13Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡHSi3BBcdJ7CHAPTER 7
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THE RAINFOREST SIEGE —
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The grasslands breathe around the village — wind rolling through the tall blades, bending them in shimmering waves of green and gold. Dying White blossoms drift from the Grandfather Tree above, spiraling down through the air like slow‑falling snow. The yurts stand in layered formation around the vast greenery of forest.
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Twenty blacksmiths had worked for weeks beneath the shade of the Grandfather Tree, their hammers ringing through the valley like distant thunder. Sweat, soot, and sparks became their language. And from that labor came the village’s greatest defense: Eight large stacked crossbows, each one carved from ironwood and reinforced with bone‑steel bands.
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The lowest yurt sits at the root of the Grandfather Tree, half‑buried in earth and shadow. Inside, the first crossbow rests on a rotating stone base — a monstrous weapon the size of a wagon, its limbs carved with runic grooves. Two blacksmiths remain stationed beside it, oiling the gears, checking the tension of the bowstring thick as a sailor’s rope. When it fires, the entire yurt trembles.
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Halfway up the Grandfather Tree, two circular platforms wrap around the trunk like wooden halos. Here, the second and third crossbows are mounted directly into the tree’s ancient bark, their frames fused with wood. The Grandfather Tree creaks softly beneath their weight, but it holds —Archers move around them, the men continue checking bolts, whispering to each other in low, reverent tones. The wind is stronger here, carrying the scent of pine and distant rain.
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At the highest point, where the branches open to the sky, Kathryn and Blake command the top tier. Five crossbows stand in a semicircle, each one angled toward a different horizon. From here, the entire valley is visible — the rivers, the plains, the distant forest and mountains..
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Kathryn stands with her hair whipping in the wind, eyes narrowed, scanning the world below. Blake adjusts the tension on one of the bows.
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The tall spiked wooden walls encircle the village like a ribcage, each corner reinforced with stone and iron.
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At every battlement point in the wall, three archers stand watch — twelve in total. Their boots rest on narrow platforms.
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Their quivers hang full.
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Their eyes never stop moving.
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They rotate in silence, each archer stepping forward as another steps back, a rhythm as natural as breathing.
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From the ground, the entire structure looks alive — a layered citadel built into the bones of the Grandfather Tree with crossbows gleaming in the sun.
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Archers stand like statues.
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The wind carries the faint creak of wood.
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OUTSIDE RAINFOREST VILLAGE GATE—
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—Dozens of bandits move through the dripping underbrush, their boots sinking into the soft, rain‑soaked earth. Their armor is damp, their cloaks cling to their backs. Dozens more stand on a distant cliff below Cat, TT, The Yellow Reaper, The Red Assassin, and The Blue Eyed General, who are watching from a nearby cave entrance.
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Cat and TT dismount the grey terrible beast, its massive chest rising and falling like a furnace. Its breath steams in the humid air, each exhale a low, rumbling growl that vibrates through the moist soil.
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Below them, hundreds of bandits swarm the field, rushing the Rain Blossom Village like ants on fallen fruit. Their movements are frantic but practiced —ropes around the shoulders, hooks dangling, boots slamming against the dirt like an earthquake..
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Yellow and Red kneel at the cliff’s edge, preparing their mortar shells. Their hands move with ritual precision. Blue stands with arms crossed, watching the storm gather, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.
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Inside the treehouse, Metro and Rose sit close on the tiny bed, their shoulders touching, their laughter soft, the world small and warm for a moment. Petals drift past the window. Lanternlight glows gold on their faces.
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Then—The ram’s horn bellows from the third‑story treehouse. A deep, trembling sound that rolls through the pink forest like a warning from the earth itself.
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Their necks jerk towards the sound of the horn.
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Metro is on his feet instantly, ripping the flap aside. Outside in the mist, he flicks his telescope open —once, twice, three times —and peers through the rain‑slicked leaves.
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His breath stops, he sees it.
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A sea of bodies, hundreds of bandits.
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A tide of blackness moving through the distant forest and field.
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Rose rushes to the balcony, hair whipping so violently she nearly snaps the railing. Her eyes widen, her breath catching.
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Metro grabs the vine rope —SNAP —and drops. Rose follows, landing beside him on the third‑story yurt, both of them flamed up and their chakras outpouring, both of them staring at the impossible sight: Cat’s army descending on the village.
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Behind the gates, the infantry waits. Dozens of soldiers stand shoulder‑to‑shoulder, shields braced against their legs, spears planted in the dirt. Their armor catches the lantern glow in sharp flashes — silver, platinum, and steel shimmering like a wall of stars.
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No one speaks.
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Unmoving.
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Around the cabins, the weapon smiths form a loose perimeter. Axes, swords, bats, and spears gleam in their hands — each weapon freshly sharpened, each edge reflecting the firelight with a hungry shine.
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They move in a slow, deliberate circle, boots crunching over gravel and roots. Their eyes scan the tree line. Their fingers tighten around their grips. Wherever the command falls, they will strike.
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The maidens and children are ushered into the second and third‑story yurts — the safest places in the village. Their footsteps echo softly on the wooden ladders as they climb, clutching blankets, dolls, and each other.
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Inside, the yurts glow with light. The walls are lined with quilts and the air is thick with fear and whispered prayers.
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Rose rushes past them, guiding the last few villagers inside, her breath quick and sharp.
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ROSE:
“Lanterns off!”
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and then Add to home screen.