Chapter Fifty-One: The Wounded One
The Hollow was hushed when Kael pushed aside the flap of the healer's tent. Inside, the air was heavy with the smell of herbs and iron. Candles burned low, their smoke curling against the canvas roof.
The ogre lay on a reinforced cot, her massive frame dwarfing the bed. Even unconscious, she radiated raw strength—the cords of muscle beneath her battered skin, the long limbs built for crushing stone, the sheer presence of her kind. But now, all of it was diminished. She looked smaller, frailer, a mountain carved into rubble.
Kael stepped closer, his crimson eyes narrowing as he studied her injuries under the dim light.
The elven healer, Serala, rose from her stool, brushing her hands against a blood-stained cloth. Her face was pale, eyes shadowed with exhaustion, but sharp as ever.
"She should be dead," Serala said quietly. "Any normal ogre would be. Whoever did this… they wanted her broken, not killed."
Kael's voice was low, dangerous. "Tell me."
Serala hesitated, then nodded grimly. She gestured to the deep slashes across the ogre's chest and abdomen, still bound in glowing bandages. "These wounds—they were left open too long. Not fatal immediately, but enough to weaken her, make her suffer. Her arm was shattered deliberately, not in combat. Someone used a hammer."
Her hands tightened on the cloth. "And her back… it's a latticework of scars. Whips, blades, burns. Old wounds layered over fresh ones."
Kael's jaw tightened, his shadows twitching at his feet. "Torture."
Serala's gaze darkened further. "Yes. And more." She lowered her voice, as if the tent itself might recoil from the truth. "Bruising, tearing… signs of rape. Repeated. By many."
The air turned suffocating.
Kael's hands curled into fists, his claws digging into his palms until blood welled. His crimson eyes burned with barely contained fury, the shadows at his back roiling like a storm. For a heartbeat, he said nothing—because if he spoke, he might ignite the tent in fire and darkness both.
Finally, his voice came, hoarse but steady. "They didn't want a prisoner. They wanted a plaything."
Serala inclined her head, her face tight. "Yes."
Kael forced himself to breathe, the taste of ash in his throat. He stepped closer to the cot, his gaze softening despite the rage boiling in his chest. The ogre stirred faintly, her cracked lips parting as a low groan escaped.
"Water," Kael ordered. Serala pressed a damp cloth into his hand, and he knelt, gently pressing it to the ogre's mouth. She drank in weak gulps, her throat convulsing, before slumping back.
Her eyes fluttered open.
They were gray—storm-gray, clouded with pain but still sharp. They locked onto Kael's face, and for a moment there was only confusion. Then recognition—not of him, but of someone who wasn't there to hurt her.
Kael's voice softened. "You're safe now. No one will touch you again."
Her lips moved, dry and cracked. "…who?"
"My name is Kael," he said. "Leader of the Hollow. And you?"
She swallowed hard, voice rough and raw from screaming. "…Druaka. Daughter of Varok… of the Broken Fang Clan."
The name tugged at Kael's memory. Thalos had mentioned them once: a proud line of warriors, feared even among ogres, scattered after humans burned their stronghold years ago. Survivors were said to be rare.
Kael inclined his head. "Druaka of the Broken Fang. You're among kin now. We'll see you healed."
Druaka exhaled shakily, her eyelids drooping. Even battered, her features held a fierce beauty—the sharp ridge of her brow, the strong line of her jaw, skin tinted a deep earthy gray. Her tusks were short, chipped from abuse, and her long black hair was matted with blood, but beneath it all, Kael could see the warrior she once had been.
"…why?" she rasped.
Kael's crimson eyes burned steady. "Because no one deserves chains. Not here. Not in my Hollow."
Her gaze lingered on him for a heartbeat longer before exhaustion pulled her back into unconsciousness.
Kael remained kneeling by her cot, his claws still stained with his own blood, the shadows around him curling low and restless.
He didn't need to say it aloud—but in his heart, a vow was made.
Whoever did this to her will bleed. And I will be the one to take it from them.
