As the tension in the hall escalated, Denethor's furious gaze landed on Faramir, his voice booming with unrestrained anger.

"This is how you would serve your city? You would risk its utter ruin?" Denethor snarled.

Faramir stood tall, though the weight of his father's disapproval was clear in his eyes. He did not waver, but his voice was quiet, measured. "I did what I judged to be right."

Denethor's face contorted with rage, his eyes flickering with something dark, something unbalanced. "What you judged to be right! You sent the Ring of power into Mordor in the hands of a witless Halfling! It should have been brought back to the citadel to be kept safe, hidden. Dark and deep in the vaults… not to be used—" His voice dropped dangerously low. "—unless, at the uttermost end of need."

Alana stood off to the side, watching the exchange with a growing sense of discomfort. She knew the tension between Faramir and Denethor well enough, but seeing it so vividly now twisted her stomach in knots. She had always admired Faramir for his integrity, for his quiet strength. It was painful to watch his father berate him so harshly, but she kept her silence—for now.

Faramir's expression remained calm, though there was a tremor of sadness in his voice. "I would not use the Ring. Not if Minas Tirith were falling in ruin and I alone could save her."

Denethor sneered, his lips curling in disdain. "Ever you desire to appear lordly and gracious as a King of old. Boromir would have remembered his father's need. He would have brought me a kingly gift!"

Faramir's jaw tightened, and Alana could see the grief that flashed briefly across his face before he spoke. "Boromir would not have brought the Ring. He would have stretched out his hand to this thing, and taking it, he would have fallen."

Denethor's face twisted in fury, his voice rising to a shout as he staggered toward Faramir. "You know nothing of this matter!"

Faramir did not flinch. His next words cut through the air like a knife. "He would have kept it for his own. And when he returned, you would not have known your son."

Denethor's face went red with rage, his hands trembling as he pointed a finger at Faramir. "Boromir was loyal to me! Not some wizard's pupil!" He shouted, his voice filled with bitterness and grief. As if overwhelmed by the force of his own emotions, Denethor stumbled back, collapsing against the Steward's chair.

Faramir, though visibly pained by his father's words, gave her a subtle, grateful glance before turning back to Denethor. "Father?" he asked quietly, his tone softening as he saw the grief wash over Denethor's features.

For a moment, Denethor's rage seemed to abate. His face twisted in a mix of sorrow and desperation as he looked up at Faramir. "My son…" His voice cracked, and his eyes glazed over as if seeing someone else entirely.

Alana's breath caught as Denethor's gaze shifted past Faramir, his lips curling into a sad, broken smile. Faramir turned, confusion flickering across his face, but there was no one behind him. Boromir, Alana realized. Denethor was seeing Boromir in his mind, his grief too overwhelming to distinguish reality from memory. The moment of vulnerability was brief. Denethor's face contorted once again, and his smile vanished, replaced by a sneer of contempt.

Faramir, his expression clouded with hurt, straightened and turned to leave. As Denethor's sneer deepened, Alana's patience finally snapped. She had been holding back, trying to stay calm for Faramir's sake, but the way Denethor continued to belittle him, to undermine everything he had done, sent a surge of anger through her. Faramir had fought valiantly. He had risked his life in ways Denethor could never understand. And yet, here Denethor stood, blind to the truth.

Stepping forward, Alana's voice rang out with fierce conviction. "You speak of Boromir as if he would have saved us all with the Ring! But do you even know what that Ring did to him? How it twisted his mind?"

Denethor's head snapped up, eyes narrowing in furious disbelief as he glared at her. "How dare you—"

"How dare I?" Alana interrupted, her voice rising as her anger boiled over. "I dare because I was there! I saw what the Ring did to your son. The Boromir you speak of—the loyal son, the brave warrior—he wasn't the same by the time the Ring touched his mind! It was already turning him into something else!"

Denethor's face contorted with rage, his lips curling in disgust. "You know nothing!" he spat, pushing himself up from the Steward's chair, trembling with indignation. "Boromir would never have been corrupted! He would have brought the Ring to me, to Minas Tirith where it belonged!"

