Into the Weeping Forest

The Weeping Forest appeared as if from nowhere—a place that defies reason and beckons the unwary. Some whisper that it is rooted in the remnants of the Dark Army, that where they fell, darkness took root and grew into something alive, something hungry. Crossing the forest is no small feat. The black trees loom like silent sentinels, their twisted branches stretching toward the sky and gripping the earth with roots slick with dark sap. Broken skeletons litter the ground, frozen in the last grasp of life, reaching upward as if pleading for escape. Every step seems watched, every breath answered by screeching voices that echo from nowhere and everywhere. But the forest is not merely a landscape of death. It is a place of memory, too. Whispers of the past brush against your mind, stirring regrets long buried and moments that might have been. The Weeping Forest remembers. It hungers. It tests anyone foolish enough to step into its shadows. Even the bravest souls—werewolves like Rho...