The forest whispered"
Twisted trees loomed like ancient, horned sentinels. Among them stood a single, eerie monolith of wood—bark warped and gnarled, older than memory. Beneath its crooked shadow, Bjorn stood still, staring up at it as if it were watching him too.
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> "If no one else will choose it… I will."
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His hand reached out and pressed against its scarred surface. It was cold, coarse, and... familiar in a way nothing else in this world was.
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From the shadows behind him, something shifted.
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A low whisper carried on the wind:
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> "There he is… let's begin."
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---
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Far from the cursed tree, in the prideful heart of the forest, tension flared like fire.
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Lucius stood tall on a moss-covered stone, his regal frame lit by the fading sun. Around him, the Pride faction boiled with argument. Raised voices, clenched fists, seething glares.
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> "We won't follow your orders anymore!" one member barked.
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Lucius didn't flinch. He only looked down upon them, expression unreadable, eyes colder than the shade around him.
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> "One king is enough," he said, voice smooth but final.
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Two men pushed through the crowd. Their eyes burned not with obedience, but rebellion.
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> "Then we'll build a new 'Pride' of our own," one snapped.
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Lucius didn't respond.
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But something inside the Pride faction cracked that day. And pride, once unshakable, began to fracture.
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---
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Elsewhere, deep within a shadowed tent, fire danced.
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The Wrath leader sat hunched near the flame. His silhouette was broad and still, like a volcano before eruption. Around him, four underlings knelt in disciplined silence.
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> "Bjorn… that cursed loner," the leader murmured, eyes reflecting firelight.
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He raised a single finger, and the flame twisted unnaturally—as if anger itself obeyed him.
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> "Test him," he said calmly. "See if he truly holds Wrath's fire."
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None dared question. One man nodded slowly.
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> "Understood."
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---
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Branches crackled. Leaves trembled. On a path not far from Bjorn, Aira walked alone.
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Her arms were crossed, steps small and wary. Her head stayed low, like prey aware of the hunt.
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Then they came—sliding from the trees like serpents. Lust faction.
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> "Hey, little Sloth girl…" one cooed. His voice was thick with mockery.
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She didn't answer. Her pace slowed.
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Another stepped forward, yanking her hair sharply.
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> "Slow girls need excitement."
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Aira froze. Her heart pounded. Muscles locked.
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But then something primal sparked behind her eyes.
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She gripped a broken branch from the ground—sharp, jagged—and drove it backward.
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A scream. Blood sprayed.
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> "Shit!" one of them cursed as his comrade fell.
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Aira bolted. Branches whipped her face. Her breath came in ragged gasps. Tears blurred her vision.
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She dove behind a thick tree trunk, chest heaving. But her eyes—those had changed.
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From fear… into fury.
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> "Next time," she whispered, "I won't run."
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---
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The cursed glade was quiet again, save for the rhythmic snap of branches.
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Bjorn worked silently, cutting lengths of wood. He was building something—something only he understood. Something no faction would help him survive.
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A rustle behind him.
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He didn't turn. He only tensed, eyes narrowing.
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> "They came…"
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Six men emerged from the woods—grim, armored in makeshift gear. Wrath emissaries.
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> "Bjorn!" one called mockingly. "A gift from our leader!"
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Bjorn said nothing. He dropped the knife he'd been using.
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His fists clenched.
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> "Come at me," he said lowly.
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---
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They obeyed.
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The first blow struck his jaw. Blood sprayed—but he didn't flinch.
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He moved like a storm. One man was hurled into a tree. Bones snapped. Another stabbed him in the side—Bjorn roared, grabbing the attacker's head and slamming it into his own. Skull met skull. Blood splashed across the undergrowth.
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His eyes gleamed with something no longer human.
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> "Pain... is fuel."
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---
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When it was over, the glade was soaked in red.
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The bodies lay broken, twitching or still. Groans echoed. One of them crawled weakly, trying to flee.
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Bjorn stomped down on his hand.
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The man shrieked.
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Bjorn's face was bathed in blood, but his voice came quietly, like an executioner's lullaby.
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> "Tell your leader… it wasn't enough."
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Far off, watching from her room, the old witch on a chair.
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A smirk danced on her lips.
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> "Now it's getting interesting."
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---
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To be continued…
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