Kael left the healer's tent with shadows clinging to his boots like a second skin. The cool night air outside hit him, but it did little to temper the storm roiling inside his chest. The Hollow was quiet now, lanterns glowing along the dirt paths, families settling into their homes. Yet Kael's mind burned with the memory of Druaka's gray eyes, heavy with torment.
At the edge of the healer's ring of tents, Lyria leaned against a wooden post, her bow slung over her back. She'd been waiting for him. When she saw the hard set of his face, her own softened.
"What did Serala say?" she asked quietly, pushing off the post to fall into step beside him.
Kael didn't answer right away. His jaw clenched. He led her away from earshot, toward the shadow of a newly built storehouse, where the dim firelight couldn't reach them. Only then did he speak, his voice low, like ash dragged over stone.
"She was tortured," he said. "Beaten, broken, kept alive because it amused them. And worse… they used her. Again and again. Stripped her of everything she had left."
Lyria froze, her breath catching. She closed her eyes, her hand instinctively reaching for his arm. She didn't recoil at the ugliness of the words, but her fingers tightened on him as if anchoring him.
Kael let out a long breath through his nose, crimson eyes narrowing at the ground. "I've seen cruelty before, Lyria. I've dealt it myself. But this…" He shook his head, voice shaking for a heartbeat. "This was meant to erase her. Not just to break her body, but her spirit. And she's still breathing. That… is the only miracle."
Lyria stepped closer, her face shadowed with pain, though it wasn't hers. "Then she's stronger than they knew. And you—" she paused, studying him with intensity, "—you were right to bring her here. No one should die in chains. Not even ogres. That's what makes you different from them, Kael. That's why they follow you."
Kael turned his gaze on her, searching her eyes. In them, he didn't see pity. He saw steel. Agreement. A reflection of the values he clung to even when his council spat venom at him.
Before he could answer, heavy footfalls approached.
Thalos emerged from the darkness, his towering form still carrying the aura of an old warlord, though tempered by age. The moonlight caught the scar that ran across his face, and for once, his expression wasn't hard, but measured.
"I heard what the council said earlier," Thalos rumbled, his voice deep as a drum. "I didn't agree with you then. I thought keeping her here would only invite ruin."
Kael's shadows curled at his feet, defensive, ready for another argument. But Thalos raised a hand, shaking his head.
"I was wrong," the old ogre admitted, surprising them both. "I've led warriors. I've watched leaders make choices that saved armies, and others that doomed them. And tonight, I saw something I didn't expect." His gaze hardened, but it was respect that burned there, not anger. "You didn't bend. Not to fear. Not to the council. You stood by your values—even when it risked everything. That's the mark of a true leader."
Kael blinked, the tension in his shoulders easing only slightly. "You opposed me because you feared weakness."
Thalos grunted. "Yes. But you didn't give weakness—you gave strength. You kept us from becoming the monsters our enemies think we are. If we'd cast her out, we'd have been no better than the bastards who broke her."
For a long moment, the three stood in silence, the night pressing close around them. Kael studied Thalos, the old general who had once questioned every decision he made. To hear such words now… it meant more than he'd expected.
Finally, Kael inclined his head. "I'll remember that, Thalos. And I'll remember who stood with me when it mattered."
The ogre gave a sharp nod, then looked toward the healer's tent. "If she lives, Druaka could become a symbol. Proof that even the broken can rise again in this Hollow. The people will follow that kind of strength."
Kael's gaze softened. "If she lives, she'll be given a chance to choose her path—whether she wishes to fight or not. She deserves that much."
Thalos gave a rare, rough chuckle. "You never make it easy, do you?"
Lyria's lips curved into the faintest smile, though her hand was still firm on Kael's arm. "That's because he isn't trying to lead an army of survivors. He's trying to build a home."
For the first time that night, Kael allowed the corners of his mouth to lift—not a smile, but the shadow of one. His rage hadn't cooled, but with Lyria's steadiness at his side and Thalos's unexpected support, the burden didn't feel quite as heavy.