Chapter 127 – Grief Shared, Grief Carried
The Hollow had quieted for the night. The clang of hammers, the groan of timber, and the steady pulse of picks in the mine had all faded into silence. Only the soft murmurs of night-watchmen and the faint crackle of fires remained.
Kael sat in the garden again, where the air smelled faintly of earth and lavender. He had not returned to his chambers; the walls there felt too heavy, too suffocating. Out here beneath the stars, the air at least carried space enough to breathe.
Lyria found him where he sat hunched forward, elbows braced on his knees, eyes fixed on the dirt as though the weight of the world was carved into the soil.
She lowered herself beside him without a word, knees brushing his, her hands folded in her lap. She had grown used to his silences—how they spoke louder than his roars or his speeches to the council.
At last, Kael spoke, voice low and raw.
"I lean on you too much."
Lyria's head tilted, eyes soft. "Is that what you think?"
"It is what I know." His jaw tightened, his hand curling into a fist. "Every time I break, every time I falter, you're the one to hold me together. But what happens when it's you? When you lose someone? When your grief comes like a storm?"
Lyria's breath caught in her throat. For a moment, her composure wavered, the thought of it pressing heavy against her chest. She had lost before—family, friends to raids, allies in the wars before the Hollow—but the idea of losing someone here, someone like Kael, someone she had grown to love in the fire of all this turmoil, chilled her more than steel at her throat.
Kael turned, finally meeting her eyes, and there was nothing of the dragon in him now. No fire. No chaos. Just a man stripped bare.
"You should be able to rely on me," he said, voice breaking. "If the world rips something from you, I should be the one to carry your grief as you've carried mine. Not just as your leader. Not as the dragon they all fear. But as the man beside you."
Lyria's lips parted, but no words came. Instead, she reached forward and caught his trembling hand in both of hers. His skin was rough, dust still ground into the cracks from the mine, but she held it as though it were fragile glass.
"You already do," she whispered at last. "You don't see it, but you do. Every day you stand, even when it tears you apart inside, you show me what it means to keep going. You show me what it means to fight for something. That gives me strength, Kael. Even in your grief, even in your weakness, you give me strength."
His throat worked, but no sound came. He bowed his head until their foreheads touched, eyes squeezed shut. "I just don't want to fail you the way I failed Druaka."
"You didn't fail her," Lyria said firmly, her voice steady though her heart trembled. "You loved her enough to let her choose her own end. You respected her wish, even though it broke you. That isn't failure, Kael. That's love. And she knew it."
His breath shuddered, tears slipping down his cheeks again. But this time, when her hands rose to cradle his face, he didn't fight them. He let himself sink into her touch, let himself lean on her not as a king but as a man.
And she leaned back into him, because they both knew this wasn't a burden to carry alone.
The next morning, the world moved again.
Life in the Hollow had no patience for endless grief, no matter how deep. The mines demanded oversight, the fields needed tilling, and the council always waited with problems that could not be delayed.
Kael sat in the council chamber, the heavy table ringed with faces that still carried the flicker of unease when they looked at him. But tonight, there was no debate of war or fear of kingdoms—just a practical report on growth.
Fenrik spoke first, his gravelly voice cutting through the quiet. "Crop yield from the new fields has risen. Enough to supply nearly three-quarters of our own demand without trade."
Thalos leaned forward, arms crossed. "The militia Rogan drills is improving. Crude, but strong. They can hold a wall, at least."
"And the mines?" asked one of the elders, her thin hands folded in front of her.
Kael's voice carried, steady though softer than usual. "Iron flows steady. The magistone remains untouched until we've the tools and knowledge to shape it properly. For now, our coffers fill with ore. Enough to forge weapons for every soldier here—and trade with discretion, when the time comes."
The council murmured approval, but the undertone of wariness lingered. Even when he spoke plainly, even when he showed no fire, no chaos, there was always that shadow in their eyes.
Lyria leaned forward, cutting through the tension. "It means we're closer to self-sufficiency. Closer to standing alone if we must. That is what we've worked for, isn't it? To survive when the world shuts its gates to us?"
The elder nodded reluctantly. "It is progress. Hard won."
Kael watched them all, silent for a long moment. Then he spoke, softer now. "Progress doesn't erase the grief we carry. It doesn't erase our dead. But it honors them. Every brick laid, every seed sown, every vein of iron pulled from stone—it's a promise. That their sacrifice built something lasting."
That silenced the room.
For once, no one challenged him.
That night, Kael returned to the gardens, and Lyria was already there waiting. This time, when she reached for his hand, he didn't hesitate. And when he looked at her, his eyes carried not only grief but a spark of something else—something steady, fragile, but real.
Hope.