Aragorn, torch in hand, leads Legolas, Gimli, Liv, and David deeper into the haunted depths of the Paths of the Dead. Shadows loom high over their heads, and the oppressive silence is broken only by the crunching sound of scattered skulls beneath their boots. The flickering torchlight reveals grim human skulls and broken bones littering the floor, ancient remains of those who had wandered here before them.

Aragorn moves forward, his face set in determination, but Legolas lingers, his sharp eyes searching the shadows.

Gimli notices his friend's distraction and grunts. "What is it? What do you see?" he asks, his voice edged with wary curiosity.

Legolas' gaze is distant, as though seeing beyond what lies in the present. "I see shapes of men and horses," he says quietly, his words filled with foreboding.

"Where?" asks Gimli, glancing around nervously, seeing nothing but dark shadows shifting in the torchlight.

"Pale banners drift like shreds of cloud. Spears rise like winter thickets through a shroud of mist." Legolas' voice drops to a whisper. "The dead are following. They have been summoned."

Liv steps closer, her face pale in the torchlight. "Legolas, are you trying to scare us?" she asks, half-jokingly, but her voice betrays a hint of unease.

As they talk, Gimli's eyes dart to the darkness behind them. The idea of the dead actually following sends a shiver down his spine. "The dead? Summoned? I knew that," he mumbles to himself, faking bravado. "Very good. Very good." But he realizes he's fallen behind and is now alone in the shadows. "Legolas!" he shouts, scurrying forward to rejoin the others.

Just as he catches up, ghostly, writhing hands reach out from the walls and floor, transparent but menacing, brushing across Legolas, Aragorn, and the others. Liv and David freeze as the spectral hands seem to curl around them, pulling at them with cold, unseen force. Gimli, panicking, tries to blow the ghostly shapes away, waving his hands to waft the eerie mist that clings to him.

Aragorn's voice, calm but firm, cuts through the eerie silence. "Do not look down," he warns, his eyes fixed forward.

Gimli pauses, instinctively following Aragorn's advice for a moment—then he can't resist and glances downward. Human skulls stare back up at him, hollow eyes gleaming in the torchlight. He steps gingerly, but with a sickening crunch, his foot lands on a skull, breaking it underfoot. He winces, but forces himself forward.

The group moves quickly, emerging from a tight passageway into an open space—a vast, haunting chamber. In its center stands an ancient stone building, shrouded in an ethereal mist. Aragorn lifts the torch high, casting its light around.

The silence is broken by a low, chilling voice that echoes through the chamber, seeming to come from all around them. "Who enters my domain?"

Aragorn turns, torch raised. Standing at the top of a crumbling staircase is a figure clad in ancient armor, his skeletal face hidden beneath a ghostly crown—the King of the Dead.

"One who would have your allegiance," Aragorn replies, his voice unyielding.

The King of the Dead's hollow eyes narrow. "The dead do not suffer the living to pass."

"You will suffer me," Aragorn responds with a steely calm.

The King of the Dead lets out a hollow, mocking laugh that reverberates through the chamber, echoing off invisible walls. As he laughs, mist pulls away to reveal a crumbling city of the dead all around them. Ancient soldiers emerge from the shadows, a spectral army surrounding them on all sides, ghostly weapons in hand. They begin a low chant, their voices a hollow reminder of an oath unfulfilled.

"The way is shut. It was made by those who are dead. And the dead keep it," intones the King of the Dead. "The way is shut. Now you must die."

Legolas, calm and calculating, quickly raises his bow and fires an arrow straight at the King of the Dead. The arrow passes through the ghostly figure, clattering harmlessly to the stone floor. Liv stares at him in disbelief. "Did you seriously just shoot a ghost?"

Aragorn steps forward, undeterred. "I summon you to fulfill your oath," he declares, his voice ringing out with royal authority.

"None but the King of Gondor may command me," the King of the Dead snarls, advancing with his sword raised.

Aragorn meets his charge, raising Andúril, the newly reforged sword of kings. Their weapons clash, the gleaming steel of Andúril miraculously blocking the ghostly blade. The King of the Dead steps back, his expression one of disbelief.

"That blade was broken," he whispers, eyeing the sword in Aragorn's hand.

"It has been remade," Aragorn replies, his voice fierce. He grabs the King by the throat, asserting his power. The army of the dead falls silent, their ghostly eyes fixed on Aragorn.

"Fight for us, and regain your honor," Aragorn commands. "What say you?"

Gimli scoffs, folding his arms. "Ach! You waste your time, Aragorn. They had no honor in life and they have none now in death."

Aragorn's gaze doesn't waver. "I am Isildur's heir. Fight for me, and I will hold your oaths fulfilled," he says, addressing the King of the Dead and his army. The soldiers grow restless, and the King begins to laugh once more. Their spectral forms start to dissolve, fading back into the shadows.

"You have my word," Aragorn calls after them. "Fight, and I will release you from this living death. What say you?"

"Stand, you traitors!" shouts Gimli, but the dead army is already gone.

Suddenly, the walls of the great stone structure begin to rumble. Cracks spread across its surface, and, with a thunderous crash, thousands of skulls cascade down upon them like an unholy river.

"Out!" Aragorn shouts, leading them through the chaos.

The ground shifts beneath their feet as skulls pile up, making it harder to run. They stumble and scramble, climbing over the bones. Legolas pulls Liv up as she stumbles, while David grips Gimli's shoulder for balance. As the tide of skulls sweeps them towards the exit, Aragorn urges them forward.

"Legolas—run!" Aragorn calls, gripping the elf's arm as he too begins to slip. Together, they race toward the daylight, skulls pouring down behind them like a relentless wave.

Finally, they emerge from the cave, blinking in the harsh sunlight. They stand, panting, on the edge of a high cliff overlooking the River Anduin. Below them, ships move ominously up the river, smoke rising from a burning village in the distance. Aragorn sinks to his knees, despair tightening his face. He feels the weight of his mission pressing down on him, a bitter thought gnawing at his resolve: was he too late?

Legolas places a comforting hand on Aragorn's shoulder, and Liv and David stand silently beside him, their expressions solemn. The silence hangs heavy—until a sound comes from behind them. They turn to see the King of the Dead emerging from the rocks, his spectral form now steadier, more resolute.

"We fight," says the King of the Dead, his voice no longer menacing, but filled with a long-awaited purpose.