Chapter 83— Whispers Beyond the Hollow
The caravans of Ebon Hollow moved quietly but with purpose, winding through forests and fields, bringing goods to distant villages and cities. Their wagons bore hides cured with precision, metal tools and weapons of undeniable quality, and foodstuffs packed neatly in containers crafted with care. To outsiders, the strange mix of orcs, elves, goblins, and humans working together in harmony was as jarring as it was impressive.
It did not go unnoticed.
In the Court of King Darius of Velmire
King Darius sat upon his oaken throne, his council of nobles arrayed before him. A merchant who had just returned from trade in the north bowed deeply, setting a blade upon the marble floor at the king's feet.
The king leaned forward, running a finger along the sword's edge. "This work," he said, his tone caught between admiration and unease, "was not forged by our smiths. Where did you acquire it?"
"From a caravan, my king," the merchant said. "A caravan bearing the mark of the Hollow. They traded fairly, their prices honest. Their coin, good. And their goods—" he gestured to the sword, "—they rival ours in quality, if not surpass them."
Murmurs broke out among the councilors.
Darius leaned back, narrowing his eyes. "The Hollow… Once dismissed as rabble and outcasts. Yet they craft weapons worthy of my knights. If they are not a threat, then why do we shun them?"
In a Border Village Tavern
Smoke curled from the hearth as farmers and hunters gathered, speaking in hushed voices over mugs of ale. A trader slapped a fine leather satchel onto the table.
"Got this from Hollow folk," he said proudly. "Best stitching I've ever seen. Sold me grain too, cleaner than the royal stores."
One of the hunters frowned. "Ain't they monsters? Half-breeds and the like?"
The trader shrugged. "If monsters can make goods better than kings, then what's that say about us?"
Laughter rippled through the tavern, but the unease was clear. The Hollow was no longer a ghost story whispered at night. It was becoming something far more tangible — and far harder to ignore.
In the Hall of Lord Brenwick
Lord Brenwick, a minor noble whose lands bordered the swamp, paced his hall while his advisors looked on.
"They grow," he said, voice low and tense. "The Hollow's caravans pass through my lands, their coffers fattening with each trip. And yet no bandits touch them, no rivals dare interfere. Why? Because they're armed, organized, and—damn it all—they look like a nation in the making."
One of his captains cleared his throat. "If they are stable, if their goods are strong, then perhaps they should not be spurned. To shun them is to make them enemies, my lord."
Brenwick paused, hand tightening on the back of his chair. His lips curled, torn between anger and reluctant reason. "If they are not a threat, then why should they be shunned?"
In the Halls of the Adventurer's Guild
The Guildmaster of Redhaven sat with his lieutenants, a map of the region spread across the table. Pins marked the Hollow's caravans, their paths carefully tracked.
"They move like a kingdom," the Guildmaster said. "Disciplined. Guarded. Their supplies flow without disruption, their coffers swell. They are not like the scattered tribes of old."
One lieutenant scoffed. "Then perhaps we should ally with them."
The Guildmaster's eyes gleamed. "Or perhaps we should test them. If they truly are so stable, then they can weather storms. Let us see how deep their strength runs."
A silence fell. Not all who noticed the Hollow saw their rise with admiration. Some saw opportunity. Others, only a challenge to their power.
From taverns to thrones, whispers of Ebon Hollow grew louder. A people once dismissed as fractured and doomed had proven resilient, industrious, and united. And though not all welcomed the thought, more and more voices asked the same question:
If they are not a threat, why should they be shunned?