Chapter 147 – The Wake of Shadows
The council chamber was dim that night, lit by a half-circle of oil lamps that cast long shadows on the stone walls. Kael sat at the head of the table, fingers tapping against the wood. He had summoned the council urgently, though no one yet knew why.
The doors swung open, and Varik strode in with two scouts at his back. His cloak was torn, his boots caked in mud, his face lined with something darker than exhaustion.
"What did you see?" Kael asked without preamble.
Varik unrolled a stained parchment and slapped it down on the table. "The nomads aren't just camped in the Vale. They're digging. They've carved trenches around the old wards, piling stones, painting sigils with their own blood." His voice dropped to a growl. "They mean to wake him."
The room froze.
Saekaros hissed sharply, his scaled hand clenching the edge of the table. "Fools! Do they not understand what they toy with?"
"They understand," Varik said coldly. "That's the problem. They're desperate enough to think that if they wake him, they can control him. Desperate enough to believe a daemon lord could be their shield against kingdoms and Hollow alike."
Rogan slammed his fist against the table, rattling cups. "If they wake him, we all die. Them. Us. Everyone within a hundred leagues."
Fenrik leaned forward, his beard shadowing his eyes. "Then the choice is plain. We can't sit in these walls and wait for a daemon to rise at our doorstep."
The chamber erupted into voices. Some urged caution, others demanded immediate war. Thalos's voice boomed above the rest. "We must act, Kael! Every moment wasted is another strike of the hammer against our coffins!"
Kael rose slowly from his seat, and the noise died down. His face was carved from stone, his eyes burning with a quiet fire.
"Decisive action," Kael said, his voice carrying the weight of command. "That's the only path. If they wake him, it won't matter how strong our walls are or how sharp our blades become. He'll unmake everything."
The council leaned in, waiting.
"I will lead a strike team," Kael continued. "We go north before the wards are broken. We cut down the ringleaders, scatter their ritualists, and make it clear that the daemon lord is not their savior. He is death, chained for a reason. We end this before it begins."
"You would leave the Hollow vulnerable," Saekaros pressed.
Kael's gaze was steady. "Better I risk myself than doom us all by standing idle. Lyria, Thalos, Rogan, Varik — you will come with me. Fenrik, you and Saekaros will hold the Hollow in our absence. Keep the people calm. Keep the walls strong."
Lyria straightened, eyes flashing with resolve. Rogan cracked his knuckles, a grim smile tugging at his lips. Thalos gave a sharp nod, and even Varik's cold features shifted into something that looked almost like approval.
Saekaros leaned back, his golden eyes narrowing. "You are playing a dangerous game, Kael. But perhaps there is no other move left."
Kael stepped from the table, his shadow stretching long in the lamplight. "This is not a game. This is survival."
No one argued further.
Moments later, the Hollow's gates creaked open under the cover of night. A small force stepped into the dark, led by Kael, his cloak drawn close, his eyes fixed on the northern hills where the Ashen Vale waited like a wound in the earth.
Umbra padded at his side, silent and watchful. Behind him, his chosen warriors followed, each one grim and ready.
The air was heavy, charged with a tension that pulled at the lungs. Kael glanced back only once at the Hollow, its torchlight flickering behind the walls like a beacon of fragile hope.
Then he turned his gaze forward. Toward the Vale. Toward the nomads. Toward the ritual that threatened to end everything.
"Tonight," Kael murmured, his voice low but certain, "we stop them."
And with that, the strike team disappeared into the night.