Chapter 214 – Two Fires Kindling
Part I: The Iron Brand
The Iron Brand camp sprawled across a ruined stretch of grassland, pocked with fire pits and half-rotted wagons repurposed as barricades. Smoke curled upward into the spring air, thick with the smell of charred meat and unwashed bodies. The slavers had grown fat and comfortable on their cruelty, their confidence swelling like rot.
Korrath, their leader, sat on a throne cobbled together from scavenged steel and bones, the crude mockery of a king's seat. He drank from a goblet of blood-red wine, his massive frame lounging with the arrogance of a man who believed nothing in the world could touch him.
Before him, his three lieutenants waited.
Draln, lean and predatory, spun a curved dagger across his knuckles, his eyes sharp and cruel.
Meyra, a woman with hair like burning coal, leaned lazily against a post, her twin whips coiled at her waist, her smirk as venomous as her strikes.
And Garruk, hulking and silent, stood with arms crossed, a living wall of muscle and scars, his warhammer slung across his back.
Korrath raised his goblet, grinning through his crooked teeth.
"Three moons, and the Hollow will be nothing but a memory. Its people will be branded, sold, scattered to the winds. And we—" he gestured broadly at the camp, where his men and women laughed and drank around their fires, "—we will be rich beyond measure."
Meyra smirked, flicking her wrist as though cracking one of her whips. "The fools don't even know it's us. Bandits, they think. Stray wolves in the forest. By the time they realize the truth, the noose will already be tight."
Draln chuckled darkly, his dagger flashing in the firelight. "I almost pity them. Almost. The Hollow fights like cornered beasts, I hear—but beasts break all the same."
Only Garruk remained silent, his one good eye narrowing. He finally spoke, his voice like gravel dragged over stone. "Do not underestimate them. I've seen villages like theirs rise before. The desperate fight hardest."
Korrath waved him off with a laugh. "Desperation means nothing when chains close around their throats. Let them sharpen their little blades. Let them whisper hope to each other. When spring ripens, we take them—and the Hollow will feed our coffers for years to come."
The camp roared in agreement, drunk on arrogance, the fires burning high.
Part II: The Hollow
Far to the north, the Hollow carried a different fire—one of anger, fear, and unyielding vigilance.
The council chamber had become a war room. Maps littered the great table, marked with stones and carved pieces showing watch patrols, supply caches, and choke points. Outside, the air buzzed with the ring of hammers on steel, the thud of axes splitting timber, the barked orders of captains drilling their fighters.
Kael stood at the head of it all, shadows coiling faintly at his feet as though mirroring his storming heart. His eyes swept the room, meeting each of his council members in turn.
"The Iron Brand thinks us prey," he said, his voice low but steady, the kind of tone that carried more weight than shouting. "They think us weak. They are wrong."
Fenrik leaned forward, his voice sharp. "Our patrols have spotted their scouts. They test us, circle us, but never strike. They're building toward something bigger."
"They want us nervous," Thalos muttered, arms crossed. "Every move designed to bleed us without drawing blood. But they don't know we've seen through their game."
Rogan slammed his fist on the table. "Then why wait? Let's cut their scouts to ribbons. Send a message: the Hollow doesn't bend."
Lyria shook her head firmly. "We can't risk reckless strikes. Every scout is bait, every provocation a trap. We strike when we choose, not when they dangle their hooks."
Varik, still pale but recovering, raised his voice. "I saw them, Kael. I heard them. They're proud, too proud. That pride is our weapon. If we can make them think we're weaker than we are, they'll come in sloppy. And then—" he tapped the map with a thin smile, "—we take their heads."
Kael let the debate run, his eyes lingering on the shifting faces of his people. Fear was there, yes. But so was resolve. The Hollow had been born in suffering, carved in blood and sacrifice. They would not bow to slavers.
Finally, he raised a hand, silencing the chamber. His shadows stretched across the map, curling around the markers like talons.
"Prepare the Hollow. Every blade sharpened. Every wall strengthened. Every man, woman, and child ready to stand. When they come for us, they'll find not prey, but predators."
The council nodded, some grimly, some eagerly, but all with fire in their eyes.
Outside, snow still clung to the mountainsides, but the air carried the scent of thaw. Spring had come, and with it, the promise of war.
And while the Iron Brand toasted their imagined victory, the Hollow stood ready to turn arrogance into ashes.