Chapter 135 – New Hands, Old Wisdom
The Hollow's healers had always worked tirelessly, but the months of war had drained them to the bone. Supplies had dwindled, apprentices were few, and those with knowledge were stretched thin between the wounded, the sick, and the constant accidents that came with a village working beyond its means.
Kael knew this, but it hit him harder when he walked into the healer's hall one morning and saw one of the apprentices asleep, face pressed against a stack of bandages, too tired even to lift her head when he entered.
"Wake her gently," a soft voice said.
Kael turned to find one of the nomads standing nearby—a middle-aged beastkin woman with dark fur streaked by gray. She carried herself with quiet confidence, her hands stained with herbs and tinctures. She bowed slightly.
"I am Maeryn. Among my people, I was a healer. If you will allow me, I will ease your burden here."
Kael studied her. The room smelled faintly of herbs he did not recognize, the pouches on her belt filled with dried plants foreign to the Hollow. She looked at him not with arrogance, but with the weary patience of someone who had healed many and buried more.
"You'll do more than ease the burden," Kael said at last. "You'll share it. Report to our chief healer, Seldra. From now on, you're part of this hall."
Her eyes softened with gratitude, and Kael saw something else in them—relief. Relief at being needed.
By the week's end, the healer's hall looked transformed.
Nomad healers worked side by side with Hollow-born, their differences blending into strength. The nomads brought poultices Kael had never seen, remedies for fevers and broken bones that had plagued his people for years. Hollow healers in turn taught them how to brew the bitter willow tea for pain, how to sew wounds cleanly.
Kael visited often, helping where he could, watching as bandages were tied and herbs ground down to powder. He had seen too much blood spilled not to understand the quiet miracle of healing.
It was not only in the halls that the nomads proved their worth.
Some were skilled with weaving, repairing cloaks and boots faster than any Hollow-born. Others were masons, shaping stone for the walls and the mines. A few even carried knowledge of old magics—the kind that strengthened wood against rot, or kept pests from grain stores.
But with each new skill came new points of friction.
One morning, Kael found two men—both carpenters, one Hollow-born, one nomad—arguing over the framework for a roof beam. The Hollow man insisted on thick beams, braced and heavy. The nomad favored thinner wood, bent into curves.
"You'll waste timber we don't have!" the Hollow-born snapped.
"And your way will break under snow!" the nomad retorted.
Kael stepped between them. "Then you'll build it twice," he said, his tone leaving no room for argument. "One side your way, one side his. When winter comes, whichever roof stands longest, that is the method we keep. Until then, both will serve."
The carpenters exchanged glances, bristling but unable to argue. Slowly, they bent back to their work.
Kael exhaled and walked away, a faint smile tugging his lips. He had not solved their fight, not truly—but he had turned it into a contest neither could dismiss. Sometimes leadership was not about settling disputes, but redirecting them into something useful.
That night, Kael sat with Lyria outside their longhouse. The air was crisp, the stars bright overhead, the sounds of laughter carrying faintly from the square where nomads and Hollow-born shared food for the first time.
"You're quiet tonight," Lyria murmured, leaning against his shoulder.
Kael stared into the flames of their small fire. "I've been watching them. How they've started to work together. How they clash, but… they don't stay at odds. It's strange. It feels as though every dispute is another chance to bind them tighter."
Lyria tilted her head, studying him. "And you? How do you fare as a leader in this?"
Kael gave a low laugh, one without much humor. "I don't know if I'm leading them, or if I'm just keeping them from breaking apart. I spend my days putting out fires, stopping men from shouting themselves into fists, reminding them we're stronger together. That's not leadership, is it?"
Her hand found his. "It is. More than you see. You carry them, Kael. Even when you think you're stumbling, you're showing them the path."
He looked at her, seeing in her eyes not just comfort but conviction. His chest ached—both with grief for Druaka, and with gratitude for Lyria's presence beside him.
"Then I'll carry them until I can't," he whispered.
She pressed her forehead against his. "And when you can't, I will carry you."
The next morning, Kael entered the council hall to find Saekaros already waiting. The old lizardkin stood tall despite his years, his scaled hands clasped over the head of his staff.
"You've been busy," Kael said.
Saekaros smiled faintly. "As have you. Which is why I am here."
The councilors shifted in their seats, some wary, some curious. Saekaros bowed his head to them all, then spoke.
"I have no strength for your mines. My back is too bent for your fields. My hands are too old for your forges. But I have wisdom, and I have walked a long road. Let me sit among you, not to command, but to advise. Let me give the only labor left to me—my thoughts."
The council murmured among themselves. Some looked skeptical, others intrigued. Finally, their eyes turned to Kael.
Kael studied Saekaros, seeing not just an elder but a man who had carried lives on his shoulders across leagues of barren land. A man who had chosen love over safety, and still stood tall.
He gave a single nod. "Then sit, Saekaros. Your wisdom is welcome here."
The elder bowed, his eyes shining. And with that, the Hollow's council grew by one voice, one thread more in the tapestry Kael was weaving from all the lives around him.