Chapter 97 – Rogan's Campaign
The Hollow had seen many strangers arrive since its founding—traders with wagons, hunters seeking coin, even families searching for a place where no one would spit at them for their ears or tusks. But this was different.
Now, Rogan walked the roads not as a traveler, but as a recruiter.
The red-haired ogre's steps thundered against the dirt paths, his broad frame impossible to ignore. His armor, crudely repaired from battles past, bore new straps and plates gifted by the Hollow's smiths. He carried no banner, no scroll of royal decree—only his voice, a weapon in its own right.
And people listened.
The Villages
In the first village—a tired settlement of scattered huts and muddy fields—men and women stopped their chores as Rogan entered the square. Some looked wary. Others clutched their tools as weapons. But when he spoke, his words carried like hammer strikes.
"Your homes are weak. Your walls will not stop what lurks in the woods. You bend your backs for humans who would slit your throats in the night. But in the Hollow, we do not bow. We fight. We live free."
He ripped a tree branch from the ground as though it were straw and snapped it over his knee. "I offer you a choice—stay here and pray your walls hold, or come with me and learn how to fight for something that lasts."
By nightfall, three young orcs and a nervous pair of beast-folk walked at his side, packs slung over their shoulders.
And so it went in the villages beyond.
Some jeered at him, spitting insults and old rumors about Kael the "demon boy." Others listened with fire growing in their eyes. A few left their fields behind, marching toward the Hollow with Rogan's heavy stride leading them.
The Training Grounds
Within weeks, the training yard swelled with bodies. Clumsy recruits lined up in uneven rows—orcish farmers, half-blood outcasts, desperate beast-folk, even a handful of humans who had grown tired of kneeling to their lords.
Rogan wasted no time.
"Strip down," he barked on the first morning. "You came here weak. I'll burn that weakness out of you, or you'll break. Either way, I don't care. Stand. Run. Fight. Bleed."
The drills were brutal.
He forced them to march until their legs trembled, then threw spears into their hands and made them run again. He dumped buckets of icy water over their heads in the predawn cold and commanded them to spar until their arms ached and their knuckles split.
When they fell, he dragged them up by the scruff and shoved them back into line.
"You think an enemy waits while you catch your breath?" he snarled. "On the battlefield, mercy doesn't exist. So don't look for it here."
The Watching Eyes
Thalos watched the training from the yard's edge, arms crossed over his massive chest. His tusks jutted forward, lips curled in a half-snarl as recruits stumbled and collapsed under Rogan's demands.
Fenrik stood beside him, chewing his beard with quiet irritation. "He'll kill half of them before they learn which end of a spear to hold."
Thalos grunted. "He is reckless. Too cruel."
But even as he said it, his sharp eyes followed a beast-folk recruit who fell three times on the same march, only to rise again under Rogan's booming roar. Each time, the boy's legs shook less. Each time, his steps grew steadier.
Fenrik spat into the dirt. "Still. The man knows how to break a body down. Question is—can he build it back up?"
Clash of Commanders
On the third day, Thalos could no longer hold his tongue.
"You push them too hard," the ogre rumbled as Rogan dismissed the recruits, half of them limping off with bruised arms and split lips. "Training is not slaughter. They are not soldiers yet."
Rogan wiped sweat from his brow and rounded on him, eyes blazing. "And how will they become soldiers if they don't know pain? You think coddling them will make them strong? No. They will learn by breaking, and then by standing back up. Only then will they be worth a damn."
Fenrik stepped forward, axe slung across his shoulder. "That's a fine speech, but soldiers also need discipline. Cohesion. If all you teach is rage, then when the first arrow flies they'll scatter like chickens."
For a moment it seemed the three would come to blows—red hair, grey tusks, and braided beard bristling against one another.
But then Rogan laughed, the sound deep and booming. "Good. Then you two stay. Show them discipline. Show them cohesion. I'll show them how to survive the pain."
Thalos narrowed his eyes but nodded slowly. Fenrik snorted and muttered, "At least the brute listens."
And so the training changed. Rogan still drove them to collapse, but Thalos drilled them in formations, teaching how to hold a shield wall, how to move as one. Fenrik barked lessons on weapon care and battlefield awareness, his axe cutting the air in sharp demonstrations.
The recruits cursed them under their breath, but their spines straightened. Their hands steadied. Their eyes grew hard.
Respect Earned
One evening, as the recruits practiced spear thrusts in the fading light, Thalos leaned on his great hammer, watching their movements. Rogan stood beside him, arms folded.
"They improve," Thalos admitted grudgingly.
Rogan's tusked grin split his face. "Of course they do. They've been broken, and now they're remade."
Fenrik ambled over, throwing a waterskin at Rogan's chest. "Don't let it go to your head. You may be a bastard, but I'll admit… you're not a useless one."
Rogan laughed, uncorking the skin and drinking deep. "That's the kindest thing I've heard in years. Careful, old man, or I might start liking you."
Fenrik rolled his eyes, but there was the faintest twitch of a smile in his beard.
Kael's View
When Kael came to inspect the yard days later, he found a field of recruits standing tall, sweat dripping down their bodies but their eyes sharp and unflinching.
Rogan stood at their head, arms crossed, pride blazing in his molten eyes. Thalos and Fenrik flanked him, both looking begrudgingly satisfied.
Kael felt a weight lift from his chest. For the first time, he saw the beginnings of what the Hollow had lacked—an army not of mercenaries or desperate volunteers, but of people forged into something greater.
As he left the yard, the sounds of Rogan's roaring commands followed him, echoing through the Hollow like the beat of war drums.
And Kael knew: for all the doubt and mistrust, the Hollow was growing stronger.