Chapter Thirteen: A Teacher's Gratitude
Kael sat upright in his cot, his chest still aching beneath the fresh bandages. The scent of herbs hung thick in the air, and the low murmur of voices drifted through the hall outside. Morning light filtered through the cracks of the wooden walls, painting thin golden lines across the floor.
Lyria stood at the foot of his bed, her arms folded, silver eyes sharp but softened by fatigue. Her hair was loose, her leathers stained from travel and battle. She'd barely slept—he could see it in the way her shoulders sagged.
"You've been unconscious for almost two days," she said plainly. "Long enough for half the village to think you wouldn't wake. Umbra hasn't left your side once."
Kael glanced down. The direwolf lay curled on the floor, golden eyes half-closed but watching. At Kael's movement, Umbra thumped his tail once against the ground, as if to say: About time.
"I told you," Kael rasped, voice rough, "it would take more than an ogre to kill me."
"Barely." Lyria stepped closer, her tone sharpened. "You pushed yourself to the edge again. If Umbra hadn't dragged you out of the muck, you'd have bled out on that corpse pile."
Kael let the words sit. He didn't argue. He couldn't. Instead, he gestured for her to continue. "What happened after?"
Lyria exhaled slowly, her tone shifting into a report. "The hunters freed over thirty captives—wolfkin, goblins, elves, and…" she hesitated, "one ogre. Shackled and half-starved. You'll want to hear about him later."
Kael's brows lifted slightly, but he kept silent.
"We stripped the Tyrant's den of everything worth taking," she continued. "Iron scraps, crude weapons, furs, barrels of salted meat. The ogre hoarded silver in clay jars—enough to line the village coffers for months. We even found bones carved into charms, some with rune etchings. I've already given them to the shamans to study."
Her tone hardened. "The place stank of death. The cages were rusted and slick with blood. I had the hunters burn what we couldn't carry. No one should ever live in that filth again."
Kael nodded slowly, picturing it all. The swamp fortress, reduced to ashes. Another scar on the land, but no longer festering.
"And the council?" he asked.
Lyria's lips curved in a wry, bitter smile. "Split. The goblin elder called you reckless but admitted we'd gained more lives and wealth than we've ever seen. Baldrek muttered about your stupidity but kept quiet once he saw the silver and the tools. Fenrik… he respects the victory, but he fears your power. I saw it in his eyes when you collapsed."
Kael's hand tightened slightly on the blanket. "And you?"
"I'm still here, aren't I?" she shot back, though her gaze softened. "Don't ask me to watch you do that again."
Silence stretched between them. Kael finally leaned back, staring up at the wooden ceiling. His voice was quieter when he asked, "And the captives? What's been done with them?"
"They were given food, water, clothes. The healers tended their wounds. Most will need weeks to recover, but they're alive." Lyria hesitated again. "One of them asked for you. The ogre."
Kael turned his head sharply, crimson eyes narrowing.
"He's not like the Tyrant," Lyria added quickly. "Older. Wiser. He's skilled—one of the hunters said they saw him carving practice forms in the dirt with a stick before he even had food in his belly. He asked for you by name, Kael. Said he owed you his freedom."
Kael sat in silence for a moment, digesting that. An ogre swordsman… a rarity, and dangerous. But perhaps also an opportunity.
"Take me to the council," Kael said, pushing himself to stand. His muscles screamed, his side burned, but he forced himself upright. "If he wants to speak, he'll do it before everyone."
The council chamber was crowded that evening. The goblin elder leaned on his staff, Baldrek sat with arms crossed, and Fenrik stood tall, tail swishing in agitation. Around them sat a ring of villagers—wolfkin guards, goblin shamans, a few curious elves.
Kael entered, Umbra at his side, and the murmurs died. His bandages peeked from beneath his cloak, but he walked tall, crimson eyes steady.
At the far side of the chamber knelt a figure unlike any other present. An ogre, his body scarred and weathered, his skin a deep gray-blue. He was massive even hunched down, his presence filling the room like thunderclouds. Yet his posture was respectful, almost humble, one knee bent, his head lowered.
When he raised his face, Kael saw age in his eyes. Not weakness—age. The kind that came with a lifetime of battle and loss.
"You are Kael," the ogre rumbled, his voice deep but controlled. "The one who slew the Tyrant. The one who shattered my chains."
Kael stopped before him, meeting his gaze without flinching. "I am. And you are?"
The ogre bowed his head slightly. "Thalos. Once of the Stonefang clan. A swordsman, a teacher, long before the Tyrant broke me." His hand flexed, massive fingers curling as though remembering the weight of a blade. "For years I rotted in that swamp, dreaming of freedom. You gave it to me. I owe you my life."
Murmurs swept the chamber. Fenrik's ears twitched in suspicion. Baldrek's brow furrowed. The goblin elder tapped his staff nervously.
Kael's crimson eyes stayed locked on Thalos. "And what would you do with that life?"
The ogre's gaze hardened. "Serve. Teach. Fight. Whatever you ask. My strength is yours. If you will have it."
