Chapter 13: The Reluctant Ally

Back at the palace, Mira waited by the iron gates, her armor scratched from a dawn patrol through the southern hills. She leaned against a pillar, tossing a waterskin in the air and catching it with a practiced flick. "You're late, weed boy," she said, her voice carrying over the clatter of guards drilling nearby. Alaric shuffled up, his cloak still torn, vines snagging the waterskin mid-air as he caught it. "Blame the forest. It tried to kill me—again." She raised a brow, smirking as she adjusted her sword belt. "And you survived? Miracles do happen." He rolled his eyes, gulping water, the cool liquid soothing his parched throat. "Barely. Demons have a crush on me—look at this." He tossed her the insignia; her grin faded as she caught it, turning it over in her calloused hands. "That's a hunter's mark. You're on their list, slacker."They moved to the courtyard, a wide expanse of packed dirt ringed by stone benches and flowering shrubs. Mira drew her sword—a new one, its blade gleaming—and beckoned him. "Spar with me, weed boy. Let's see if you're worth the trouble." He groaned, vines sprouting—forty now, glowing faintly—and evolved them into razor-edged tendrils that shimmered in the sunlight. She parried a lash, her blade sparking as it met his vines, then ducked a thorn burst that shredded a nearby bush. "Faster, slacker!" she barked, lunging with a thrust. He tripped her with a root that erupted from the ground, smirking as she stumbled. "Fast enough?" She tackled him, pinning him in the dust, her breath warm on his face. "Not bad," she said, her scar crinkling as she grinned. He blushed, vines retreating into his sleeves. "Uh, truce?" She laughed, pulling him up. "For now, princeling."Elara joined them later, her auburn curls tied back, her leather satchel clinking with vials and herbs as she crossed the courtyard. "That mark means trouble," she said, studying the insignia with a frown, her fingers tracing its jagged edges. "The Greenheart's waking—they sense it in you, Alaric." He flopped onto a bench, groaning as he rubbed his bruised arm. "Great, I'm a walking target. Can I opt out of this cosmic prank?" She shook her head, her green eyes steady, and handed him a sprig of sage, its scent sharp and earthy. "Not anymore. You're tied to this—whether you like it or not." He sniffed it, wrinkling his nose. "Smells like responsibility. Gross. Can't I just nap and let Gavric handle it?" Mira snorted, leaning against the bench. "Gavric'd punch a demon before outsmarting it. You're our shot, weed boy." He sighed, pocketing the sage. "Fantastic. I'm doomed."