Chapter 108 – The Ashes of Love
The camp smelled of smoke and iron. The sounds of wounded soldiers filled the air, groans and whispers like the remnants of a storm that had shattered everything in its path. The medical tent stood at the center of it all, the canvas heavy with the weight of sorrow.
Kael limped inside, his chest still wrapped tight, Lyria close at his side. The air was thick with the sharp tang of blood and herbs, and every step felt heavier than the last.
At the far end of the tent, beneath dim lantern light, Druaka lay.
Her bronze skin was pale, her breathing shallow. Strips of linen wrapped her abdomen, already soaked through with dark crimson. Her once-strong frame looked fragile now, broken under the weight of the wound that had taken her. Rogan and Varik sat by her side, their massive bodies bowed, as if the entire world had pressed down on them.
Her eyes fluttered open at Kael's approach.
"…You came," she whispered, her lips curving faintly, weakly.
Kael fell to his knees at her side, his hands trembling as he reached for hers. Her palm was cold, her fingers limp in his grasp.
"You're not leaving me," he choked, his throat burning. "Not like this. Not after everything. I can fix this, Druaka—I will fix this."
The chaos inside him stirred violently, surging to his fingertips. He could feel it burning in his veins, a terrible, impossible promise of life and death. His hands glowed faintly with that raw, unshaped power as he pressed them over her wound.
"Kael—" Lyria's voice cut through the air, sharp and desperate.
But Druaka's weak hand lifted, resting on his wrist. Her eyes, though glassy, held clarity.
"No." Her voice was fragile but certain. "Not with that power."
Tears blurred Kael's vision. He shook his head wildly.
"I can bring you back," he begged. "I can shape the chaos, mend the flesh, force the blood to flow. I won't lose you—I can't."
Druaka smiled faintly, the kind of smile that came from somewhere deeper than pain.
"You don't understand… Chaos isn't life. It's ruin. If you try, you'll unmake me… and yourself."
Her grip tightened just barely on his wrist, what little strength she had left poured into the motion.
"You gave me something, Kael. Safety. A place where I could laugh again. Where I wasn't just… what they did to me. You gave me my brothers. You gave me hope." Her breath caught, a wet cough rattling her chest. "Don't take that from me by turning me into something I'm not meant to be."
Kael's chest heaved, his heart breaking with every word.
"I should've protected you," he whispered. "I should've—"
Her fingers brushed his cheek, trembling.
"You did. More than anyone ever could."
Her voice softened, fading like the last embers of a dying fire.
"Don't blame yourself… don't carry me like chains. Live for us all."
Her hand slipped away. Her eyes closed. The rise and fall of her chest slowed… and then stopped.
The silence that followed was unbearable.
Kael sat frozen, his hands still hovering over her still body, his chaos magic humming uselessly, waiting for a command that would never come. His breaths came ragged, shallow, until at last he let out a guttural cry that shook the tent walls.
Rogan roared as well, his grief thunderous, but his anger had a target. The towering ogre rose, his fists clenched, eyes burning with hatred as he turned on Kael.
"You let her die!" Rogan's voice was like rolling thunder. He surged forward, shoving Kael back with the force of a mountain. "With all your power—your cursed, godlike power—you let her die!"
Kael stumbled to his feet, his body shaking with grief and rage. His voice tore out, raw and furious:
"I tried!"
"You didn't try hard enough!" Rogan bellowed, slamming his fist into Kael's jaw. The impact rattled his skull, knocking him sideways.
Chaos surged in Kael's veins, uncontrollable, dangerous. He lunged forward, his hands gripping Rogan's throat. The ogre clawed at him, snarling, but Kael's grip was iron, his fury absolute.
The camp erupted in shouts, villagers rushing toward the fight but too terrified to come close. Varik shouted for his brother, Lyria screamed Kael's name—but none of it reached him.
Kael's eyes burned with chaotic light as he lifted Rogan from the ground, his fingers tightening, crushing. Rogan's face turned purple, his struggles growing weaker.
One more squeeze and he would die.
The chaos begged for it. Demanded it.
But then—Kael saw Druaka's face in his mind. Not broken and bloodied, but smiling, whole, her voice echoing in his skull.
Don't blame him.
The words struck through him like a blade. His fingers loosened. His knees buckled. With a choked sob, he dropped Rogan back to the ground.
And then Kael broke.
He collapsed to his knees, his hands clutching his hair as the sobs tore from him, raw and helpless. He cried not just for Druaka, but for himself, for the fear in his people's eyes, for the monster he knew he had become.
The Hollow stood in silence, watching their king—their leader, their savior—reduced to a boy drowning in grief. His cries echoed across the camp, carrying the weight of every death, every failure, every burden he bore.
No one moved to comfort him.
No one knew how.