The palace library glowed with the warm flicker of candlelight, its towering oak shelves casting long shadows across the stone floor. Dust motes danced in the air, stirred by the rustle of scrolls and the faint creak of leather bindings. Alaric slumped in a velvet-upholstered chair, his cloak draped over the back, its leaves curling against the fabric like a living thing. The Greenheart's pulse was a steady ache in his chest, a rhythm he couldn't escape, and he rubbed it absently, muttering, "This thing's gonna give me a heart attack before Lysara does." Mira sat nearby, sharpening her sword on a whetstone, the *scrape* a rhythmic counterpoint to Elara's soft murmurs as she pored over *The Greenheart Chronicles* at the table. Maps and scrolls lay strewn across its surface, their edges curling, marked with red ink where demon and vampire forces had struck. "Lysara's close," Elara said, tracing a jagged route through the Shadowed Peaks with a slender finger. "Two days, maybe less—her scouts are faster than we thought." Alaric groaned, vines snagging a quill from a shelf to doodle a stick-figure demon on a scroll. "Fantastic. More chores. Can't we bribe her with pie? I hear vampires love a good dessert."
Kael slipped in through a side door, his hood low, his pale face stark against the shadows, his smirk sharp as a blade. He tossed a fang-carved ring onto the table with a *clink*, its metal glinting in the candlelight. "Her scouts dropped this—I killed them," he said, his voice a low hum that sent a chill through the room. "Three thralls, half a day's ride north. Lysara's impatient." Alaric frowned, picking up the ring and turning it over in his sticky fingers, its weight cold and heavy. "Creep. Why help us? Thought you'd rather watch me squirm." Kael's eyes glinted, dark and unreadable, as he stepped closer, his boots silent on the stone. "I hate her more than I dislike you, prince. She turned me—centuries of servitude I'd rather forget." He tilted Alaric's chin with cold fingers, his touch lingering as he smirked. "Besides, you're growing on me, whiner—like a stubborn weed I can't uproot." Alaric swatted him away, blushing despite the chill. "Back off, fang-boy—I'm not your garden project."
Mira bristled, her sword half-drawn from its sheath, the blade catching the light as she stepped forward. "Touch him again, and you're mulch, creep," she growled, her hazel eyes blazing. Elara intervened, rising from her chair with a calming hand, her voice steady despite the tension crackling like static. "He's an ally—for now, Mira. We need his eyes in the shadows." Alaric sighed, the trio's tension pinning him—Mira's fierce protectiveness, Elara's quiet trust, Kael's dangerous edge. "Fine," he said, tossing the ring back to Kael. "We fight together. But I'm napping after—I'm not cut out for this soap opera."
They planned late into the night—Alaric's vines as a defensive shield, Mira's blade as the frontline offense, Elara's magic to amplify his powers, Kael's stealth to scout and strike from the dark. The air grew heavy, candles guttering as wax pooled on the table, when a thrall breached the window—glass shattering, its fangs bared as it lunged for Alaric. Vines surged—hundreds now—binding it in a glowing net, thorns shredding its flesh as it writhed. "Stay down, fang-face!" he yelled, tightening the coils until blood pooled on the floor. Kael finished it, his dagger slicing its throat with a flick, his smirk cold. "Sloppy, prince—but effective." Mira grinned, wiping her blade, Elara squeezed his hand, her touch warm and grounding, and Kael's eyes lingered a moment too long. "Not bad," he said, vanishing into the shadows. Alaric groaned, flopping back in his chair. "This love-hate mess'll kill me before Lysara does—someone wake me when it's just demons again."
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