Chapter 217 – Fire at the Council Table
The great council hall of the Hollow was tense, a heaviness clinging to the air like storm clouds before a downpour. Word had already spread that Kael, Rogan, Thalos, and Fenrik had struck back against the Iron Brand in the night. The rumors swirled faster than snow in the winter wind—whispers of slaughter, of cruelty, of something darker still.
Now the truth would be laid bare.
Kael stood at the head of the long wooden table, his hands planted firmly on the scarred surface. Shadows curled faintly around his shoulders, restless as if feeding on the weight of the moment. Rogan sat nearby, arms crossed, eyes blazing with pride. Thalos and Fenrik kept their gazes steady, though both wore the grim set of men who knew blood had been spilled.
The rest of the council waited in silence—Lyria, her eyes already sharp with suspicion; Azhara, her hands folded, anxious but quiet; other key voices of the Hollow, uncertain what they were about to hear.
Kael's voice cut through the stillness.
"They thought us weak," he said, his tone low and steady. "They thought they could strike at us in the shadows, take from us, torture our kin, and we would cower." His eyes swept the room, black flames flickering faintly in their depths. "So last night, we answered. We sent them a message written in blood and fire: The Hollow does not forgive."
The room shifted uneasily. Some exchanged glances of approval, others discomfort.
Rogan slammed a fist on the table, making the wood jump. "Damn right. Let them choke on their own fear for once. It's about time they learned what happens when you touch the Hollow."
A few murmurs of agreement rose, but they were cut short by Lyria's voice, sharp as a blade.
"You butchered them," she said, her words ringing with fury. Her eyes fixed on Kael, burning brighter than the council fire. "You didn't just fight them—you desecrated them. Twisted their bodies into some nightmare display. You think that makes us strong? It makes us monsters."
The council fell silent. Even Rogan's smirk faltered.
Kael straightened slowly, his jaw tightening. "We did what had to be done. Fear is a weapon, Lyria. They meant to break us with it. I turned it back on them."
Lyria rose from her seat so fast the chair scraped across the floor. "Don't you dare justify cruelty with survival! We've fought so hard to build something different here, Kael—something better. And you would throw it away, drag us into the same pit as them, just because you're angry?"
His hands clenched into fists on the table. Shadows stirred, writhing like smoke behind him. "Angry? Varik was tortured. Our people have been stalked and bled in the dark. Every raid, every act of cruelty they inflicted—tell me, Lyria, do we just sit and pray they stop?"
"We fight, yes," she snapped back. "But not like that. Not by abandoning our humanity. What separates us from slavers, from tyrants, if we revel in cruelty the same way they do?"
The hall had gone deathly quiet. Every pair of eyes was fixed on the two of them—Kael, blazing with dark fury, and Lyria, defiant and unyielding. For a moment, it seemed they might tear the Hollow apart with nothing but words.
Finally, Kael spoke, his voice a low growl.
"What separates us," he said, "is that we fight for our people. For their lives, their future. And I'll use whatever means I must to keep them safe—even if it damns me."
The shadows behind him writhed once, then stilled.
Lyria's chest rose and fell, her breath sharp. She shook her head, her expression carved with anguish. "And what happens when the day comes that the people look at you, and all they see is the monster you've become?"
The words struck harder than any blade. For a heartbeat, Kael's mask faltered, his eyes dark with something rawer than anger. But he didn't answer. Couldn't.
The silence dragged until Thalos finally cleared his throat. "This… is not a choice we can make lightly. The Iron Brand won't forget what they found. They'll answer."
"And when they do," Kael said, his voice steady again, "we'll be ready."
Far from the Hollow, deep in the tangled forests to the south, the Iron Brand did indeed find the message.
The scouts had gone silent. Reinforcements sent to check the camp stumbled upon the horror at dawn. Word spread like fire in dry grass, drawing the Brand's commanders to the site.
Dozens of slavers stood in a half-circle, staring at the nightmare display. Bodies twisted, impaled, burned into a grotesque spiral, their banner blackened with unnatural flame. The words etched into the trees glowed faintly even in daylight:
The Hollow does not forgive.
A ripple of unease passed through the ranks. The Iron Brand were killers, raiders, traffickers in flesh—but what they saw here was something beyond their own cruelty. Something that stank of shadow and sorcery.
One of the lieutenants spat on the ground, forcing a sneer. "Scare tactics. That's all it is. A bluff."
But the leader, Korrath, said nothing. He stood before the display, his massive frame rigid, his eyes narrowed. His scarred hand flexed on the hilt of his sword.
"They think this makes them strong," he said at last, his voice low and dangerous. "But all it's done is sign their death warrant."
He turned, his gaze sweeping over his men. "Spread word. No more games. No more subtlety. The Hollow thinks to frighten us? We'll drown them in blood until their screams echo louder than any message they can write."
The slavers roared their approval, but beneath the sound, unease still lingered. The Hollow had struck back, and not with hesitation or mercy.
War was no longer brewing. It was inevitable.