In the northern realm of Arnor, where the maple banners yet fly free, a shadow loomed from the south. Krasnov the Cunning, a creature twisted by power and desire, whispered of unity—but his was a unity of chains. “Join us,” he hissed, eyes glinting like tarnished gold. “Become the Fifty-First Hold of my dominion.” But the Free Peoples of the North heard the echo of his words, and in them, they found only the voice of the One Ring, calling for subjugation.

Yet, the realm was not without champions. Strider of the North, a ranger long wandering the halls of gold and commerce, strode forth, now bearing the mantle of leadership. He spoke of sovereignty and steel, of a kingdom that would not bow. By his side stood Boromir of the West, a warrior of the old guard, whose sword-arm was strong but whose heart at times wavered, torn between the power promised by the south and the duty he bore to his homeland.

The battle was not yet upon them, but the winds carried tidings of what was to come. Would the Free Peoples stand firm against the creeping grasp of Krasnov? Or would whispers of power divide them, leaving the land ripe for the taking? The road ahead was perilous, but one truth remained: the North would not fall without a fight.