Chapter Nineteen: Fire Beneath the Ridge
The crack of a bowstring rang through the Hollow's morning air.
Elira hissed as the arrow flew wide, embedding itself deep in a tree trunk. "Damn it!" she muttered, lowering the bow with frustration.
Lyria's voice was calm, clipped. "You breathe too shallow. You release too soon." She stepped behind the girl, taking Elira's arms and adjusting her posture with firm, precise hands. "Again."
Beside them, Dain fumbled with a smaller bow, the string trembling as he tried to draw it. His arms shook, sweat dripping down his temple. The arrow loosed with a pitiful snap, barely reaching halfway to the target.
Lyria walked over, crouching to meet his eye. "Strength will come," she said. "But aim is more than muscle. Focus. See the target in your mind before you strike."
Kael watched from a short distance, arms folded. Umbra lay at his feet, golden eyes following each movement with lazy precision. Around them, goblins paused in their tasks to watch, wolfkin leaned against posts with quiet amusement, and even Thalos rumbled in approval as the children struggled through the drills.
The Hollow was a crucible, Kael thought. And these two—fragile, thin, cast aside by their own kind—were being hammered into something harder. Perhaps, if the fire didn't consume them first, they might yet endure.
Elira tried again. This time, her arrow clipped the edge of the target. A few goblins cheered. Dain whooped loudly for her, despite his own failures.
Kael's crimson eyes narrowed in thought. They stumble, but they do not stop. That, at least, is worth something.
That evening, the council convened.
The long hall was lit with oil lamps, shadows dancing on timber walls. Baldrek the dwarf sat with arms crossed, smelling of smoke and iron. Thalos leaned heavily against the wall, his massive form half in shadow, his tusks catching the firelight. The elder goblins murmured among themselves, while wolfkin guards kept their silence, watchful.
Kael sat at the head of the chamber, Umbra curled beside his chair. His crimson eyes swept the assembly once before settling on Lyria.
"Report," he commanded.
She rose, unrolling a rough map drawn on treated hide. Her fingers traced a ridge marked with jagged lines. "Two days northeast. Here. The wyrm has carved tunnels beneath this ridge, using the earth itself as both fortress and snare. I observed it over four nights."
Her silver eyes flicked toward Kael, then back to the map.
"It emerges at dusk to hunt, never from the same tunnel twice. Its scales are iron-gray, thick as a knight's armor. Its breath is not fire, but poison—thick mists that choke prey and corrode steel. I tracked bones near its lair. Dozens of them. Wolves, boars, men. It has no shortage of food."
The hall was silent. Even Thalos' deep rumble was gone.
Lyria continued, her tone steady. "It does not fight blindly. Twice I saw it feign retreat, only to circle back and strike from below. This wyrm thinks, Kael. It is not brute strength alone. To face it head-on is suicide."
Murmurs rippled through the goblins. Baldrek scowled. Fenrik's ears flattened, a low growl in his throat.
Kael leaned forward, elbows on the table, crimson eyes burning into the map. "Then we do not face it head-on."
He lifted his gaze, sweeping across his council. "We strike with precision. While I draw its attention, others collapse tunnels to limit its movements. Hunters strike from above, and wolfkin bar its escape routes. We cut off its tricks. Then we end it."
"Too dangerous," one goblin elder muttered.
"Not dangerous enough," Thalos rumbled. His tusks gleamed as he leaned forward. "This wyrm has lived long because men fear its cunning. To kill it will show that even the cleverest beast falls before us."
Baldrek snorted. "And if Kael's poison-choked corpse is what's left?"
Silence hung for a moment before Kael's voice cut through, iron and fire.
"I am the only one who can face it directly. None of you deny that. But I will not stand alone. Lyria—your runes, your arrows. Fenrik—your wolfkin will hold the lines. Thalos—your strength will collapse the tunnels when the wyrm retreats." His gaze swept each of them, his words leaving no room for refusal. "We strike as one. That is how we live. That is how we win."
The council exchanged uneasy looks. Then, one by one, they nodded.
Finally, Kael turned to Lyria. "You will lead the scouts. Every movement of the wyrm, every pattern you observed, will decide this battle. Speak."
Lyria met his gaze without flinching. "Then listen well."
And she began again, detailing every hour of her observations—the rhythm of the wyrm's hunts, the depth of its tunnels, the subtle shifts of earth that gave away its ambushes. Her voice was steady, but beneath it ran the steel of conviction.
Kael listened, crimson eyes fixed on her, the firelight reflecting like blood in his gaze.
This would not be an easy battle. But it would be theirs.