Chapter 146 – The Greater Shadow
The days after the council meeting moved with a heavy rhythm. Extra guards stood watch on the walls, farmers brought in their harvest early, and the forges hammered late into the night. The Hollow was preparing for war — or at least for the possibility of one.
Kael spent much of his time on the palisades, overseeing drills, working beside Thalos to keep the soldiers sharp. He should have felt reassured, but instead, unease settled deeper in his chest with every passing day.
That unease found its voice in Varik.
The sly ogre returned one evening, slipping into the council chamber while the torches still burned low. His cloak was torn and spattered with mud, and his sharp eyes gleamed with something between caution and fear.
"They're close," he said simply, throwing a rolled map onto the table. "The nomads are setting camp a day's march north. Organized, disciplined. Hundreds of them. They've wagons, tents, livestock — and women, children, elders. Not just warriors. They're moving like a people who intend to stay."
The council leaned in.
"How many fighters?" Fenrik asked.
"Two hundred, maybe more," Varik replied. "But it's not their number that concerns me." His tone darkened, and he pointed to a mark on the map. "They've set camp along the Ashen Vale. The air there is wrong. Thick. Stale. Even the birds won't fly over it."
The room stilled. Rogan's jaw tightened. Saekaros's claws tapped against the table.
Kael frowned. "What's in the Vale?"
Saekaros was the one who answered, his voice low. "Not what. Who."
The council turned toward him.
"There are old stories," the lizardkin continued, unrolling one of his weathered scrolls. "The Vale was once a battleground in the age before men built kingdoms. A daemon lord was bound there, chained by wards and blood rites. Few dared approach the place for centuries, lest they wake him. If the nomads are near the Vale…" He hesitated, then shook his head. "…then their arrival is no accident."
The silence was suffocating.
"A daemon lord," Rogan said slowly, his voice edged with disbelief and dread. "You're telling us one of them sleeps a day's march from our gates?"
Saekaros gave a grave nod. "If he stirs, then none of us — not Hollow, not nomads, not kingdoms — will survive."
Lyria's eyes moved to Kael. "Then we avoid him."
Kael's mind was already racing. The nomads were dangerous enough — trained, organized, and desperate. But if their campfire songs woke something buried beneath the Ashen Vale, the Hollow's walls wouldn't mean a thing. His people, his home, everything he had built would vanish in a wave of fire and ruin.
He clenched his fists on the table. "We cannot face a daemon lord. Not now. Not ever. Our concern is the war-host."
"That war-host is camping on his doorstep," Fenrik growled. "If they wake him, we burn too."
"And what would you have us do?" Thalos rumbled. "March into the Vale, slay a daemon lord before he wakes? None of us would crawl back out alive."
The argument spiraled, voices rising, fear wrapping itself around every word. For once, Kael let them argue. He needed to hear their doubts, their fears. He needed to know what his people thought, because the decision would fall on him, and once again it might cost everything.
Finally, he raised his hand. The room stilled.
"The daemon lord is not our enemy," Kael said firmly. "Not unless someone makes him our enemy. The nomads are the danger we can see, the threat that's moving toward us. We deal with them, and we tread carefully around the Vale. No provocations. No reckless ventures. We do not wake what sleeps there."
The words hung in the torchlight.
Lyria nodded slowly, though her brow was furrowed. "Then our choice is clear. We prepare for the nomads, and pray their leaders are wise enough not to toy with the Vale."
Saekaros leaned back, scales glinting. "Prayers may not be enough. But it is a path."
The council agreed — not with comfort, but with resignation.
Later that night, Kael stood atop the palisade, staring north where the Ashen Vale loomed beyond the hills. Even from here, he thought he could feel it — a cold weight pressing on the air, a silence too complete.
Lyria joined him, her presence soft beside his storm. "You're thinking of him, aren't you?"
Kael nodded, jaw tight. "If he wakes, nothing we've built survives. Not the walls. Not the forges. Not even me."
Her hand slid into his. "Then don't think of him. Think of the people who look to you. The ones who are alive now, who need you now."
Kael exhaled, forcing the weight back into the pit of his chest. She was right — the daemon lord was a shadow on the horizon, but the nomads were flesh and blood. And flesh and blood, he could face.
But as the night deepened, Kael couldn't shake the feeling that the two were bound — that the Hollow's struggle with the nomads was only the first ripple of a storm far greater.