Chapter 218 – The Weight of Steel
The Hollow bustled with life as spring pushed back the bite of winter. Smoke curled from chimneys, carrying the smell of stews made richer than the desperate meals of past months. Children darted through the thawing streets, chasing each other through patches of half-melted snow, their laughter echoing against stone walls. Merchants at the market stalls shouted over one another, hawking fresh goods—jerked meats, the first spring vegetables, furs from hunters who had survived the lean months.
The air should have been alive with triumph. They had survived. The winter had not broken them. Yet for Kael, the voices and the colors of his people seemed distant, muffled, like he was looking in on the world through thick glass.
The rift between him and Lyria weighed heavier than any chain. She had not abandoned him—Lyria never would—but the fire in her eyes during the council fight, the way she'd looked at him afterward… it haunted him. He could still hear her voice, sharp and unrelenting, accusing him of crossing a line he should never have touched.
So Kael walked. Past the square, past the barracks, past the forge that still glowed with steady embers. He left behind the laughter of the Hollow and made his way to the grove at its edge, where the earth sloped quiet and still.
Druaka's grave was simple. A stone marker, carved with careful runes by the dwarves. The earth around it had been left untamed, and wildflowers grew thick and vibrant. Their petals swayed in the spring breeze, defiant reminders that life persisted even in places touched by grief.
Kael crouched before the stone, resting one calloused hand against it.
"Was that the right choice?" His voice was low, raw. He wasn't weeping, wasn't shouting—only speaking as though Druaka sat across from him, listening like she once did. "To answer cruelty with cruelty?"
The silence answered him, broken only by the wind rustling the flowers.
He sighed, leaning back on his heels. "You always said love was freedom. That if you gave people the choice, they'd find compassion, even in the darkest corners. You believed that. And it made me believe, too. But when I stood before the council, when I saw what those bastards wanted to do to us… all I could think of was striking back harder. Making them bleed before they could ever reach us."
His hand tightened against the stone.
"Lyria says I'm losing myself. Maybe she's right. Maybe I am becoming the monster they already whisper I am. But Druaka… if you were here, would you have stopped me? Or would you have stood beside me, blade in hand, like always?"
The grove answered only with the creak of branches swaying overhead.
Kael closed his eyes and bowed his head. "I'll carry it," he whispered. "The blood. The sins. The weight. If it means the Hollow survives, I'll carry it for all of them. For you. For her."
When he rose again, something sharper burned in his gaze.
The training grounds were quiet this time of day. Only a few recruits sparred in the far corner, their wooden weapons clacking rhythmically. At the center of the grounds rested the gift from the dwarven forge-master: the Magisteel sword.
The blade shimmered faintly even in shade, its steel touched by veins of deep silver that seemed to drink in the light around it. When Kael wrapped his hand around the hilt, the hum of power leapt into his arm. It felt alive, like the weapon itself acknowledged him.
He drew it, holding it upright.
"Let's see what you can do."
The first strikes were simple—testing weight, balance, speed. The blade moved with surprising ease, heavier than a normal longsword but never sluggish. Every swing felt precise, inevitable.
Then came the magic.
Kael willed shadows into the steel. Darkness coiled along its edge, whispering as it stretched outward with each arc. He pivoted, and a feint became a shadow-double, lashing forward to strike another angle. He followed with a downward slash, and black flames erupted, engulfing the dummy in fire that left nothing but charred husks.
Breathing heavier, Kael pressed harder. He combined each element of his arsenal—shadow, flame, chaos. A parry became a burst of fire that blinded. A thrust carried shadow-tendrils that pinned an opponent in place for the killing blow. With chaos magic woven through the blade, his final strike sent a ripple tearing through the earth, splitting the ground in a jagged scar.
The training grounds shook with the force.
Kael planted the blade into the soil, chest heaving. Sweat ran down his temple, and his muscles burned—but his grip was steady, his heart thundering with realization.
This was more than steel. More than shadow or flame. It was him.
Not a dragon. Not only a sorcerer. Not just a leader burdened with decisions.
A warrior—wielding steel and sorcery as one.
The sound of boots crunching across the grounds broke his focus. Rogan and Fenrik approached, both having watched the last flurry of blows. Their expressions carried equal parts awe and something darker—admiration laced with approval of his ruthlessness.
"That," Rogan said with a grin, "was something to see. By the gods, Kael, you've made yourself into a weapon no army could stand against."
Fenrik's eyes gleamed. "Lyria was wrong, you know. What you did wasn't weakness. It wasn't cruelty. It was strength. Those kinds of people—the Iron Brand, the slavers—they shouldn't even be allowed to breathe. Better they choke on their own blood than ever touch our Hollow."
Kael pulled the blade from the ground, resting it on his shoulder. His gaze drifted between them, hard and unblinking.
"You think that's the answer, then? That every cruelty should be met with cruelty? That we become wolves because wolves hunt us?"
Rogan scoffed. "We've already been hunted. You saw what they wanted to do to us. You think kindness will turn their hearts?"
Fenrik folded his arms, grim. "If we respond with mercy, we'll be slaughtered. If we respond with fire, we might just survive."
Kael's jaw tightened. His voice cut through the air, quiet but sharp enough to silence both.
"If we respond to their cruelty with cruelty of our own, what makes us so different?"
The question lingered like a blade left hanging in the air. Rogan's smirk faltered. Fenrik's arms loosened. Neither had an answer, not one that satisfied.
Kael lowered his blade, planting its tip into the dirt once more.
"That's the line we walk every day," he said, his voice heavy. "I'm not blind. I know what we've done already. I know the blood that stains our hands. But if we forget why we fight—if we forget the difference between them and us—then everything we've built here, every life saved, every child laughing in the streets… it all becomes ash."
Silence pressed down on them. Rogan clenched his fists, Fenrik looked away, but both nodded slowly, understanding at least the weight of Kael's words.
Kael lifted the sword again, resting it against his shoulder. His shadow stretched long in the afternoon light, dark and sharp.
He was not at peace. He doubted he ever would be. But with each swing of the blade, each question spoken to ghosts and friends alike, he carved himself into something new.
A leader. A warrior.
The weight of steel, of flame, of shadow, of choice.
And it was his alone to bear.