Chapter 200: Relief at the Gates
The council chamber was alive with murmurs, the kind of cautious anticipation that had been absent for months. The morning sun streamed through the high windows, casting light on the faces of Hollow's leaders as Kael stood at the head of the table, a sealed parchment in his hands.
He broke the seal slowly, almost reverently, and read aloud:
"You owe me nothing. Do not speak of favors, for you have already given me more than I can repay. You have saved my life twice. If anything, it is I who am in your debt still. The supplies you asked for will arrive within the fortnight. Feed your people. Keep them strong. We will need that strength in the days to come."
Signed, Thalren.
The words seemed to strike like thunder.
Fenrik's booming laugh filled the room, clapping the table so hard it rattled the goblets. "By the gods, he's come through for us! Food, Kael. Real food. Enough to last until the harvest."
Even Rogan, normally as stoic as stone, allowed a rare smile to crack his face. "The Ocean King is a man of honor after all."
Excitement rippled through the council. Hands thumped the table, voices rose with joy and relief. For the first time in weeks, hope replaced the gnawing hunger in their hearts.
But in the quiet corners of the chamber, Kael's eyes sought the ones who shared his secret: Thalos, Varik, and Lyria.
The three of them didn't cheer as loudly as the others. Their relief came differently—an exhale, a loosening of tension, the weight of bloody choices finally eased, if only for now.
The Arrival
Two weeks later, the sound of horns echoed across the Hollow. From the watchtowers came the cry: "Wagons from the south! Supplies from the Ocean Kingdom!"
The gates were flung open, and the sight that followed brought tears to eyes hardened by hunger. Wagons groaned under the weight of sacks of grain, barrels of salted fish, baskets of fruit, cages of squawking chickens, even a drove of goats led on ropes.
The people surged forward, not in chaos, but in reverent awe. Mothers held their children aloft to see. Old men clutched each other's arms in disbelief. Children darted at the edges, laughing at the smell of food and the sight of livestock.
Kael stood above them on the stone steps, Umbra coiled like a dark sentinel behind him, watching as his people wept and cheered.
"This," Kael said softly, "is what they deserve. Not fear. Not hunger. This."
Lyria stepped up beside him, her hand brushing his.
The Private Conversation
That night, after the wagons were stored, the food tallied, and the people fed for the first time in weeks without fear of shortage, Kael and Lyria found themselves alone. The chamber was quiet, the lantern light soft.
"You pulled it off," she said, her voice gentle but heavy with meaning.
Kael turned to her, his shoulders sagging now that the day's weight was gone. "I pulled it off twice. The raids bought us time. And Thalren's aid… it carried us the rest of the way."
Lyria's expression shifted—soft, but edged with that honesty she never spared him. She touched his arm. "Both plans were risks, Kael. But only one endangered your people's lives. Only one demanded they spill blood in secret."
Kael looked away, shame flickering in his chest. "And it worked. That's what gnaws at me. The raids, the lies… it worked. But so did asking for help. Gods, Lyria, maybe I don't know which path I'm supposed to walk anymore."
Her hand slid down his arm until it found his hand, holding it tight. "You do know. You've always known. You just don't trust yourself to choose it when fear blinds you. One path stains your soul. The other feeds your people without adding more ghosts to your conscience. That's the difference."
Kael closed his eyes, her words sinking deep, the echo of his own fury at Druaka's grave still fresh in his heart.
"You're right," he whispered. "I'll… I'll try to remember that."
Lyria leaned against him, her head on his shoulder. "Not try. Do."
And in the quiet of that chamber, with laughter still echoing faintly from the Hollow's streets, Kael allowed himself, for the first time in months, to believe they might make it.