Chapter 5 - # **Chapter 5: The Court’s Blindness**

King Theron's throne room gleamed with polished marble and tapestries of Eldrathia's victories, but the air was thick with denial. "The oracles speak nonsense," he boomed, dismissing warnings of demons from the Nether Rift and vampires from the Shadowed Peaks. Alaric, creeping as ivy along the wall, heard every word—Theron's bluster, Gavric's grunts of agreement, Lorne's sly silence. Denial's a bold move when the world's on fire, he thought, leaves rustling faintly.At a feast that night, the hall buzzed with nobles in silks and clinking goblets. Alaric slouched at the high table, picking at roast pheasant, when a thrall—pale, eyes glinting red—lunged from the crowd, dagger aimed at his chest. He panicked, turning into a spiky bush. Thorns shredded the thrall's arm, blood splattering the floor as it howled and bolted. "Stab me? I'll stab back, loser," he snapped, reverting with a wince, sap on his hands. The hall fell silent, then erupted in gasps. Theron glared; Alaric shrugged. "What? Self-defense is a princely virtue."Elara, a druidess with auburn curls and a leather satchel of herbs, approached later. "You could save us, Alaric," she said, her voice earnest. He yawned, slumping in his chair. "Save it, plant lady. I'm not the hero type. Heroes don't get naps." She frowned, part curiosity, part challenge, and left a sprig of sage on the table. He sniffed it, muttering, "Smells like work."