The chamber fell silent, every eye turning to Kael.
The silence stretched, thick and taut, until Kael broke it. His voice was calm, steady, but edged with steel.
"Strength alone does not earn trust. But you speak like a warrior, Thalos. If you would serve here, then you will prove your worth not just to me—but to everyone."
The ogre inclined his head, massive shoulders rolling with the movement. "As it should be. Give me your trial, Kael, and I will show you I am no Tyrant's shadow."
The goblin elder thumped his staff against the ground. "Madness! An ogre, here, in our walls? The same race that nearly crushed us all?" His eyes bulged, voice shrill. "This is recklessness, Lord Kael. Too much even for you."
Baldrek snorted into his beard. "For once, the elder's not wrong. I don't trust his kind, chains or no chains. Ogres break, aye—but when they snap, they snap hard. You bring him into the forge, you risk every hammer, every hand."
Fenrik's tail lashed behind him as he spoke, his voice low and even. "He's dangerous. I can smell it. His blood is battle. Even if he kneels now, who is to say he won't rise later with our throats in his teeth?"
Murmurs of agreement rippled through the chamber. But then Lyria stepped forward, her silver eyes glinting with measured confidence.
"You all saw what Kael did to the Tyrant," she said. "He didn't just kill a monster. He broke the chains of its captives. Every race here benefits from his vision. If Kael says this ogre deserves a chance, then we give him that chance. Not because he is ogre, but because he is willing. And willingness is rarer than bloodlines."
Her words settled over the crowd. Kael's gaze swept the council. "You doubt me still, even after I've fought and bled for every one of you. But I don't ask for blind trust. I will test him. If Thalos proves himself, he earns a place. If he fails, he leaves. That is the way."
Thalos bowed his head again, voice resonant as a war drum. "It is enough."
The goblin elder sputtered but said no more. Baldrek grumbled into his beard. Fenrik's tail flicked with irritation, but he didn't challenge Kael. At last, the council allowed silence to settle.
Then Fenrik cleared his throat, cutting through it. "There is another matter. The fourth Overlord. One remains." His yellow eyes fixed on Kael. "And this time, the council will not accept you going alone."
Kael's jaw tightened. He opened his mouth, but Fenrik pressed on.
"You nearly died fighting the Tyrant. You did die, nearly, in that swamp. We cannot risk our leader throwing himself away in single combat again. If you hunt the last Overlord, you will take others with you. A strike force. Hunters. Fighters. No debate."
Baldrek gave a sharp nod. "For once, wolf-ears speaks sense. You're strong, Kael, but even dragons bleed. A kingdom's not built on a single sword arm."
The goblin elder wheezed but managed to agree, tapping his staff. "It is settled then. If our lord insists on fighting monsters, he will not fight them alone."
Kael's crimson eyes burned, but he saw the truth in their words. Slowly, he inclined his head. "Very well. When the last hunt comes, I'll bring others. But they follow me into the jaws of death only if they choose."
A ripple of relief passed through the chamber.
Baldrek leaned back, scratching his beard. "Good. Now—" he gestured toward the table at the chamber's center, where crates and bundles had been laid out "—let's talk about what we do with what we've already taken. No sense dreaming of future conquests if we don't use what we've got."
The council shifted focus. Lyria began listing what they had gathered: silver coins from the Tyrant's hoard, barrels of preserved food, herbs thick with healing potency, bones carved with crude runes, and tools scavenged from the swamp fortress.
The goblin elder's eyes gleamed. "The herbs—we should store them. Winter creeps closer, and sickness will follow. Let the shamans keep them safe."
Baldrek shook his head fiercely. "Bah! Hoarding's waste. The forge is ready now. Give me the silver, the metals, the bones—we'll turn scraps into weapons. Blades, arrowheads, armor for those who bleed."
Fenrik folded his arms. "And what of trade? A hoard of silver and goods rotting in crates does nothing. We could send parties to nearby markets. Quiet ones. Get grain, salt, medicine. Things we cannot craft yet."
Murmurs rose again, different factions tugging in different directions. Some called for hoarding, others for trade, others for immediate forging.
At last, all eyes turned back to Kael.
He rested a hand on Umbra's broad head, his crimson eyes glowing faintly in the firelight. "We will do all of it," he said. "The herbs will be divided—half to the healers for storage, half for trade with those who need them most. The silver will fund our tools and forge, but a portion will be set aside for markets. The runed bones go to the shamans. We waste nothing. Everything we take strengthens us."
His gaze swept the chamber, voice rising with conviction. "We are not a rabble of survivors anymore. We are builders. We are a people. Every coin, every herb, every scrap of bone—it feeds into that future. And when the last Overlord falls, it will be only the beginning."
The council sat in silence for a long moment. Then, slowly, even the goblin elder gave a small, grudging nod.
Kael stood tall despite his bandages, his shadow cast long across the chamber. For the first time since his parents' deaths, since his wandering began, he felt not just a leader—but a ruler.
And the eyes of his people burned with the same fire.