Alana's eyes flashed as she took a step closer to him, unafraid of his fury. "The Ring twisted his mind, Denethor! It preyed on his fear, on his desire to protect you, to be everything you wanted him to be. He thought he needed it to save Gondor, to save you—but in the end, it was destroying him. He tried to take it from Frodo! He nearly killed my cousin for it!"

Denethor's eyes widened in shock, but he quickly masked it with even greater anger. "Lies!" he hissed, his voice trembling with fury. "You speak ill of my son! You—useless as you are—dare to speak as if you knew him better than I did? As if you understand what he fought for?"

Alana's heart raced, but she stood her ground, her voice steady despite the storm of emotion. "I was there. I saw what it did to him. Boromir loved you, Denethor. He loved Gondor. But the Ring doesn't care about love. It devours everything in its path. It would have consumed him, just as it has consumed countless others. He was not immune to its power."

Denethor's face twisted in grief and rage, his eyes wild as he pointed a trembling finger at her. "Silence! You dare defile my son's memory—"

"Defile?" Alana's voice cracked with pain, but she pressed on. "You want to believe Boromir was invincible, that he could have saved Minas Tirith with the Ring, but that's not the truth. The truth is that the Ring would have destroyed him, and you wouldn't have recognized the man who returned to you. He would have become a shadow, just like those who served Sauron."

Denethor stumbled back, gripping the arm of the Steward's chair, his face pale with fury. "You are nothing," he hissed. "A useless, insolent girl who dares speak of things beyond her understanding. You think you know what is best for Gondor, but you are nothing—nothing but a fool who follows this wizard's whims."

Alana's eyes burned with unshed tears, but she didn't back down. "One person wasn't going to change the outcome, Denethor. Boromir's strength couldn't have stopped the darkness that was coming. And neither can you."

For a moment, Denethor said nothing, his chest heaving as he stared at her with pure hatred. The room seemed to pulse with the tension between them, and Alana could feel Faramir's silent presence behind her, his own heart aching at the truth of her words.

Then, Denethor's voice dropped to a venomous whisper. "Leave me," he spat, his voice full of disgust and grief. "You are as worthless as the rest. Get out of my sight."

Alana stared at him for a moment longer, her heart heavy with the weight of everything left unsaid. But she could see the futility in trying to reach him. He was lost in his grief, blinded by his pride, and nothing she said would break through the wall of denial he had built around himself.

She turned on her heel, her face set in quiet resolve as she walked away. Faramir gave her a brief, grateful nod as she passed, though the pain in his eyes told her how deeply his father's words had cut. As they left the hall together, Alana couldn't help but feel the bitter sting of defeat, not in the battle they had just fought—but in the war raging inside Denethor's heart. A war he seemed doomed to lose.

As Alana and Faramir exited the great hall, the heavy wooden doors closed behind them with a resounding thud. The corridor beyond was eerily quiet, the shadows dancing in the flickering torchlight. Alana paused, taking a deep breath to calm the storm of emotions raging inside her. Faramir stood beside her, his face drawn and weary.

"I'm sorry," Alana said softly, her voice echoing in the stillness. "I shouldn't have lost my temper like that. I just... I couldn't stand the way he was treating you."

Faramir shook his head, a sad smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. "No, Alana. You spoke the truth. Harsh as it was, my father needed to hear it." He sighed heavily, his shoulders sagging under the weight of his burdens. "I fear for him. His mind... it's not what it once was. Grief has twisted him, made him blind to reason."

Alana reached out, placing a comforting hand on Faramir's arm. "You're not alone in this, Faramir. We'll find a way to help him, to make him see sense." Her voice was firm, determined. "But right now, we have more pressing matters to attend to. Minas Tirith needs us. Your people need you."

Faramir nodded, straightening his posture as if drawing strength from her words. "You're right. We must focus on the defense of the city. The enemy will be upon us soon, and we must be ready."

