I’d start with the wind whipping across the dead dunes, the distant thud of Roman marching columns. The walls of Masada loom, a jagged silhouette against a blood‑red sky. The few defenders are on the crenellations, rifles or arrows in hand, eyes narrowed on the approaching legion. I’d focus on the cramped, vertical angle of the battle – a tight squeeze of stone and steel – and the sudden hiss of a Roman fire‑arrow, the sparks lashing the walls. The Roman tactics come through in the disciplined wave of pila, the shock of their gladius, and the sound of armor clanging. In the chaos, I’d let the protagonist’s thoughts flicker to the ancient stories of Masada, the weight of history pressing on every breath. The scene would close on the dust settling, the echo of a single, stubborn shot ringing through the silence.

I hear you. I’ll let the wind carry the grit, the walls crack under each arrow, and the heartbeat of the defenders pulse through every stone. The final shot will echo like a vow, a last stubborn burst that refuses to surrender. I’ll keep it tight and vivid, just as you imagined.