Chapter 111 – Ash and Iron
The Hollow shook with the thunder of war.
The eastern watchtower's horn had barely stopped sounding before the enemy was at the walls. The flames of burning farms stained the horizon red, and the ground trembled beneath the march of armored men.
Kael stood on the ramparts, his helm forged from the horned beast's skull gleaming like ivory in the firelight. His eyes blazed with power, but there was no wildness in them now—only control, cold and sharp as a blade. Umbra paced at his side, growling low, the shadows of his form quivering in anticipation.
"Archers!" Kael's voice cut the night like a whip. "Loose!"
A volley of arrows arced from the towers, flaming tips streaking across the sky before plunging into the ranks of men below. Screams rose, steel clashed, and the world descended into chaos.
The Hollow's defenders poured from the gates under Rogan and Thalos's command, meeting the first wave with shield walls and heavy steel. Kael descended like a storm, chaos magic erupting from his hands, tearing trenches through enemy lines. Where he moved, the enemy faltered. Where he struck, men died.
But this time, he did not lose himself.
Every motion was deliberate, calculated. He fought like a general, not a monster. His mind tracked the lines of the battlefield, his people's formations, the ebb and flow of morale.
At the heart of the chaos, Kael's gaze locked onto the commander of the enemy force—a tall man clad in polished armor, a crimson cape marking his rank. He barked orders, driving his men forward even as the Hollow's defenders pressed them back.
Kael cut his way toward him.
Swords broke against Kael's shield of shadow. Spears shattered against the black flames that wreathed his arms. The commander's eyes widened as Kael closed the distance, but the man did not run. He drew his sword, the steel humming with enchantment, and met Kael head-on.
The clash was brief but brutal. The man's strikes were precise, his blade cutting arcs of silver in the dark, but Kael was stronger—far stronger. Chaos tendrils wrapped around the man's sword arm, forcing it down. With his free hand, Kael gripped the commander by the throat and lifted him into the air.
The battlefield stilled, if only for a moment.
"Yield," Kael growled. His voice was not loud, but it carried—a sound deeper than his own, layered with the echo of the dragon within.
The commander thrashed, then dropped his blade.
The enemy line wavered. Some broke and fled, others fought on blindly, but the Hollow's defenders surged forward with renewed fury. In minutes, the enemy was scattered, broken, or dead.
Kael dragged the commander back toward the gates, his boots dragging across the blood-soaked earth.
The Hollow had survived another night.
The council chamber was tense, the air heavy with the stench of battle that clung to Kael's armor. The commander knelt in chains at the center of the hall, his head bowed but his eyes still sharp with defiance.
Around the long table, the council murmured, their words hushed but urgent. Fenrik leaned forward, his brow furrowed.
"We should execute him. Quickly, before word spreads of his capture."
Thalos grunted in agreement. "Dead men tell no tales. Better his soldiers believe he fell in battle."
Others argued for ransom, for interrogation, for public execution as a warning. The debate swirled, heated and divided.
Kael said nothing at first. He sat at the head of the table, helm resting before him, his eyes fixed on the prisoner. The council shifted uncomfortably under the weight of his silence.
Finally, Kael rose. The scrape of his chair echoed like thunder in the chamber.
"We will not kill him. Not yet."
All eyes turned to him.
Kael's voice carried a weight it hadn't before—not the fiery passion of a young leader, but the hard edge of one who had bled, who had lost, who had stood at the brink of despair and clawed his way back.
"We need to know who sent him. We need to know how many more armies will come, how many kings and lords whisper of our destruction. If we kill him now, we gain nothing. If we let him speak, we gain everything."
Fenrik slammed his fist on the table. "And if he lies?"
Kael's eyes narrowed, a cold fire burning in them. "Then I will know."
The council fell silent. Some still looked uneasy, their distrust of Kael thick in the air. His display on the battlefield—his control of that monstrous power—both reassured and terrified them.
Lyria's gaze lingered on him, worry etched in her features. Varik, arms crossed in the corner, watched Kael with something like approval, though it was hard to tell.
Kael leaned forward, his hands braced on the table.
"You fear me," he said simply. The words landed like stones. No one spoke. "Good. That fear will keep you cautious. But do not mistake my grief or your doubts for weakness. We will question him. We will know the truth. And then, together, we will decide what is to be done."
The chamber was silent save for the crackle of the torches.
At last, Thalos broke the silence, his voice low. "So be it."
One by one, the others gave reluctant nods.
The council had agreed, but Kael could feel it—the hesitation, the distance. They followed him, yes. But in their hearts, they still questioned whether he was a leader… or a weapon waiting to turn against them.
Kael turned his gaze back to the prisoner.
This battle was won, but the true war—over loyalty, fear, and the Hollow's survival—had only just begun.
The chamber where the commander was kept was dark, lit only by a single torch sputtering in the wall. Chains rattled against stone as the man shifted, his wrists raw from iron shackles. His once-pristine armor was piled in the corner, bloodied and dented, leaving him bare save for tattered linen.
