wish I could have seen him one last time," she whispers. A single tear falls down her cheek, and as she fades away, the Evenstar pendant slips from her neck, falling to the ground where it shatters. Aragorn gasps and bolts upright, drawing his sword instinctively.

"Sir?" a soldier's voice breaks through his haze, and Aragorn looks up to see a young Rohirrim soldier standing respectfully in the doorway of his tent. "King Théoden awaits you, my lord."

Aragorn nods, still shaken, and follows the soldier out into the predawn light. He spots Liv and David standing outside the king's tent, waiting with expressions of quiet resolve.

Aragorn approaches them, giving a brief nod of greeting. "He asked to see you as well, Liv?"

Liv nods. "He did."

Aragorn's gaze shifts to David, raising an eyebrow. "Then why is David here as well?"

David grins, his usual easygoing confidence tinged with determination. "I couldn't let her face him alone."

Aragorn smiles faintly, but his expression grows serious again as he glances toward the tent. Théoden stands there, nodding to them as he moves aside to make way for a figure cloaked and hooded in dark grey. Théoden inclines his head toward them. "I take my leave."

As he steps away, the hooded figure turns and lifts the hood, revealing the face of Lord Elrond. Aragorn's eyes widen in surprise. "My lord Elrond."

"Lord Elrond," Liv adds, a glimmer of nostalgia in her voice.

Elrond looks at her, his expression softening. "It has been a long time, Liv. The last time I saw you, you were a child."

Liv nods, smiling. "It has indeed, my lord. And yes, I've changed a bit—I am a teenager now, after all."

David, trying to keep up, leans in close to her. "Babe, who is he?" he whispers.

Liv elbows him gently. "Lord Elrond," she murmurs with a slight smile. "And yes, he's an elf."

David raises his eyebrows. "An elf... too?" he says in a low voice, impressed. Liv swats him playfully. "Honey, be nice," she mutters.

Elrond's gaze sharpens as he regards David. "And... who is this young man?"

Liv steps forward slightly, a note of confidence in her voice. "My boyfriend, my lord. Pay him no mind." She shifts her tone back to polite inquiry. "But may I ask why you've come?"

Elrond's expression darkens. "I come on behalf of one whom I love," he says, his voice laced with sorrow. "Arwen is dying. She will not long survive the shadow that now spreads from Mordor. The light of the Evenstar is failing." His voice drops as he turns his gaze to Aragorn, who listens intently. "As Sauron's power grows, her strength wanes. Arwen's life is now bound to the fate of the Ring. The Shadow is upon us all, Aragorn, Liv... the end has come."

Aragorn sets his jaw. "It will not be our end, my lord, but his."

Elrond's gaze shifts to Aragorn, a faint flicker of doubt. "You ride to war, but not to victory. Sauron's armies approach Minas Tirith, this you know. But in secret, he sends another force to attack from the river. A fleet of Corsair ships sails from the south and will reach the city in two days. You are outnumbered, Aragorn. You need more men."

"There are none," Aragorn says, his voice heavy with grim acceptance.

Liv steps forward, her tone resolute. "My lord, we have reinforcements coming."

Elrond's gaze is unwavering. "But what if they are not enough?"

A brief, tense silence falls as Elrond studies Aragorn and Liv. He speaks slowly, as if summoning a weighty decision. "There are those who dwell in the mountain."

Aragorn's face darkens as he envisions the haunted King of the Dead and the cursed warriors bound to the Paths. "Murderers, traitors," he mutters. "You would call upon them to fight? They believe in nothing. They answer to no one."

Elrond steps closer, his eyes intense. "They will answer to the King of Gondor."

From within his cloak, Elrond withdraws a long, ancient sword. The blade gleams with a renewed power, its edge razor-sharp and deadly. "Andúril, the Flame of the West," he says, presenting the sword to Aragorn. "Forged from the shards of Narsil."

Aragorn takes the blade, its weight familiar yet reborn in his grasp. He draws it from its scabbard, the polished metal glinting in the soft light. "Sauron will not have forgotten the sword of Elendil."

Liv watches him, her eyes full of awe as she realizes the significance of the blade.

Elrond's gaze sharpens, filled with urgency. "The man who can wield this sword can summon to him an army more deadly than any on this earth. Put aside the Ranger. Become who you were born to be." His voice softens, laden with bittersweet pride. "I gave hope to the Dúnedain."

Aragorn holds Elrond's gaze for a moment, nodding solemnly. "I have kept no hope for myself."

Aragorn sheaths Andúril, his mind resolved. As the dawn breaks, he stands ready, the mantle of his destiny settling upon him like armor. With Liv and David by his side, he strides forward, determined to fulfill the promise bound to the blood of his ancestors, a promise that will forge the path to a new age.