Chapter 12: Woodward’s Wrath

Roots of Desire

Chapter 12: Woodward’s Wrath

Pain. Humiliation. Terror.

The Steward.

Woodward’s rage boiled over, shaking the ground beneath him. His fingers curled into claws of bark and root as his Treant form surged forth, towering and vengeful as he made massive strides through the forest.

The Steward would pay. And nothing; no cage, no chain; would keep him from her.

The forest trembled.

His Treant form towering beneath the sun’s pale gaze. The air was thick with the scent of moss and blood; his magic stretched far beyond his body, tangling with the roots beneath the village, searching for her. For Iveyna.

He felt her pain like a jagged thorn buried beneath his bark. The rough scrape of ropes against her skin. The cold bite of iron around her wrists. Fear; sharp and sour; pulsed through her veins, but beneath it burned something else. Defiance. The screams had awakened him. Not hers; another girl’s. And now, the magic he had tried so hard to temper, to contain, slipped its leash.

When he felt the Steward’s touch, the cold weight of his depravity, something inside Woodward snapped. A low growl rumbled from his chest, deep as the groan of ancient trees. Power poured through him; hot, wild, and unyielding. The ground cracked beneath his feet, roots curling upward in answer. He let it come, let the fury burn through him as his limbs stretched taller, broader, the air humming with raw, feral magic.

He would not lose her.

The forest bent to his will as he surged forward, the ground trembling with every step. Trees bowed their heavy branches, roots untangled themselves from the earth to clear his path. The village lights glowed weak and distant, but the black heart of it; the Steward’s manor; pulled him like a lodestone.

Tonight, there would be no mercy.

As he neared the edge of the manor, Woodward allowed his form to shift. His towering frame twisted inward, bark melting into smoother lines as he condensed down into his full humanoid form. Five foot seven inches of carved, living wood; broad-shouldered and sharp-boned, but still too much monster to be mistaken for a man.

His magic thrummed in his veins. And he let it loose.

The iron gate at the manor’s entrance groaned and then snapped beneath the force of his will. Vines burst from the earth, curling like snakes as they wrenched the broken metal aside.

Two guards stood at the door. Woodward didn’t slow.

The first barely had time to draw his sword before a tangle of roots shot up from the ground, piercing his chest in three jagged spikes. The second stumbled backward, mouth open in a half-formed cry; cut off as Woodward flicked his wrist, and thick brambles coiled around his throat, choking the life from him.

Their bodies fell, forgotten.

Woodward raised his hand. The heavy oak doors groaned, shuddered; then splintered inward as his magic tore them from their hinges.

He stepped through the wreckage. More guards rushed toward him from the shadowed hall. Humans; slow and fragile. He didn’t stop.

The first swung a blade; he didn’t let it land. With a sharp twist of his fingers, jagged roots shot from the floor, driving through the man’s gut and pinning him to the wall. Blood splattered across the stone.

A second lunged at him with a spear. Woodward sidestepped easily, catching the man’s wrist. He tightened his grip; bark scraping against soft flesh; until bones snapped beneath his wooden fingers. The man screamed. Woodward silenced him with a burst of vines that pierced his chest.

They were nothing. Obstacles of rot.

His focus was on the thread pulling him deeper; on Iveyna.

The manor creaked around him as he moved. His magic curled into every corner, every crack, searching for the hidden door that led below. The closer he drew, the stronger the poison became; an oily, black taint infecting the very bones of the house.

Then he felt it. Cold iron. Chains. And the faint, trembling pulse of her.

The wall at the end of the hall held a metal door. Woodward didn’t bother searching for a key. He pressed a palm against the wall, letting his magic surge forward; tearing the entire wall apart in a shower of splinters.

A staircase down into darkness.

He took the steps two at a time.

The air grew colder, fouler, as he descended. His senses stretched ahead; cages. Iron bars. And behind them, fear. Dozens of heartbeats; rapid, fragile; but one called to him louder than all the rest.

Iveyna.

His vision darkened as he reached the bottom. Somewhere above, another scream echoed through the manor; sharp, agonized. His teeth ground together as his magic swelled, straining against the limits of his control.

The Steward had taken his time with her. With all of them. Not for much longer. Woodward stepped into the dim light of the basement, his magic crackling through the air.

