The Wrath of Lunawood (PART 2)

The vines tightened their grip, pulling soldiers screaming into the earth. The air smelled of damp moss, blood, and something dangerous.

Draven swung his greatsword, cleaving through a thick vine trying to ensnare him. "Fall back!" he roared. "We have to reach open ground!"

But the forest did not let them retreat.

Roots burst from the soil, creating barriers that cut off escape routes. Trees twisted unnaturally, shifting in position, sealing them inside an ever-changing labyrinth.

A soldier beside Draven, Sergeant Rovan, hurled a torch at the vines. The fire licked at the ancient bark, and for the first time, the forest screamed—a deep, inhuman wail that vibrated through the ground. The vines recoiled, retreating from the flames.

"Fire!" Draven realized. "Burn them back! Mages, light everything!"

The remaining battle mages, exhausted but desperate, summoned flames in their hands and hurled them into the mist. Fires spread along the vines, and for a brief moment, the path to the city of Tristan was clear.

"Run!" Draven commanded.

The surviving soldiers, now barely over a thousand, sprinted through the burning corridor, dodging roots that snapped like whips. Trees groaned, shaking as if in a rage.

Then came the final horror.

A colossal tree-beast, formed from countless twisting vines and bark, rose from the heart of Lunawood. Its glowing green eyes burned with fury, and its voice thundered through the night.

"You cannot run from the forest. You have taken from us. Now we shall take from you."

It raised a massive, root-covered arm and slammed it down, shattering the ground behind the fleeing soldiers. Some fell into the pit below—swallowed by the earth itself.

Draven and his remaining forces crossed the final threshold of the forest, their boots hitting the cracked stone road leading to Tristan. The vines stopped. The mist receded. Lunawood had let them go—but at a terrible cost.

Panting, bloodied, and only a fraction of their original number, the army finally reached the gates of the Holy City of Tristan.

But Draven knew the forest's warning was true.

The war was far from over.

And the real enemy had yet to reveal itself.

The forest explodes with chaos as a stampede of monsters surges from Lunawood, their massive forms crashing through the underbrush like a living avalanche. The ground trembles beneath clawed feet and pounding hooves as creatures of every grotesque shape spill forth: scaled behemoths with jagged horns, sinewy beasts with glowing eyes, and shadowy figures that seem to dissolve and reform with every step. Their deafening roars blend into a cacophony that drowns out all other sounds, leaving the soldiers paralyzed with fear.

"It's an ambush," one soldier shouted.

Leading the charge is a towering, two-headed colossus, its molten breath igniting the trees in its path, turning the once-beautiful forest into a smoldering wasteland. Darven, standing on the edge of the forest, realize that this is no ordinary surge of wildlife—it is an exodus driven by a dark force awakening within the heart of Lunawood. 

"Retreat!" shouted Darven.

The soldiers ran in Tristan's direction, trying to seek shelter, but the city was too far away. They were being picked off one by one as the two-headed colossus swung his huge spiked mace.  Darven stayed behind to face the huge monster, he wanted to buy time for his men to transport the starsteel. But it was all in vain, the monster did not see Darven as a threat. He was hit with the monster's weapon and flew across the forest like he was nothing.

Darven turned in the direction of the soldiers, he watched them being picked off one after the other. Amid the chaos of the meadow, where monsters trampled the earth and the air was thick with the smoke of burning trees, a Darven lay sprawled against a shattered boulder. His armor, once polished and proud, was now dented and stained with blood and dirt. His breath came in ragged, shallow gasps, and his hand trembled as he clutched a broken blade.

His gaze flickered toward the sky, where the fading light of the sun painted the clouds in hues of gold and crimson. In his other hand, he held a small locket, its tarnished surface etched with the image of a woman and a child—his family, far away. A weak smile played on his lips as he whispered their names, the sound barely audible over the wind.

Moments away from death's door, Darven saw a blond-haired lady in a golden silk robe.

"Are you the angel of death here to take me away?" he whispered