Chapter 212 – The Long Road Back
Varik had traveled in silence before, but this time felt heavier, more purposeful. The Hollow needed answers, and Kael had placed the task squarely on his shoulders. No squad, no escorts—just him, a knife, and the knowledge that the shadows of the world closed tighter with every passing day.
He slipped through woodlands, crossed frozen creeks, and passed forgotten villages where shutters were barred even in daylight. Everywhere he went, he listened. For whispers. For rumors. For signs of the hand striking at the Hollow from afar.
Trails of Blood
It wasn't long before he found it.
A merchant's cart, broken in a ditch. The horses were butchered, the driver still slumped over his bench with a black-hafted spear through his chest. The crates had been taken, their contents spilled only enough to show they once held grain and tools.
Varik crouched low, brushing his fingers across the dirt. The tracks were heavy, booted, organized. A warband's passage, not simple thieves. He followed, as he always had, one foot after the other, blending into brush and shadow.
Days stretched. The tracks led him north, then east. Past burned wagons, gutted farmsteads, poisoned wells. He began to see the pattern—small strikes, always leaving survivors to spread fear, always stripping away supplies. The Hollow was being bled slowly, piece by piece.
Then one night, he finally saw them.
The Iron Brand
A camp sprawled across a hill's base, lit by fire pits and surrounded by crude wooden palisades. Varik counted at least three dozen raiders, some with chains around their own necks as symbols of their allegiance.
And there, in the largest tent, he glimpsed them—the leaders.
Malreth, the Chain-Lord, a massive brute with a cloak made of slave brands stitched together, his voice carrying over the camp like a storm.
Sarya the Poisoned Tongue, her hands blackened from the toxins she brewed, speaking softly to men who obeyed her like hounds.
Darak Bloodfang, beastly, his teeth filed to points, laughing as he cleaned his blade.
Korran the Silent, a mountain of a man who said nothing, only sharpening his cleaver until sparks lit the night.
Varik memorized their faces, their manner, their numbers. This was the hand choking the Hollow.
But before he could retreat into the woods, the silence broke.
Capture
The first blow came from behind—wood cracking against his skull. Varik staggered, dropping to one knee, vision swimming. Rough hands seized him, yanking the knife from his belt.
He'd been too focused on the leaders, not the patrol circling the hill.
They dragged him into the camp, jeers and spit following. Someone shoved him down before the Chain-Lord himself.
Malreth studied him with calm, pitiless eyes. "A scout. And a good one, to follow us this far. Hollow-born, I'd wager."
Varik spat blood. "I've seen enough to hang you."
The Chain-Lord only smiled, slow and cold. "Then let's see what else those sharp eyes of yours have to give."
Torture
The days blurred into agony.
They chained him to posts, stripped him bare to the cold, and cut him with knives too dull to kill. They burned his arms with hot iron until the stench of flesh filled his nose. Sarya whispered venom in his ear, coating her nails in toxin before dragging them across his skin, watching him seize as the poison fought his blood.
Still, Varik said nothing.
When Malreth demanded numbers, he stayed silent. When Darak broke three of his fingers one by one, he snarled but did not yield. Even when Korran pressed a cleaver's edge to his throat, he only laughed—a ragged, broken laugh that bled into coughing.
"You'll not take the Hollow with whispers and chains," he rasped through cracked lips. "And you'll never take Kael."
That was the first time Malreth struck him, a backhand that sent teeth scattering into the dirt.
But pain was an old friend. And Varik had no intention of dying there.
Escape
On the fourth night, a storm rolled in. Thunder split the skies, rain lashing down hard enough to turn the ground to mud.
His guards, drunk and careless, left him slumped in the mud with chains loose around his wrists. He waited, head bowed, until their laughter carried far enough. Then, with grit and raw fury, he wrenched his thumb out of joint, sliding one wrist free.
The guard never heard him coming. One sharp twist of chain around the neck, one desperate heave, and the man fell twitching into the mud.
Varik pried free a knife with blood-slick fingers. He cut himself loose fully, ignored the fire in his broken ribs, and crept into the dark. Every step was torment, but he knew the wild better than any raider alive.
Behind him, the Iron Brand roared when they found the empty chains. Malreth's bellow shook the camp.
But by then, Varik was already gone.
The Long Road Back
He stumbled through forest and field, moving by instinct more than thought. Fever burned through his body where Sarya's poison lingered. Hunger gnawed, but he pressed on.
Once, he collapsed beside a stream, too weak to move. He thought of Kael then, of the Hollow, of Druaka's grave where Kael often prayed. He thought of the children who called Azhara beautiful, of the forge ringing, of the promise they had built from stone and sweat.
And he crawled forward.
Return to the Hollow
When at last the Hollow's walls rose in the distance, Varik nearly wept. The guards at the gate did not recognize him at first—his face a ruin of bruises, his body ragged and bleeding. But when he rasped Kael's name, they rushed him inside.
In the council chamber, Kael met him with eyes like stormclouds. Lyria was already at his side, pressing bandages to his arms, whispering soft words.
Varik forced himself upright, though every bone screamed in protest. His voice was hoarse, raw, but filled with fire.
"I found them," he said. "The Iron Brand. Slavers. They have leaders—four of them. Cruel, clever, patient. They know of us, Kael. They mean to bleed us dry before the chains come. And they will not stop."
The chamber went silent. Every councilor stared, wide-eyed at the battered man who had crawled back from hell itself to bring warning.
Kael rose slowly, his shadows curling in the edges of the hall. His voice was low, controlled, but carried like iron through the chamber.
"Then we will not wait for their chains. The Hollow will not kneel. Not now. Not ever."