Chapter 102 – The First Strike
The Hollow slept, but Kael could not.
The weight of the day pressed heavily on his chest as he sat in the newly finished palace, the flickering glow of a single lantern throwing shadows against the carved stone walls. His helm rested on the table beside him, its polished horns gleaming faintly in the light. The halls were silent, yet his thoughts roared like storms within his skull.
Varik's report replayed over and over—banners stretched wide, siege engines lined like teeth, ranks of steel-clad soldiers prepared to descend. No matter how he looked at it, the human kingdom meant to erase the Hollow, not merely suppress it. They feared him. They feared them.
And that fear would not fade.
Kael leaned back in his chair, eyes tracing the rafters overhead. If we wait, they will crush us beneath sheer numbers. Even with our walls, even with the unity we've built, they will wear us down.
He thought of the children playing in the streets, of Druaka's booming laughter, of Lyria's quiet smile. He thought of Fenrik's gruff loyalty, Thalos' brute strength, Rogan's newfound drive to protect, Varik's cold calculations. A family forged from broken pieces—one that deserved a chance to thrive.
Preemptive strikes. The words formed like iron in his mind. If we can strike first, weaken them, buy more time… perhaps even break their will before they reach us.
It was risky. Dangerous. Reckless. But wasn't everything they had built born of risks?
Kael rose, his chair scraping quietly against the stone floor. He crossed to the window, looking out across the Hollow. Torches flickered along the walls, their light bobbing as patrols made their rounds. Beyond them, the forest stretched wide and endless, concealing both allies and enemies alike.
"Better to meet them in the dark," Kael muttered, "than wait for the dawn that brings fire to our doors."
Umbra stirred at his side, the great beast's yellow eyes glowing in the dim. It seemed to sense Kael's resolve, for it padded closer, brushing against his leg with a low, approving growl.
Kael clenched his fists. The decision was made.
By dawn, he had summoned the council. His words were blunt, his tone unyielding.
"We strike first."
The chamber erupted with voices—some raised in anger, others in fear, still others in wary agreement. Fenrik slammed his fist against the table. "You mean to march out to them? Boy, they'll carve us apart!"
Thalos leaned forward, tusks gleaming in the firelight. "Perhaps not. The young master is right—sitting and waiting is death. A strike could turn their strength into weakness."
Rogan grunted approval, arms folded. "If we cut the head from the snake, the body falters. Soldiers without leaders are nothing more than frightened men with steel."
Varik, silent until now, narrowed his cold eyes. "And if you fail, Kael? If your gamble leaves us exposed, the Hollow burns."
Kael let them argue until their voices burned out, then stood tall, letting silence fall. His presence was enough.
"I will lead the strike," he said evenly. "I will not send others into fire without walking there myself. We will not defeat the entire army, but we will cut them, wound them, slow their march. Every day we gain is another wall raised, another sword forged, another child given a chance to live."
His eyes swept across them all, his voice rising. "We knew this would come. Every one of us. The world fears us—our kind, our way of life, me. But this is not the end. This is the beginning. And I will not see our Hollow fall without fighting for every breath of it."
Silence followed. A heavy, weighted silence. Then one by one, they gave nods—some reluctant, some grim, some with the fire of determination burning already in their gazes.
The strike team was chosen: Kael, Fenrik, Thalos, Varik, and Lyria. Five blades against a thousand. But five blades sharpened to pierce the heart.
The journey to the enemy camp was made under the cover of night. They moved like shadows, Umbra ranging ahead to sniff out patrols. Kael led them with quiet precision, every step fueled by the iron resolve hammered into him the night before.
When at last they reached the edge of the vast encampment, the sight was staggering even in the darkness. Rows upon rows of tents stretched across the clearing, banners flapping faintly in the night wind. Siege towers loomed like dark giants against the stars. Fires burned in great circles, soldiers clustered around them, eating, laughing, sharpening blades.
The human war machine.
Kael's jaw tightened. "This is what they bring against us," he whispered. "And they call us monsters."
They waited until the darkest hour, then struck.
The first explosion tore through a line of supply wagons, Kael's chaos magic unraveling reality itself to ignite wood and steel in a furious blaze. Soldiers screamed as fire swallowed their camp, the sudden eruption throwing them into chaos.
Fenrik roared, swinging his axe with brutal precision, cutting down the first wave of guards who rushed their way. Thalos bellowed beside him, his massive frame cleaving a path through the confusion, every strike sending bodies sprawling.
Varik slipped like a serpent through the fray, his daggers cutting throats before alarms could be fully raised, his movements cold and efficient.
Lyria's arrows flew swift and deadly, each one finding its mark even in the chaos of smoke and fire.
And Kael—Kael was the storm itself. Chaos magic poured from him in furious waves: spears of shadow impaling tents, beasts of twisted light and darkness clawing their way into the camp before dissipating, trees themselves bending to lash at soldiers.
The enemy shouted, scrambled, panicked. Men tripped over one another in the smoke, commanders screamed for order, and still Kael pressed forward.
But for every man they struck down, ten more rose. The camp was vast, its soldiers disciplined once the first shock faded. Drums thundered, horns blared, and soon the night was filled with the clash of steel and the roar of fire.
The strike team fought savagely, cutting deep wounds into the enemy camp. Wagons burned, siege engines cracked under chaotic force, lines of soldiers broke and scattered. The enemy reeled under the ferocity of it.
Yet Kael saw the truth even as his blade and magic carved through the chaos. This was not enough. Not to destroy them. Not to stop them.
But it was enough to hurt them. Enough to remind them that the Hollow would not cower in the dark.
At last, as the camp rallied its full might, Kael gave the order. "Fall back!"
Reluctant, bloodied, but alive, his team withdrew into the forest, vanishing into the night as quickly as they had come. Behind them, the camp still burned, the screams of men and the roar of fire rising into the sky.
Kael did not look back. His eyes burned forward, into the dark woods, where his people waited.
The first blow had been struck.
The war had begun.