Chapter 189: The Stories of the Wanderers
The great hall was packed shoulder to shoulder, the air thick with torch smoke and murmured tension. Where once the council chamber had held two hundred and fifty Hollowborn, it now bulged with the weight of hundreds more. Families with ragged cloaks, beastkin with weary eyes, elves with travel-stained cloaks, and children who clung to their parents' legs.
The scribes' first count was staggering: three hundred and fifty newcomers had arrived in waves, their banners ragged but held high, their voices full of hope. When added to the Hollow's two hundred fifty souls, the number now pressed just under six hundred strong.
Kael stood at the council table, arms folded, golden eyes sweeping across the crowd. His people—his Hollow—had grown overnight into something far larger than even he had envisioned. It was a sight both humbling and daunting.
The Vote
"The Hollow has thrived because every voice here matters," Kael said, his voice cutting through the restless murmur. "And so this decision must not be mine alone. We will vote. Old Hollowborn and new alike. Will we accept these wanderers as our kin?"
Hands rose slowly at first. Lyria's, steady and certain. Fenrik's, calloused fingers raised without hesitation. Rogan's scarred hand, and Saekaros' scaled one. Then more and more followed—miners, farmers, smiths, mothers with babes in their arms.
The scribes moved swiftly, counting aloud:
Six hundred and seven hands raised in favor.
Kael's gaze swept the hall again. "And those opposed?"
Only a scattering of hands lifted—thirty-two in total.
Thalos was among them, his jaw tight, his eyes wary. A few elders shifted uncomfortably but did not meet Kael's gaze.
Kael's voice rang like steel against stone. "Then the will of the Hollow is spoken. You are welcome here. You will be fed, you will be housed, and you will share in our burdens and triumphs alike. From this moment forward, we are one."
A roar of approval swept through the hall. Some of the nomads wept openly; others clasped one another's shoulders, relief washing over their tired faces.
Practical Matters
"Now comes the harder part," Rogan rumbled once the hall quieted. "Six hundred souls don't feed themselves."
"Food first," Lyria said. "Our harvest was bountiful, but it won't last. We'll need more hands in the fields at once."
Ilthare, the elven wanderer, stood and bowed her head. "We are many who know the hunt, the woods, and the ways of the soil. Give us seed and land, and we'll repay you thrice over."
Brokken, the dwarf, crossed his thick arms. "And we've smiths enough to fill your forges. Let us work your ore, and you'll have steel to outfit an army."
Kael nodded. "Then so it shall be. The farmers and hunters to the fields and forests. The smiths to the forges. The strong to the walls and patrols. Garruk—" his eyes locked on the wolf-headed beastkin, "your people will aid in defense."
Garruk bared his fangs in approval. "We'll keep your gates strong."
"Sleeping arrangements?" Rogan pressed.
"Clear the caverns east of the mines," Fenrik said. "Large enough for families. Not perfect, but they'll do until homes are raised."
"And food?" Thalos asked, his voice sharp. "How much do they eat before they prove themselves?"
Kael's gaze was unwavering. "They eat as we eat. No more, no less. Equality, or this unity breaks before it even begins."
Even Thalos had no retort for that.
Saekaros' Burden
Kael straightened, his shadow stretching long across the council table.
"One matter remains. Unity is not forged by words alone."
His gaze settled on Saekaros, who stood at attention, his scaled form rigid under Kael's scrutiny.
"You were once as they are now," Kael said. "A stranger, mistrusted, tested. You proved yourself. Now I give you a burden. You will keep the peace between Hollowborn and newcomers. The leaders who spoke tonight—Ilthare, Brokken, Garruk—they will answer to you directly. If there is quarrel, you will end it. If there is strife, you will resolve it. Unity is your charge."
Saekaros bowed deeply. "It will be done."
The other leaders inclined their heads toward him, acknowledging the weight of his authority.
Azhara and the Children
Later, as Kael left the hall, voices of laughter pulled him toward the courtyard.
There, Azhara knelt in the cobblestones, crimson skin glowing in the torchlight. Children crowded around her, their giggles ringing like bells as she wove glowing shapes from mana—birds of flame, shimmering stars, wolves of shadow.
A little girl touched her cheek. "You're so pretty. Your skin's like rubies!"
"And your eyes," another piped up, "they're like moons. White and shiny. Beautiful."
Azhara froze, trembling, as if the words themselves were foreign. Slowly, tears welled in her white eyes, and a smile tugged at her lips—fragile, but radiant. "Beautiful…?" she whispered.
"Yes!" the children cried in unison, tugging her hands, begging for more light.
Kael's Reflection
Kael lingered at the edge of the courtyard. Lyria joined him, her hand brushing his, her smile soft.
"They see what she cannot," she murmured.
Kael said nothing, but warmth flickered in his chest.
The Hollow had grown from two hundred fifty to six hundred souls. Six hundred lives now bound to his choices, six hundred voices depending on his strength. He should have felt the weight crushing him. Instead, for the first time in weeks, he allowed himself a rare, fleeting smile.
This was no longer a refuge.
It was a home.
And he would see it flourish.