Tonight, he would make the Steward pay.

The scent of iron and blood hung heavy in the air; a cloying reminder of the depravity festering beneath the Steward’s manor. Woodward’s footsteps echoed as he advanced into the basement, his magic curling outward in jagged tendrils. The walls trembled under the weight of his fury, the old stone groaning as though it could sense the storm he was about to unleash.

Rows of cells stretched across the chamber, each one holding a shadowed form. Their faces pale and hollow, some too weak to lift their heads. Others stared at him; eyes wide with terror, uncomprehending; until his magic brushed against them, stirring the ancient hum of the earth. They flinched from the force of it.

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But his focus narrowed to one heartbeat.

Iveyna.

She was there; curled in a corner of a cell on the far wall, her wrists bound in heavy chains. His magic wrapped around her like a whisper, feeling the raw skin beneath the iron, the tremble of her breath.

The sight of her; snapped something inside him. His hands curled into fists, bark splitting along his knuckles as magic surged through him. The air thickened, a low vibration echoing through the stone as the roots of the earth groaned in answer to his anger.

A voice cut through the tension. “You’ve made quite a mess, haven’t you?”

The Steward.

He stood in the shadows, his fine silk coat unruffled, as if the blood staining the floors was no more concerning than spilled wine. The candlelight cast his face in sharp relief, the lines of his mouth curled into an ugly sneer.

Woodward’s chest rose and fell with the force of his breathing, the sound like the rumble of a storm building in the distance. “Let her go.”

The Steward laughed softly, folding his hands behind his back. “And why would I do that young man? She’s only just begun to amuse me.” He took a step closer, his voice dropping to a silk-smooth purr. “It’s rare to find one with such... spirit. I’ll admit, breaking her will prove to be a challenge. But I do love a challenge.”

Woodward’s vision blurred at the edges, red-hot fury seeping through the cracks of his control. His magic thrashed against his will, the forest calling; demanding; vengeance.

“She is not yours,” he said, his voice low and rough.

“No?” The Steward tilted his head. You’re too late.” His eyes gleamed with cruel satisfaction. “But I’m feeling generous. Perhaps I’ll let you have a go with her... once I’m finished.”

The words struck like a match to dry tinder.

The ground shook beneath them as Woodward let the fury take hold. Roots burst from the floor; thick and gnarled; shredding stone as they surged toward the Steward. He leapt back, a curse hissing from his lips as the vines snapped inches from his throat.

Woodward moved. Fast.

In the blink of an eye, he was across the chamber; one hand closing around the Steward’s throat. His magic flared as he lifted the man off the ground, crushing the air from his lungs. The Steward clawed at his grip, his face twisting in panic.

“I warned you,” Woodward growled, his voice no longer fully humanoid. His body shifting into his half humanoid form.

The roots answered his rage, curling up to bind the Steward’s limbs, pulling him tight against the cold stone wall. Woodward flexed his fingers, letting the magic sharpen; tighten; until the man’s breath came in ragged gasps.

“Please,” the Steward choked, his earlier arrogance crumbling beneath the weight of power he couldn’t comprehend. “I can pay; ”

Woodward silenced him with a flick of his hand. The vines wound tighter, sharp thorns sinking into the Steward’s flesh. Not enough to kill; yet.

He turned from the struggling man, his focus returning to the cell.

Iveyna.

Her breaths came shallow and quick, the chains rattling softly as she tried to lift her head. Blood crusted the corners of her mouth, a bruise blooming dark against her jaw. But her eyes; when they met his; still burned with defiance.

“You came,” she whispered, her voice raw.

“I’ll always come for you,” he said quietly. “You’re safe now,” he promised, the words rough and fierce. But even as he held her, the taint in the air thickened; a reminder that the darkness beneath this village would not be so easily vanquished.

The Steward would answer for his sins.

He turned his gaze to the other cells. The women; those still living; were still huddled in the dim light, their faces drawn and haunted. He could feel their fear, their brokenness. Their eyes watched him, wide and uncertain, but there was something else too; hope; slowly unfurling like a seed taking root in the cracks of their suffering.

Woodward’s gaze hardened.

The air seemed to grow heavier with every passing second, the manor groaning under the weight of his magic as it gathered beneath his skin. His senses flared, and with a focused, savage thrust, he extended his power outward. The floor trembled beneath him, and the vines that had once been weapons of vengeance became a shield.

