Chapter Fifty-Eight: Stones for the Future
The council chamber smelled of parchment, ink, and burning wood as the fire crackled in the hearth. Snow slid from the roof in muffled thuds, the weight of winter pressing down on the Hollow, but inside the air was thick with voices.
Kael sat at the head of the table, his hand pressed to a map spread across the surface. His council ringed the table — Thalos with his arms crossed, Umbra leaning forward like a coiled spring, Druaka silent but watchful, Fenrik grumbling under his breath, and Lyria, who sat at Kael's right hand, her steady presence keeping him centered.
It was Fenrik who broke the silence first. "You said families, Kael. That we should encourage them to grow here." He jabbed a calloused finger at the map, where markers denoted the farmlands and outer quarters. "Fine idea, but how do you expect to house them? Most of our people are still packed into longhouses."
Thalos nodded, his deep voice gruff. "Shelter first, always. New homes must be raised before new mouths can be born."
Umbra countered, her sharp tongue as quick as ever. "And who builds those homes? Our warriors? Our farmers? They're already stretched thin. If you want growth, we need to prioritize recruitment — craftsmen, masons, builders. Draw them from the villages, the outcasts."
Kael leaned forward, his golden eyes bright in the firelight. "Then we do both. We use the resources we've gathered — timber, stone, iron. We build enough to show people we can house them. Then we send scouts with word: the Hollow accepts all who want freedom. Farmers, smiths, families… even those with nothing but their backs. They will come."
Lyria rested a hand lightly on the table. "And we protect them. If word spreads that this is a safe haven, it must stay that way. That means strengthening our patrols along the borders. No bandits, no beasts slipping through."
A murmur of agreement circled the table.
Druaka finally spoke, her voice low and smooth, carrying a weight Kael had learned to respect. "People need more than walls and food. They need trust. If you bring them here, Kael, you must give them a reason to believe they're more than just bodies to work and bleed."
Kael's gaze met hers. For a moment, the chamber fell silent. Then he nodded. "Then we'll show them. This is not a camp. It's a home. We will not repeat the cruelty of kings and lords. Here, everyone has a place."
The words seemed to settle the debate. The maps were rolled, the reports collected. But even as the council dispersed, Kael knew the weight of what they had agreed upon. They were no longer simply fighting for survival. They were building something far greater.
That night, Kael sat with Lyria in the quiet of his chamber. The fire burned low, shadows licking across the stone walls. She lay with her head against his shoulder, her fingers tracing idle patterns across the scars of his chest.
"You realize what you've done," she murmured. "You didn't just give them a home. You gave them a future. That's heavier than any battle you've fought."
Kael gave a low hum, wrapping an arm around her waist and pulling her closer. "I know. And for once, that weight doesn't feel like it'll crush me." He tilted his head down, pressing a kiss into her hair. "Because I'm not carrying it alone."
Her smile was small but warm. "I'll remind you of that every time you try to take everything on your own shoulders again."
For a while, they stayed like that, the silence between them as comforting as any words. Kael found himself thinking back to how empty he'd felt after his parents' deaths, how certain he had been that nothing could fill that void. And yet here she was — not filling it, but weaving something new around it, something he hadn't believed possible.
The next morning, Kael rose early to walk the village. The snow had softened into a powdery blanket, crunching under his boots as he made his rounds. He checked on the humans tending the granaries, on the dwarves working the forge despite the bitter cold, and on the wolfkin patrols who returned from the borders with frost clinging to their fur.
When he returned to his chambers, a small bundle awaited him at the door — wrapped in cloth, tied with a strip of leather. Curious, Kael knelt and unwrapped it. Inside lay a carefully crafted bracelet, made from polished bone and dark iron, its design simple but striking. Carved into the bone were faint runes of protection — ogre markings.
Kael turned it over in his hands, the weight of it heavier than its size should allow.
Druaka.
He didn't need to ask. The style was hers, the craftsmanship unmistakable. More than that, there was intention behind it. This wasn't a gift made lightly.
As he slid it onto his wrist, Kael felt the shadow of a thought press against him — not unwelcome, but unexpected. Druaka's eyes in council, her strength in battle, the quiet way she had healed Lyria. She had been silent since her rescue, but her silence had never meant absence.
For the first time, Kael wondered if she was trying to reach him — in ways beyond duty or survival.
And though he turned away to continue his work, the bracelet weighed heavily on his wrist all the same.