The palace gardens lay hushed under a crescent moon, their usual symphony of crickets and rustling leaves drowned by an eerie stillness that prickled Alaric Veyne's skin. He sprawled on a stone bench near the fountain, its waters glinting silver in the dim light, his cloak of woven leaves and vines splayed beneath him like a crumpled blanket. The Greenheart's pulse thrummed in his chest—stronger now, a steady drumbeat that vibrated through his bones and kept sleep at bay. "This thing's worse than an alarm clock," he muttered, rubbing his sternum where the seed had fused weeks ago, its crystalline warmth a constant nag. "Can't a guy nap without the universe poking him?" The air smelled of damp moss and night-blooming jasmine, but beneath it lingered a faint, acrid whiff—sulfur, the calling card of demons creeping ever closer to Eldrathia's heart.
He'd barely closed his eyes when the ground trembled—a low rumble that sent ripples across the fountain's surface and jolted him upright. "Oh, come *on*," he groaned, brushing dirt off his tunic as he staggered to his feet. "What now? Earthquake? Angry gardeners? I'm not in the mood." The answer came swiftly: a roar split the night, guttural and raw, echoing from the palace's outer walls. Shadows shifted beyond the garden hedge—hulking figures, their eyes glowing red like embers in the dark. Alaric's stomach sank. "Demons. Of course. Because midnight naps are overrated."
He sprinted toward the sound, vines sprouting instinctively—hundreds now, their tips glowing with emerald light as the Greenheart surged within him. The palace courtyard loomed ahead, a wide expanse of cobblestones flanked by marble statues of long-dead kings, their stern faces lit by flickering torches. Guards scrambled, their spears clanking as they formed a shaky line near the gates. Mira burst from the barracks, her red hair wild, her sword already drawn and glinting in the torchlight. "Weed boy!" she shouted, spotting him. "Get your lazy ass over here—trouble's knocking!" Her armor was scratched and dented, fresh from a patrol, and her scar crinkled as she grinned, fierce and fearless.
Alaric skidded to a halt beside her, panting. "Can't I just send them a 'no thanks' note?" he quipped, but his vines lashed out as three demon scouts breached the gates—each seven feet of charred muscle, claws dripping black ichor, their roars shaking the stones. "Take a hike, uglies!" he yelled, sending a dozen tendrils to coil their legs, yanking them down with a *thud* that cracked the cobblestones. Mira charged, her blade slashing a scout's arm, ichor spraying as it howled. "Faster, slacker!" she barked, ducking a swipe that shattered a statue's head into dust.
He focused, evolving his vines—some sharpened into glowing spears, others thickened into thorned ropes. Twenty speared a demon's chest, piercing through its ribcage with a wet *crunch*, while thirty more wove a net around another, thorns shredding its flesh as it thrashed. "Nap time, campfires!" he shouted, dodging a claw that grazed his shoulder, tearing his cloak and drawing a thin line of blood. The pain stung, sharp and hot, but he gritted his teeth, sprouting a thorn wall that erupted from the ground, its barbs impaling the third scout's legs. It collapsed, gurgling, as Mira finished it with a thrust to its throat. "Teamwork's still a scam," he panted, wiping sap and blood from his hands, "but you're welcome."
The guards cheered, their voices hoarse with relief, but the victory was short-lived. A deeper roar echoed—louder, heavier—followed by the crash of splintering wood as the gates buckled inward. A demon brute lumbered through, twice the scouts' size, its hide scarred and molten, its claws like scythes that glinted in the moonlight. "Oh, you've *got* to be kidding me," Alaric groaned, vines twitching as the Greenheart pulsed harder, urging him forward. Mira gripped his arm, her fingers digging in. "We've got this, weed boy—don't flake now." He smirked, despite the dread curling in his gut. "Flake? Me? I'm the saltiest leaf in the book."
The brute charged, its footsteps shaking the earth, and Alaric unleashed everything—hundreds of vines surged like a living tide, glowing brighter than ever. Fifty speared its legs, thorns sinking deep into molten flesh, while others coiled its arms, tightening until ichor oozed. "Choke on that, barbecue king!" he yelled, evolving a dozen into acid-tipped whips that lashed its face, sizzling as they burned through its hide. The brute roared, snapping vines with a swipe that sent sap spraying, but Alaric grew more—relentless, chaotic, a storm of green fury. Mira darted in, her sword slashing its knee, forcing it to stumble. "Now, slacker!" she shouted. He wove a massive thorn net, its barbs glowing with Greenheart energy, and hurled it over the brute, tightening until its roars turned to gurgles. With a final *crack*, it collapsed, the courtyard falling silent save for the drip of ichor on stone.
Alaric staggered, chest heaving, sap and blood streaking his tunic. "That… sucked," he wheezed, flopping onto the cobblestones, his vines retreating into his sleeves. Mira knelt beside him, her grin shaky but warm. "Not bad, weed boy. You're growing on me—literally." He groaned, rolling his eyes. "Don't start with the puns. I'm the plant here." She laughed, ruffling his hair, her touch lingering as she pulled him up. "Come on, hero. We're not done yet."
Elara emerged from the palace then, her auburn curls tangled, her leather satchel slung over her shoulder as she hurried across the courtyard. Her green eyes widened at the carnage—demon corpses steaming, guards tending wounds, the brute's massive form sprawled like a fallen titan. "Alaric!" she called, kneeling beside him, her hands trembling as she pressed a vial of green liquid to his lips. "Drink—your shoulder's bleeding." He grimaced, swallowing the bitter brew—herbs and magic that stung his throat but eased the pain. "Thanks, plant lady," he muttered, wiping his mouth. "Still not signing up for this hero crap full-time." She smiled faintly, her fingers brushing his cheek as she checked his wound. "You already have, you stubborn weed. The Greenheart's chosen you—and it's not letting go."
Before he could retort, Kael slipped from the shadows near the gates, his pale face stark under his hood, dark eyes glinting with something unreadable. "Impressive, prince," he said, his voice low and sharp, fangs glinting as he smirked. "But that brute's just the start. Vampires are coming—Lysara's scouts tracked it here." Alaric groaned, flopping back onto the stones. "Fantastic. More stalkers. Can't I just nap through the apocalypse?" Kael's smirk widened. "Not a chance. They want your heart—literally." He tossed a dagger at Alaric's feet—its hilt carved with a fang and thorn. "A gift. You'll need it."
Mira snatched it up, inspecting it with a scowl. "Who's this creep?" she demanded, stepping between them. Kael tilted his head, unfazed. "A friend—or not. Depends on him." He vanished into the night, leaving Alaric staring at the dagger, its weight cold in his hand. "Great," he muttered, pocketing it. "More chores. Someone wake me when this nightmare's over."
Elara's hand rested on his shoulder, steadying him. "We'll face it together," she said, her voice soft but firm. Mira nodded, her sword still drawn. "No slacking, weed boy—we've got your back." He sighed, the Greenheart pulsing in sync with his racing heart. "Fine. But I'm complaining the whole way. This prince gig's a scam." The courtyard lay quiet now, but the air thrummed with tension—Eldrathia's reckoning was coming, and Alaric, nap or no nap, was its reluctant verdant spark.
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