Chapter 35. Chains of Greed and Blood

The forest trembled with the sound of men. Steel-tipped boots crashed through beds of brittle leaves, scattering dried pine needles and flurries of ash as they marched toward their quarry. Torches lit the narrow paths with sputtering, aggressive light, illuminating twisted trees and creeping roots that coiled like serpents underfoot. The warriors moved with brutal efficiency, their formation wide and unforgiving, their blades unsheathed not for protection, but for enforcement.

The lead warriors stopped before a strange, ancient oak—gnarled, blackened by time, its roots thick and interwoven like clenched fists. Nestled beneath it was a crooked door of warped wood, half-buried by moss and age.

“This is it?” one of the soldiers asked, voice hard with contempt. “This hole?”

Without waiting for confirmation, he kicked the door inward with a brutal crack, splinters raining into the dark. The stench of herbs and smoke hit them immediately—pungent and strange, like the bre