Kael entered without a word, Umbra's shadows following him like a second skin. The guard at the door swallowed nervously, stepping aside as Kael shut the door behind him. The prisoner lifted his head, defiance still burning in his eyes despite his bruises.
"You'll get nothing from me," the commander spat, his voice hoarse.
Kael didn't speak. He crossed the room slowly, his boots heavy on the stone. Then, without hesitation, he drove his fist into the man's gut. The commander choked, doubling over in his chains, bile spilling from his lips.
"You'll talk," Kael said flatly. His voice was calm, but it carried a quiet fury that unsettled even the shadows.
The beating began in silence. Kael struck with precision—jaw, ribs, stomach—always enough to bring pain, never enough to kill. Each time the man faltered, Kael gave him a chance. Each time he refused, another blow followed.
After an hour, blood slicked the man's mouth, one eye swollen shut. His breath came ragged, but still he resisted.
Kael leaned close, his voice low. "Every man breaks. Some from fear. Some from pain. But you? You'll break because you're alone. Your army is dead. Your king won't send for you. You are nothing but a tool—and tools are discarded when they're no longer sharp."
The commander's resolve cracked. His shoulders slumped, his words spilling like poison from a broken vessel.
"The Kingdom of Arden…" he rasped. "…it was their order. Their king—King Eldran—he sees your Hollow as a threat. He thinks you mean to spread rebellion, to arm slaves and beasts against him. He cannot allow it. He sent me to crush you before you could grow stronger."
Kael's fist clenched, but he forced himself to listen.
"He's already gathering more armies," the man continued, fear seeping into his voice. "He'll call his bannermen, his vassals. He'll raise the banners of war until your Hollow is ashes. He won't stop. He'll never stop."
Kael stood, shadows flickering around him. "And where is this army now?"
The commander hesitated—until Kael slammed his head back against the stone. Blood dribbled from his nose, and at last, he whispered the truth.
"They're marching… but slowly. Two weeks, maybe three, before they reach your walls."
Kael stepped back. The man slumped, his head drooping, beaten but alive.
"You'll live," Kael said coldly. "But you'll never see the sun outside these walls again."
The council chamber was loud with debate as Kael relayed the commander's confession.
"Arden," Fenrik spat, slamming his fist on the table. "The bastards always did think themselves above us. If they're marching with full force, then we're dead men if we wait for them to come."
Thalos growled low, tusks bared. "We could strike first. Meet them before they reach our gates, when their supply lines are stretched. Crush them before they crush us."
Others argued for evacuation, for diplomacy, for surrender. The council's voices clashed, heated and desperate.
Kael listened, letting the storm rage until he rose to his feet.
"Enough."
The chamber fell silent.
"We know what's coming. Arden will not stop, not until we are gone. But we will not flee. We will not bow." His eyes swept the council, fire and shadow burning in them both. "We will fight. But not foolishly. Thalos is right—we'll use their march against them. Hit their supply lines. Sabotage their camps. Bleed them dry before they ever see our walls. And if they reach us, then our walls will hold."
Fenrik exhaled, slow and thoughtful. "That… may be the only way."
One by one, the council members nodded. The decision was made.
After the meeting, Kael found Druaka's brothers near the palisade, their hulking forms silhouetted by torchlight. Rogan stood sharpening his axe, the motion harsh and rhythmic. Varik leaned against the wall, arms crossed, eyes shadowed but calm.
"You've both heard what's coming," Kael said. "This fight won't end soon. So I need to ask—will you stay, or will you leave?"
Rogan's grip tightened on his axe. His eyes burned, grief and rage barely contained. "I'll stay. For my sister. For this Hollow. But don't ask me to forgive—not yet. My grief is a blade, and it will take time to blunt."
Varik's gaze lingered on Kael, cool and calculating. "I'll stay as well. But you should know—I see the cracks in you, same as I see them in myself. Grief is a cruel master. But…" his tone softened, barely, "…I think my sister would want us here. Fighting with you, not against you."
Kael inclined his head. "Then we stand together."
For a moment, there was silence between them. Not trust. Not yet. But something closer than hate—a shared grief, a fragile alliance forged in loss.
That night, Kael returned to his home. The fire burned low in the hearth, casting the room in gold and shadow. Lyria sat waiting, her hair loose, her eyes red from tears she had not wanted him to see.
"You've been carrying this weight alone," she whispered. "You don't have to."
Kael's chest tightened. He crossed the room, sinking down beside her. For a long while, they said nothing. They simply sat together, the silence filled with everything they couldn't say.
At last, Lyria rested her head against his shoulder. "We'll get through this. Not because you're strong. Not because of your power. But because you're Kael. And I still believe in you."
Kael closed his eyes, the firelight warming his face. For the first time since Druaka's death, he felt something loosen in his chest—a small, fragile step back toward the man he had been.