Chapter 197; The Weight of Secrets
The Hollow lived and breathed again.
The clang of hammers rang from the forges, the scent of stews filled the cavern's tunnels, and children's laughter echoed through the stone halls as they chased each other with crusts of bread clutched in small hands.
For the first time in months, hunger did not haunt every shadow.
But Kael felt the weight of that relief like an anchor dragging him down. Each smile he passed pressed the truth harder against his ribs. These people thought their salvation came from his cunning, his foresight. They could never know that their full bellies were purchased with stolen blood and fire.
Only three knew the truth: Thalos, Varik—and Lyria.
That last weighed on him the most. Her fury still clung to him like an open wound. She had not betrayed him, had not shouted their secret to the council, but neither had she forgiven him. And so, as the Hollow thrived, Kael carried both their gratitude and her anger like iron chains.
The Council Convenes
The council chamber was warm, the fire crackling at the center of the round table. Scrolls and ledgers lay spread out across its surface, tallying mouths, stores, and the harsh numbers that ruled survival.
Saekaros leaned on his cane, his tone as sharp as ever. "We've bought time, nothing more. Six hundred mouths, Kael. Six hundred! Our stores are already thinning. If winter comes harsh, we'll be bled dry before the thaw."
Fenrik grunted, folding his arms. "Then we hunt more. Double the traps. Send out bigger parties. The forests can give if we take more."
"And risk stripping them bare?" Saekaros shot back. "A forest can't be forced into plenty."
"Then the fields," Rogan put in, practical as always. "Expand them further into the cavern. The new chamber Kael uncovered—it has a stream. We can divert water, make the soil ready."
"And how long will that take?" Fenrik's voice carried frustration. "The people need food now. Crops are seasons away. Hunters bring back meat every week."
Murmurs rose, voices overlapping, until Kael raised his hand. Silence fell. His eyes glimmered in the firelight, sharp, commanding.
"What I set in motion before…" His voice was low, steady, every word chosen with care. "It cannot be done again. Not now. Not soon. What was done bought us time. Nothing more."
Across the table, Thalos and Varik stiffened. Only they—and Lyria, seated silently at Kael's side—understood the shadow in his words.
Kael pressed on. "We have an ally now. King Thalren. And though his trust in us is new, an alliance means nothing if it is never tested. If we are in need, then let us ask. Trade, aid, a show of good faith. If he stands by us, the pact grows stronger. If he does not… then better we learn it sooner than later."
Saekaros tapped his cane against the stone. "You'd put us in his debt already?"
"No," Kael answered sharply. "I'd put us in honesty. Pride will not fill bellies. A pact untested is no pact at all."
Rogan leaned forward, voice measured. "He's not wrong. If Thalren refuses, we will adapt. If he answers, it's a victory."
Fenrik scowled. "Or a leash."
Kael met his eyes without flinching. "Only if we allow it. Trade is not servitude. It is survival."
The Silence of the Few
The debate stretched on. Numbers, strategies, cautions. Some called for pushing the hunters harder. Others demanded new farmland. Saekaros spoke grimly of rationing. Rogan pushed for balancing labor between the forge and the field.
Through it all, Kael remained calm, guiding, deflecting, offering reason without revealing the truth that sat like a thorn in his throat.
But he could feel them.
Lyria's gaze, heavy at his side. Thalos' frown, unreadable but weighted. Varik's silence, careful, deliberate.
They knew. And their silence was louder than any argument.
When the final voices died down, Kael rose. "We will draft a request to King Thalren. Honest, but not desperate. We will not beg, but we will not lie. Let us see if our ally stands true."
The council nodded, reluctant but swayed. The decision was made.
One by one, they filed out, leaving the fire to burn low.
The Flame and the Wound
Kael remained by the fire, shoulders heavy. His hands pressed against the table, knuckles white, the weight of every choice grinding him down.
When the chamber was nearly empty, only Lyria lingered.
"You played it well," she said, her voice cold, brittle.
Kael turned to her, his jaw tight. "I played it necessary."
Her eyes burned with anger barely contained. "And when they look at you like a savior, do you choke on it? Or do you pretend not to see?"
Kael's voice cracked for the first time that day. "I choke on it, Lyria. Every breath."
For a moment, silence stretched between them, filled only by the fire's crackle.
Then Kael looked away, his voice a whisper. "I would bloody my soul a thousand times for them. You know that."
Her hand trembled at her side. Anger warred with sorrow in her eyes. Finally, she whispered back, "And I would drag you back from the abyss every time you tried."
The Grave's Whisper
Later that night, Kael found himself standing at Druaka's grave. The stone was cool beneath his fingers, the cavern silent but for the faint drip of water echoing in the distance.
He bowed his head, the mask of strength finally falling.
"Tell me I made the right choice," he whispered, voice breaking. "Tell me I didn't damn them all. Tell me I didn't damn you."
His chest shook, his breath ragged, but the stone gave no answer. Only silence. Only the hollow ache of choices that could not be undone.
Kael sank to his knees, forehead pressed to the stone. "Please, Druaka. Just one word. One sign. Anything."
But the cavern held its silence, and Kael carried the weight alone.