Chapter Thirty-Eight: The Meeting of Kings
The Hollow stirred with anxious energy as the council adjourned. From the walls, watchers could already see the glitter of steel and banners swaying between the trees. The royal caravan was close.
Kael stood before the longhouse, shadows curling faintly at his heels. His crimson eyes scanned the faces gathered—the veterans, the wolfkin patrols, the goblins who peeked from doorways with wide eyes. The Hollow's heart thumped with a single question: What now?
Kael's answer was simple.
"Prepare a delegation," he ordered.
The Procession of the Hollow
Within the hour, a party assembled.
Kael himself stood at the front, cloak of black and crimson settling over his shoulders like a mantle of command. His twin blades were sheathed at his sides, but the dark aura of his power lingered like heat off coals.
Lyria, bow strung, quiver full, her eyes sharp as a hawk's. She was the Hollow's hunter, its unseen strike, and Kael would not meet human royalty without her.
Thalos, towering, tusked, wearing simple armor that looked like it had been hammered directly onto his skin. His sword was a slab of steel carried one-handed, a living reminder of the strength that dwelled in Kael's Hollow.
Fenrik, chosen for his keen senses and steady instincts, would walk with them, spear in hand and ears swiveling for every hint of danger.
Behind them, a small honor guard of wolfkin and elves marched in neat formation, banners of black and silver stitched by goblin hands flying at their backs.
The Hollow did not send rabble. It sent its finest.
The Road South
They marched from the gates in silence. The air was tense, every crunch of boots and paw-pads against the dirt a drumbeat. The southern road wound through groves of towering trees, sunlight breaking in golden shafts across the forest floor.
Soon, they heard the distant clatter of hooves and wheels. Then the glimmer of steel helms through the foliage.
The royal caravan emerged like a tide of civilization pressing into wild lands.
Dozens of soldiers in polished armor rode in tight formation, banners bearing the crest of the kingdom—a golden lion upon a white field—snapping in the wind. Wagons laden with chests and barrels trundled forward, guarded on all sides. At the rear, pulled by six white steeds, rolled a massive carriage trimmed in gold and blue, its windows veiled by silken curtains.
The sight made Fenrik's ears twitch, a low growl caught in his throat. Even Lyria's knuckles whitened against her bow.
"Careful," Kael murmured without looking back. "They came to speak. Let us not be the first to bare fangs."
Thalos chuckled darkly. "If they do, we'll show them whose jaws bite harder."
The Meeting Point
The two groups slowed as they neared an open clearing where the road widened. Birds scattered from the treetops, sensing the tension rippling through the air.
The Hollow's party lined up with military precision, their banners raised high. Across from them, the human soldiers fanned out into a wall of polished steel, shields gleaming.
A hush fell.
From the royal carriage, a figure stepped out. The soldiers parted, bowing their heads.
The man who emerged was tall, broad-shouldered, and draped in a cloak of deep crimson lined with white fur. A golden crown rested upon his dark hair, his face marked with the lines of age and command. His eyes, sharp and calculating, swept across the Hollow's party with the weight of judgment.
The king of the realm had come in person.
Kael felt the eyes of his people at his back. He stepped forward, shadows curling faintly around his boots, his crimson gaze locking with the king's.
The world seemed to still.
Two leaders—one of shadow and fire, one of crown and steel—stood face to face in the wilds, the fate of their peoples hanging unspoken between them.
The silence was heavy, pregnant with the promise of words or blood.