Chapter 151 – The Hollow Breathes Again
The storm of fear had passed, though its shadow lingered in the corners of conversation. For days, whispers about the Daemon Lord and the nomads had haunted the Hollow's streets. Mothers had drawn their children close, council members had spoken in hushed tones, and Kael had felt the weight of every gaze as though the entire Hollow balanced on his shoulders.
But time had its own way of healing.
Now, the Hollow moved like a great wheel back into rhythm.
In the fields, farmers worked with steady resolve, their plows dragging across dark soil. The new seeds Kael had risked so much to bring were sprouting—delicate shoots of green reaching up through the dirt, promising future harvests. The smell of turned earth mixed with the faint sweetness of budding herbs along the irrigation streams. Children ran between rows, their laughter carrying like birdsong, chasing one another with wooden toys carved by a craftsman's hand.
At the forges, the heat roared. Sparks showered as hammer struck iron, shaping ore from the newly broken caverns into tools and weapons alike. Fenrik oversaw the work with his booming voice, sweat streaming down his bare shoulders as he corrected apprentices' stances. To anyone else, the forge would have been chaos, but here it was a chorus of progress, iron and fire harmonizing into the heartbeat of the Hollow.
The mines remained dangerous, but even there, a quiet pride had begun to replace fear. Miners carried their loads of silver, iron, and rare stones with shoulders straighter than before. Rumors still spread about the massive cavern Kael and his soldiers had unearthed, about veins of magistone and the stream that ran through it. To some, it was just wealth waiting to be harvested. To others, it was a hidden sanctuary, a promise that if the Hollow was ever threatened, there was a place to run.
Life balanced again, as if the Hollow itself exhaled after holding its breath too long.
Kael walked the streets, armored only in his tunic, speaking with those who called his name. He paused to help a farmer wrestle a stubborn mule into harness. He nodded to a blacksmith who proudly presented him a blade hammered from the new ore, crude yet sharp. He knelt down to ruffle the hair of a boy who held up a crooked wooden dragon and said, "It's you, Lord Kael!"
"Not nearly so fearsome," Kael said with a rare smile, earning a laugh from the child's mother.
The council felt the balance returning too. Complaints had lessened. There were still disputes—over tools, water allotments, or sleeping arrangements—but they were manageable. Survivable. Not long ago, such small sparks would have felt like signs of collapse. Now, they were simply part of life.
Even the nomads, who had come weary and broken, were weaving themselves into the Hollow's rhythm. Their healers had eased the strain on the infirmary. Their books were being copied and studied by eager hands. And though some clashes of custom still flared, Saekaros and Kael stood side by side to smooth them over before they grew to wounds.
That evening, when the work was done and the Hollow's lanterns were lit, Kael found himself beside Lyria.
They sat at the edge of the stream where the cavern water fed into the Hollow's irrigation channels, the air cool and carrying the scent of damp stone and earth. For the first time in weeks, there was no pressing council matter to demand his attention, no army at the gates, no vision clawing at his mind.
"Listen," Lyria said softly.
He tilted his head.
The Hollow was alive with sound. Not panic, not anger—but laughter, conversation, the rhythm of people living without fear. A lute played faintly in the distance, weaving into the quiet songs of night birds.
"It's been a long time since we heard that without shadows pressing in," she said, leaning against him.
Kael nodded, his arm wrapping around her shoulders. For a moment, he simply let himself breathe with her. "I almost forgot what peace sounded like."
"You'll never forget again," she said firmly. Then, softer: "Not while I'm here."
Kael pressed a kiss to her hair. The ache of grief was still there, the memory of Druaka, the haunting words of the Daemon Lord—but beneath it, something new stirred. Hope, fragile but real.
The Hollow was healing.
And so, slowly, was he.