The door slammed shut behind Ethan, leaving a heavy silence in its wake. Elara, her eyes blazing with a righteous fury, raised her gnarled staff and tapped it three times on the worn wooden floor. The room vibrated with a low hum as a dozen witches turned towards her, their faces etched with concern.
"My sisters," Elara boomed, her voice echoing through the cavernous hall. "We received a plea for help from Coleridge. A debt hangs heavy upon our hearts – a debt of gratitude for the refuge they have offered us when our own lands were ravaged by the very creatures that now threaten their city."
A murmur of agreement rippled through the gathered coven. Most bore the scars of vampire brutality, memories of ransacked homes and enslaved lives etched into their very souls.
"We cannot stand idly by," Elara continued, her voice hardening. "We know firsthand the horrors they inflict, the insatiable hunger for power that drives them. We will not let Coleridge fall."
