Chapter 119 – Sweat of the Hollow
The dawn that broke over the Hollow was not met with merchants' wagons rolling through the gates, nor with foreign goods unpacked at market stalls. Instead, it was met with the clatter of shovels, the groan of wooden carts, and the reluctant shuffle of feet as the Hollow's people gathered for work they had never done before.
The air smelled different that morning. Less of cooked bread and smoke, more of churned earth and damp stone.
Kael stood at the edge of the square, arms crossed, Umbra coiled lazily behind him. Lyria and Rogan were at his sides, each carrying their own authority in this new endeavor. Before them stretched nearly a hundred men and women, villagers turned laborers, weapons traded for tools.
Thalos's voice rang out across the crowd, hard and commanding. "You heard the council's ruling. We build the Hollow's future with our own hands. Some of you will take to the fields. Some to the mountains. All of you will sweat, and it will not be easy."
A ripple of unease passed through the crowd. Kael saw it clearly — calloused hands built for sword grips, not plow handles. Shoulders broad with shield-bearing strength, not bent to a hoe. And yet, this was what survival demanded.
Rogan stepped forward next, his voice rough as gravel. "Farming is no glory. Digging is no song. But if you want food on your table and walls around your children, you'll bend your backs and bleed into the soil. I'll see to the fields myself. If you falter, I'll break you back into shape."
That earned a nervous chuckle or two, but mostly grim silence.
Kael finally spoke. His tone wasn't commanding, but steady. "No one here asked for this. No one here grew up dreaming of stone dust in their lungs or dirt under their nails. But this is the choice before us — we either bend to the world's fear, or we bend to our own work. I'll be with you in the mines. You won't sweat alone."
That, more than Rogan's bark or Thalos's drill-sergeant tone, brought a flicker of resolve to the faces in the crowd.
By midday, the Hollow was alive with the sound of labor.
On the far edge of town, Rogan led his first group into the fields. Axes bit into stubborn tree stumps, hoes tore into soil matted with weeds. Every swing of a blade, every pull of a root, left hands rawer and tempers shorter.
"Too many rocks in this soil," one man muttered, tossing another handful of stones aside.
"You think wheat grows on its own?" Rogan barked. "Break the ground first. Make it ready, or starve. Keep digging."
Kael, meanwhile, led his group into the lower cliffs where veins of gray stone ran beneath the Hollow's foothills. The air here was cooler, damp, echoing with every hammer strike.
He lifted a pickaxe himself, ignoring Fenrik's insistence that he should "save his strength for leadership." Kael had no intention of watching while others worked. He wanted them to see him strain, to see him blister, to see him bleed right beside them.
Each strike of the pick reverberated up his arms. Sweat soaked his tunic within minutes. Dust clung to his hair and throat. The first stone blocks came loose reluctantly, stubborn in their bedrock.
Umbra coiled near the cavern mouth, watching with a predator's lazy amusement. Every so often, the shadow-beast tilted its head, as if baffled by the sight of its master hammering stone like a common miner.
By late afternoon, fatigue draped itself over the Hollow like a shroud.
The fields had only just begun to take shape — cleared patches of earth dotted with roots and stumps that refused to budge. The mine had yielded only a few wagons of stone, not nearly enough for walls or mills or roads.
Kael walked through the work crews at sunset. Faces were streaked with dirt, arms trembling from exertion, feet blistered. Grumbling simmered under the surface — quiet, but dangerous.
"This is pointless," someone whispered as Kael passed. "We're fighters, not farmers. Let the merchants starve us if they want. At least then we'll die with swords in our hands."
Kael stopped, his shadow stretching long in the fading light. The murmurs silenced. He turned to face them.
"You think this work shameful?" His voice was calm, but sharp. "That cutting stone and pulling weeds makes you less than warriors? Let me remind you — an empty stomach kills faster than a sword. A weak wall crumbles before the first ram. This sweat, this ache in your arms, it is the same as wielding steel. Every swing of your axe here is a blow struck for your children. Every blister is a shield over their heads."
He paused, letting his words sink in. His eyes burned with quiet conviction.
"I bled with you in battle. I'll bleed with you in the fields. But if you choose to do nothing, if you choose to wait for the world to starve us out — then you betray everything we've built here. I will not stand for that. Neither will Druaka's memory."
The name hit like a hammer. The grumbling stopped. Heads bowed.
When Kael turned away, silence followed him.
By the week's end, progress was visible — if only faintly.
The fields were scarred patches of broken ground, but patches nonetheless, soon to be ready for seed. The mines yielded more stone each day, carts rolling back into town with gray blocks stacked high. The people were weary, their muscles burning from new labor, but pride had begun to replace grumbling.
One evening, Kael stood with Lyria at the edge of the fields. She watched the villagers, now moving with steadier rhythm, the stumps falling faster, the earth turning smoother.
"They're starting to believe," Lyria said quietly. "Not just in your plan. In themselves."
Kael looked at the churned earth, the sweat-streaked faces, the stubborn persistence in each swing of an axe.
"They don't see it yet," he murmured. "But this… this is where our freedom is forged."