Chapter 126 – The Weight of Stone, the Weight of Hearts
The clang of pickaxes and the rasp of shovels echoed through the mine tunnels, steady as a heartbeat. Dust hung in the air, thick and choking, clinging to every drop of sweat that rolled down foreheads and forearms. The miners worked without pause, shoulders hunched, eyes squinting into the lantern-lit gloom.
And in the center of it all was Kael.
Not as their king. Not as their dragon-blooded savior. But as one more set of hands in the dark.
His palms were blistered from the rough handle of the pickaxe, his shoulders sore from hours of swinging against stone. Each strike rattled through his bones, but still he kept pace with the men beside him. His chaos soldiers loomed nearby, shadows made flesh, lifting rubble and carting away loads of stone. They were tireless, but Kael refused to let them do the work alone.
Because today wasn't about showing power. It was about showing that he bled and ached just as they did.
When a support beam splintered with a sharp crack, Kael was the first to move, wedging his shoulder under the weight and holding until others rushed in with planks and nails. His muscles strained, the wood biting into his skin, but he didn't let go.
"Easy now," a miner barked, hammering the replacement beam into place. "Hold just a moment longer—"
The beam slid home with a deep thud, and the tunnel's groaning stilled. Kael stepped back, chest heaving, dust streaking his sweat-soaked face.
"Could've crushed us all," one man muttered, wiping his brow. Then he looked at Kael, his tone softer. "But you didn't hesitate. Not once."
Kael gave no reply, only nodded, and went back to swinging his pick.
Hours later, as the shift ended, Kael finally climbed back to the surface. The late sun hung low, bleeding gold and crimson across the Hollow. The smell of turned soil and smoke from cooking fires filled the air, mixing with the faint tang of iron dust still clinging to his skin.
He was exhausted—body and soul.
Lyria found him not at the palace, but at the edge of the gardens, sitting on a low wall with his head in his hands. She said nothing at first, only lowered herself beside him, her presence quiet and steady.
For a long time, Kael didn't speak. His breathing was ragged, not from labor, but from something heavier inside him.
Finally, his voice broke the silence, raw and low.
"I can lead them in battle. I can face monsters that should've torn me apart. I can even turn my blood into weapons no man has ever seen. But I don't know if I can… live with this weight."
Lyria turned her head, studying him. "What weight?"
He lifted his eyes, bloodshot and tired, and she saw it: the grief that never left, the guilt that clung like chains.
"Druaka's gone. I couldn't save her. I thought—" his voice cracked, and he dug his fingers into his hair— "I thought with all this power, I could protect everyone. That no one under my watch would ever fall. But I was wrong. And if I was wrong about that…"
He trailed off, his chest heaving.
Lyria reached for his hand, her fingers warm against his trembling grip. "Kael…"
"I'm not a king tonight," he said suddenly, almost desperate. "Don't look at me like one. Don't tell me I did what I had to. Don't dress it up in duty and sacrifice. I need you to see me as just… Kael. A man who failed. A man who's so tired of carrying everyone on his back that he feels like he's going to break."
His words hung in the air, sharp as broken glass.
Lyria's throat tightened, but she didn't let go. Instead, she leaned closer, her forehead pressing against his. "Then let me carry some of it."
He closed his eyes, shaking his head. "You already carry enough. I see the way you hold the council together when they look at me with fear. The way you stand at my side no matter what I become. You've given me more than I deserve."
"And you've given me more than I ever thought I'd have," she whispered. Her voice trembled now, but she forced the words through. "You don't have to do this alone. You don't have to fight your grief by burying it in stone and steel. Let yourself feel it. With me. Let me in."
Kael's shoulders shook, the dam he'd held back for too long finally cracking. His breath came ragged, tears burning trails down his dust-caked face. For once, he didn't hold them back.
Lyria wrapped her arms around him, pulling him against her. She felt his body tremble with every suppressed sob, every unspoken scream. Her hand ran through his hair, her lips brushing his temple.
"You're not weak for breaking," she murmured. "You're human. Even if the world sees you as a dragon."
For a long time, they sat like that—his grief spilling raw and unguarded, her strength wrapping around him like a shield.
When his tears finally slowed, Kael pulled back just enough to look at her. His eyes were red, his face streaked, but there was something softer there now. Something almost fragile.
"I don't know who I am without all of this," he admitted. "Without the battles, without the chaos. I don't know how to be Kael anymore."
Lyria cupped his face, forcing him to meet her gaze. "Then start here. Start with me. Not as a king. Not as a dragon. Just as a man who needs someone to hold him."
His lips parted, but no words came. Instead, he leaned forward, and their foreheads touched once more.
For the first time in what felt like forever, Kael let himself be seen—not as the leader of the Hollow, not as the terror of the battlefield, but as a man broken and healing in the arms of the woman who refused to let him shatter alone.
The night stretched around them, quiet and unbroken. And in that silence, something new took root—not a forgetting of grief, but a promise that even grief could be shared.