Chapter 11: The Verdant Spark

The palace gardens sprawled like a living tapestry—rose trellises climbed marble arches, elms cast dappled shadows, and a fountain gurgled with water so clear it mirrored the sky. Alaric Veyne lounged on a moss-covered bench, the late afternoon sun warming his face, a faint breeze rustling his dark green hair. In his hand, Elara's glowing seed pulsed faintly, its crystalline surface warm against his palm. "Chosen weed, huh?" he muttered, tossing it up and catching it with a lazy flick. "Sounds like a job for someone with less nap debt and more enthusiasm—say, literally anyone else." The air carried the sweet tang of lilacs and damp earth, a deceptive peace over Eldrathia's gilded walls, where whispers of doom were starting to seep through the cracks.Footsteps crunched on the gravel path—Mira, her red hair tied into a messy braid, her leather armor glinting with fresh polish and a few new scratches from a morning patrol. A short sword spun in her hand, catching the light like a dancer's flourish. "Slacking again, weed boy?" she called, her voice sharp with mock disdain. Alaric smirked, vines sprouting lazily from his sleeve to snag an apple from a nearby tree. The fruit dangled in the air, twirling on its green tether. "It's called strategic resting, Mira. You should try it—might fix that scowl." She snorted, lunging with a playful jab, the blade whistling toward his chest. He rolled off the bench with a yelp, bark shielding his arm as her steel sparked against it, sending a shower of splinters to the ground. "Hey, no fair waking me up like that!" he protested, retaliating with a whip-vine that grazed her boot, leaving a faint scratch on the leather.Their spar escalated into a chaotic dance—her sword clashed with his thorned tendrils, leaves scattering like confetti across the garden path. Mira darted left, her blade slicing a vine in half, sap splattering her gauntlet. "Too slow, princeling!" she taunted, grinning as she spun. Alaric gritted his teeth, focusing—mid-swing, he evolved a vine, its tip sharpening into a razor edge that gleamed like polished steel. With a flick, it sliced the tip of her sword clean off, the metal shard thudding into the dirt. "Oops," he said, blinking at the wreckage, his grin widening. "Guess I'm a lawn ninja now. Who needs a blade when you've got me?" Mira laughed, loud and unrestrained, sheathing the stump of her weapon. "Not bad—for a slacker who'd rather nap than fight." She punched his shoulder, her knuckles lingering a beat too long, her hazel eyes glinting with something softer. "Keep that up, and I might stick around to see what else you've got." He blushed, vines retreating into his sleeve as he muttered, "Great, more babysitters. Just what I needed."That night, the palace's calm shattered. A scream echoed from the lower halls, sharp and panicked, followed by the clatter of armored boots. Alaric stumbled out of bed, still in his nightshirt, rubbing sleep from his eyes as he shuffled toward the noise. The kitchens were a mess—pots overturned, a fire flickering in the hearth, and a cook slumped against the wall, blood pooling from a gash on his arm. Mira pinned a thrall to the stone with her boot, its pale skin stark against the crimson dripping from its dagger. "Nap's over, weed boy," she growled, her sword poised at its throat. Alaric sighed, vines surging—ten, then twenty—binding its limbs in a thorny cocoon that tightened with every twitch. "Stay down, fang-face," he said, thorns sinking into its flesh, drawing a hiss of pain. The thrall slumped, unconscious, and the gathered guards cheered, their spears clanking in approval. Alaric flopped onto a stool, sap staining his hands. "Can I bill this to someone else? Like, say, Gavric? He loves playing hero." Mira smirked, wiping her blade. "Dream on, slacker. You're stuck with the glory."