Chapter Fifty-Two: The Shadow of Fear (Continued)
The next two days passed like the tightening of a bowstring—every hour winding the Hollow closer to the breaking point.
On the first day, Kael walked among his people, his shadow trailing long against the rising sun. He oversaw the strengthening of defenses: new barricades of timber and stone rising along the eastern palisade, oil-soaked cloth wrapped around arrowheads, sand and water lined in barrels across the streets. The dwarves worked day and night at the forge, pounding steel into arrowheads, spear tips, and crude yet sturdy blades for every hand willing to fight.
The wolfkin drilled relentlessly under Fenrik's barking commands, their snarls and howls carrying across the Hollow. Thalos towered at their center, his deep voice booming like a war drum, drilling formations into them until sweat ran like rivers down their backs.
The elves strung rope bridges across rooftops, preparing to rain arrows from above, while humans dug trenches at the east gate to slow the enemy's advance. Even the goblins joined in, darting between workers, carrying messages, stacking stones for slings, or sharpening crude spears.
Kael said little, but he was everywhere. His crimson eyes met those of frightened children, of trembling farmers, of warriors who tried to mask their unease. To each he gave only a steady look, a nod, a quiet word of iron: "You will not fall. Not while I stand."
That night, he stood watch with Umbra on the eastern wall, the beast's molten eyes cutting through the darkness. Lyria stood beside him, her bow strung, the wind tugging at her silver hair. No bandit came, but the silence was heavy, as if the swamp itself held its breath.
The second day brought no attack, only more tension. The Hollow became a hive of motion, every sound sharp and urgent—the hiss of quenching steel, the snap of bowstrings, the thud of wood being hauled into place. Kael sent hunting parties into the forest to bring back extra food and posted wolfkin scouts far along the swamp's edge.
That evening, the council convened briefly, their voices hushed but steady. They argued over small details—whether to keep the women and children in the longhouse or scatter them across the village, whether to risk setting fire traps in the swamps. Kael's voice cut through the debates like steel:
"Do not doubt. Do not falter. They come for us as slavers. We will show them we are not prey."
The words carried, echoing even after the council was dismissed.
On the third night, the Hollow waited.
The moonless sky swallowed all light, leaving the swamp a black void beyond the walls. The people stood at their posts—wolfkin crouched low in the reeds, elves hidden in the treeline, humans and dwarves braced behind the barricades. The air was damp, the silence suffocating. Every ear strained for the sound of snapping twigs, for the rustle of reeds.
Kael stood on the palisade, Umbra growling at his side, his shadows coiling like smoke around his boots. Lyria was a silent sentinel, her arrow notched and ready. Thalos waited near the gate with a massive blade, his bulk a wall of muscle and steel.
The first sound came like a whisper—the sloshing of boots through swamp water. Then another. Then dozens more. The swamp grass rustled, shapes emerging like phantoms from the mist.
Bandits.
Rows of them. Their armor mismatched, their weapons crude yet lethal, torches flaring in their hands. At their head strode the leader Kael had seen in his vision, his cruel grin sharp beneath the flickering light. His eyes were fixed on the Hollow, on its walls, its people, its promise of spoils.
Kael lifted his hand. His people held their breath.
The bandits crept closer, the torchlight gleaming off steel and oil-soaked cloth. The grin on their leader's face widened.
Kael's fist closed.
"Now."
The night exploded.
A storm of arrows rained from the treeline, loosed by elves with deadly precision. Spears whistled through the air, felling the front line. Wolfkin leapt from the shadows, howling, their claws raking flesh. And from the palisade, Kael unleashed his power.
Shadows roared outward like a living tide, spears of darkness ripping through the swamp, skewering torches, extinguishing light, tearing screams from the throats of the first wave of raiders.
The Hollow had not broken.
The Hollow had struck first.