His hand rose, and thick, twisting tendrils of vine spiraled from the ground, wrapping around each captive, encircling them with a protective, almost gentle grip. The vines flexed, their dark green hues stretching to every corner of the basement, as though they had always been a part of the structure itself.

The women; every last one; were safely ensnared in the vine-wrought cocoon, now completely covered in a thick layer of magic. Woodward felt the heat of their terror, but it was dulled now; safe. The vines shielded them, their warmth and ancient strength providing the protection they so desperately needed. The moment his power reached them, the energy in the air shifted. He could feel them; each woman, each heartbeat, their lives resting on the delicate balance of his fury.

But that wasn’t enough.

It wouldn’t be enough until every corner of this place was wiped clean of the sickness that had rooted itself here.

Woodward’s muscles clenched as he stood, his body no longer just a figure of humanoid grace and sharp strength. The full fury of his power swelled like a storm rising from the depths of the earth. His magic coiled around him, its tendrils piercing into the very bones of the manor. The stone walls groaned in protest, the timbers splintering as the earth beneath him stirred.

Then; he shifted.

The transformation was violent, primal. His humanoid form collapsed in upon itself as he fell back, his massive Treant body surging upward. The manor seemed to quake beneath the weight of his presence, its foundations straining to withstand the force of his change.

His form was no longer just wood, no longer just living bark; he was the forest. Towering and immense, the Treant’s limbs cracked as they lengthened, roots splitting through the stone floors as his body expanded. He towered above the manor, and the entire structure trembled beneath him, as though the very earth recognized the power of what had awakened.

Woodward’s roots dug deeper into the foundation, pulling, tearing at the ground beneath him. With a bellow that shook the very heavens, he yanked upwards, shattering the basement’s walls like fragile paper. The floors cracked wide open as his roots ripped through the manor’s bones, splintering beams, tearing through iron, stone, and wood alike.

The women shrieked in unison, the force of the destruction sending debris flying in every direction. But they were safe within the vine cocoon that had enveloped them. The vines shuddered and trembled with the intensity of the destruction, but their grip remained unyielding; protective, steadfast.

Woodward did not pause. The manor; the depraved den of human cruelty; shuddered and groaned around him. He felt the poison that had seeped into its very heart, the corruption beneath the floors, beneath the walls, bleeding out through the cracks. Every piece of it; every trace of the darkness that had festered here; was being torn asunder.

The vines wrapped tighter around the women, more forceful now, as if understanding the urgency in the chaos. The women were rocked, their bodies jerked by the violent upheaval, but the vines; his vines; held them fast. He could feel their gratitude, their shock, their disbelief, and; beneath it all; hope.

Hope that they had been forgotten, abandoned by a world that had no use for them. But not anymore.

Woodward’s gaze locked onto the Steward, whose pitiful, writhing form still hung in the air, bound and trembling. The man had been nothing more than a distraction.

With a roar that splintered stone, Woodward threw himself forward. His massive form crashed through the walls, tearing the very roof from the manor in a single, sweeping movement. The building seemed to fold in on itself, crumbling into dust beneath the power of his form. The walls shuddered, stone and wood splitting apart as he uprooted the very ground the manor stood on. The trees outside the village groaned as if they too felt the weight of his power.

But Woodward did not care for the ruin he left in his wake. He cared only for one thing now.

Iveyna.

He moved through the wreckage, his enormous Treant form carving a path toward her. The vines still held the women, each of them; had been pushed from the earth. He felt their safety, the warmth of their protection, and the raw, vibrant life of the forest coursing through them.

Iveyna; she was still with him. He could feel her heartbeat like a pull against his chest. Her soft, trembling voice reached him, weak but steady. "You came for me..."

Woodward didn’t answer. He bent down, his massive hands; each like a great trunk of a tree; carefully reached for her, lifting her vine wrapped form from the debris. His vines curled around her.

The manor was no more. The ground around him split apart, leaving nothing but ruin. The fire of his wrath had cleansed the place, leaving only the aftermath of his vengeance. He had uprooted the evil that had taken root here.

But in the silence, as the night air grew still, Woodward did not smile. His heart was full only of one thing.

Iveyna.