Chapter 131 – Across the Plains
The morning sky was pale and cold as Lyria and Varik left the Hollow's gates behind. The fields were still damp with dew, the air carrying that faint sharpness that marked the turning of seasons. Their horses moved at an easy pace at first, hooves muffled in the soft earth of the trails leading into the plains.
Neither spoke for a while. The silence between them wasn't uncomfortable, but purposeful—Varik was already watching, studying, his eyes always scanning the horizon. Lyria kept her bow slung across her back, her hand never straying far from it.
"The plains hide nothing," Varik murmured at last, his voice low. "If they're near, we'll see them long before they see us."
"Unless they want to be seen," Lyria answered.
Varik's mouth twitched at the corner, not quite a smile. "True."
Hours passed. The Hollow shrank behind them until it was just a dark shape against the forest's edge, swallowed by distance. Ahead stretched the endless rolling grasses of the open steppe, broken only by the occasional cluster of rocks or a wandering herd of deer. The wind moved in long sighs across the land, carrying faint scents of dust, of smoke, of distant fires.
By midday, they found what they were looking for.
A line of smoke curled upward in the distance—thin, careful trails rather than the broad, careless plumes of an army's camp. Lyria and Varik slowed their mounts, approaching on higher ground until they could look down into the valley below.
The nomads were there.
Not an army. Not raiders. Families.
The camp stretched wide but thin, made of worn tents patched with whatever cloth or hide they had left. Men moved among the camp, but they were few—outnumbered by women and children who busied themselves with cooking, repairing gear, or tending to the weak.
Lyria's eyes narrowed as she took in the weapons. There were some, yes—spears, short bows, curved blades—but not many. Most were little more than tools sharpened for survival rather than war. More notable were the objects scattered among them: books wrapped in cloth, scrolls packed carefully into cases, bundles of parchment guarded like treasure.
"Books," Lyria whispered.
Varik studied them intently. "Knowledge kept safe even when food is scarce. That tells me more about them than any banner could."
They lingered, listening when the wind carried voices. A woman's tone carried clearly as she soothed a crying child:
"Just a little longer. Soon we'll be at our new home. Soon we'll be safe."
Another voice, older, rougher with exhaustion: "The Hollow must take us in. If they don't… we'll have nowhere left."
Lyria felt her chest tighten. These were not raiders seeking plunder. They were survivors. Desperate, yes—but not dangerous, not in the way the council feared.
Varik tilted his head, his pale eyes flickering with calculation. "They don't march with intent to fight. If they did, they wouldn't burden themselves with the weak."
"Or with books," Lyria added.
They exchanged a glance. Even Varik, with his usual cold detachment, couldn't deny what they were seeing.
They turned back toward the Hollow before nightfall, setting their course home. The ride was quieter than before, though the silence now carried weight. It was Varik who broke it.
"He's changing," he said abruptly.
Lyria turned her head slightly. "Kael?"
"Yes. He carries himself differently now. Like a man burying his grief rather than drowning in it. I thought the chaos would consume him after Druaka's death. Instead… he holds it in."
Lyria's grip on her reins tightened. "You think he's getting better. But you're wrong."
Varik glanced at her, curiosity flashing.
"He's not over it," she continued, her voice firm. "Every smile, every word of confidence—it's armor. He wears it for the council, for the Hollow, even for you. But inside?" She exhaled sharply. "Inside, he's still breaking."
Varik considered her words in silence, his face unreadable. Finally, he said, "Then he is stronger than I thought. To suffer that deeply and still hold everything together… most men would have fallen."
Lyria's heart twisted. "Strength isn't always enough. Not when you carry that kind of weight alone."
The rest of the ride was quiet, both lost in thought.
By the time they returned to the Hollow, the council was already gathered, waiting. The air in the chamber was tense, thick with expectation.
Lyria and Varik relayed everything they had seen: the ragged camp, the few men, the women and children, the precious books and scrolls. Their voices echoed in the council hall as they recounted the conversations they'd overheard.
When they finished, silence settled.
"They sound desperate," Fenrik muttered. "But desperation breeds danger. A cornered beast is still a beast."
"They're not beasts," Lyria shot back. "They're people. Families. They're not armed for war."
"Appearances deceive," Thalos rumbled. "Many a foe has hidden a blade until the moment it mattered."
Kael leaned forward, his eyes scanning the table, his voice quiet but firm. "And many a foe was an ally until fear made them otherwise. They come to us with women and children, with books instead of siege engines. That means something."
The debate rolled on—voices rising, doubt and fear pushing against reason and empathy. The council could not agree, not yet. Some saw opportunity, others only risk.
And so the meeting ended unresolved.
Kael stood in the shadows after the council dismissed, his jaw tight, his gaze distant. Lyria lingered at the edge, watching him. She could see it—the heaviness in his eyes, the way he carried grief like a stone he refused to set down.
And she wondered just how long he could keep carrying it before it crushed him.