They began walking down the corridor, their footsteps echoing off the stone walls. Alana's mind raced, already formulating plans and strategies. She knew the layout of the city like the back of her hand, every defensive position, every choke point. As a seasoned warrior, she understood the importance of preparation, of being ready for any eventuality.

"We should check the trebuchets first," she suggested, her voice taking on a businesslike tone. "Make sure they're in proper working order and fully stocked with ammunition. Then we'll need to inspect the walls, ensure there are no weaknesses the enemy could exploit."

Faramir nodded in agreement, his face set in grim determination. "I'll have the guards double their patrols and reinforce the gates. We must be vigilant. The enemy will seek any opportunity to breach our defenses."

As they walked, Alana couldn't help but feel a swell of pride and affection for the man beside her. Faramir was a true leader, brave and selfless, always putting the needs of his people before his own. Even in the face of his father's cruelty and the looming threat of war, he remained steadfast, a beacon of hope in the darkness.

"Faramir," she said softly, pausing in her stride. He stopped, turning to face her with a questioning look.

Alana met his gaze, her eyes filled with warmth and sincerity. "I just want you to know... I believe in you. No matter what your father says, no matter what challenges we face, I know you will lead us through this. You are a true Captain of Gondor, and there is no one I would rather follow into battle."

Faramir's expression softened, a flicker of surprise and gratitude passing across his face. He reached out, gently taking her hand in his. "Thank you, Alana. Your faith means more to me than you know. I am grateful to have you by my side, as a friend and as a fellow warrior."

A spark ignited inside Alana at the brush of his hand against hers, sending an electric shock through her body. The memory of their time in Rivendell flooded her mind, and she couldn't shake off the lingering feelings for him. The taste of his lips on hers, gentle yet passionate, continued to haunt her dreams like a never-ending waltz. Every time she closed her eyes, she could feel the warmth of his embrace and the softness of his touch, leaving a trail of longing in her heart.

But now was not the time to dwell on such matters. They had a city to defend, a war to fight. Alana gave Faramir's hand a gentle squeeze before releasing it, a playful smile tugging at her lips. "Well then, Captain, let's not keep our enemies waiting. We have work to do."

Faramir chuckled, a rare moment of levity amidst the gravity of their situation. "Indeed we do. Lead the way, my lady."

With renewed purpose, Alana and Faramir strode down the corridor, their minds focused on the tasks ahead. They would inspect the defenses, rally the troops, and do everything in their power to ensure Minas Tirith stood strong against the coming darkness.

As they emerged into the courtyard, the sun was setting over the White City, painting the stone walls in hues of gold and orange. Soldiers and citizens alike bustled about, preparing for the impending siege. Alana took a deep breath, the scent of smoke and steel filling her nostrils.

They scrambled to prepare for their journey to the city, moving with a sense of urgency. As the sun steadily descended in the sky, casting vibrant hues of pink and orange across the horizon, they worked tirelessly to make sure everything was in order. By the time they finished, the last sliver of sunlight had disappeared and darkness enveloped them. Alana's stomach growled loudly like a ferocious warg, reminding her that she hadn't eaten since breakfast. The tantalizing aroma of roasted meat wafted through the air, making her mouth water even more as she longed for a warm meal.

"Would you care to join me in my quarters for some dinner?" Faramir asked her as they walked down one of the many halls.

Alana's heart skipped a beat at Faramir's invitation. The prospect of spending more time with him, away from the chaos and responsibilities that awaited them, sent a thrill through her. She smiled warmly at him. "I would be delighted. Lead the way, good sir."

Faramir chuckled at her playful tone and extended his arm to her. Alana looped her own through it, savoring the closeness as he guided her through the winding corridors. They chatted amiably as they walked, their laughter echoing off the stone walls and momentarily chasing away the shadows that seemed to linger in every corner.

When they reached Faramir's quarters, he opened the door and ushered her inside with a gallant bow. "Welcome to my humble abode, my lady."

Alana grinned and curtsied dramatically in response. "Why thank you, kind sir. It's an honor to be invited into your inner sanctum."