Chapter 222 — Preparations in the Shadows
The Hollow stirred like an ant colony preparing for flood and fire. Axes bit into timber, the crash of falling trees echoing through the woods. Men and women dug pits into the frozen soil, hammering stakes and lining their depths with sharpened bone and steel scavenged from old raids. Tar was heated in thick, smoking pots, then poured into sealed barrels to be buried along narrow woodland paths. Ropes were woven into snares strong enough to pull down a warhorse, their knots tightened by nomadic hands who had trapped beasts all their lives.
Kael moved through it all, not as a commander standing back to observe, but with his sleeves rolled and shoulders bent. He set logs on his back and carried them to the builders. He tested the bowstrings of the elven archers and sparred briefly with the wolfkin spear-carriers. He poured a flare of chaos fire into a tar pit to see how quickly it would ignite. Everywhere he went, the Hollow stiffened with purpose.
But no matter how much he threw himself into the work, his thoughts never escaped the weight pressing against his ribs. Lyria.
The memory of her fury was still raw. The way she had screamed at him, bow drawn, her hand trembling as if one stray thought could've loosed an arrow into his throat. He knew she hadn't — not really, not truly — but the fact that she could get that close said enough. They hadn't spoken much since the council chamber, her words still a blade between them. She carried out the preparations with ruthless efficiency, instructing elves where to position, overseeing fletching and stringing of hundreds of arrows, all while Kael kept to his own portion of the work.
He told himself it was fine. He told himself time would mend it. But the truth sat deeper: he was afraid to break what fragile bridge still existed between them by saying the wrong words. He feared losing her in ways worse than death. And underneath all of that, he wondered — wondered if she was right, if his cruelty in sending the message to the slavers had stained something inside him that could not be undone.
He was hacking through a frozen log, chaos-shadow strengthening his grip on the axe, when Thalos approached. The ranger's steps were quiet, but Kael felt him all the same. He didn't stop chopping until the wood split, shards scattering across the ground.
"You're working like you mean to cut through the whole damn forest," Thalos said, leaning against a tree, arms folded.
Kael set the axe down, breath fogging in the cold air. "There's work to be done."
"There's always work to be done," Thalos replied evenly. "But not all of it involves wood and steel. Some of it involves what's inside your chest, Kael. You've been carrying a weight that no preparation can burn off."
Kael's jaw tightened. He bent to gather the split wood, stacking it into a neat pile before answering. "She's angry with me. And she has every right to be. Lyria thinks I crossed a line when we left that… message. She says it made me no different than the slavers. Maybe she's right."
Thalos tilted his head. "And you? Do you think she's right?"
Kael stared at the neat pile of logs, then at the ground beneath them. "I don't know. What I do know is that our enemies are monsters, and sometimes monsters only understand fear. But Lyria… she isn't wrong to be angry. She believes I'm walking a road I can't walk back from. That one day I'll lose myself. She's afraid. Not for her. For me."
The ranger was quiet for a long moment, eyes flicking toward the horizon where the wall of trees loomed, where the Iron Brand would soon come crawling through. Then he sighed.
"You know," Thalos said, "I think you're protecting her too much."
Kael frowned, turning toward him. "Protecting her? I'd never—"
"Yes, you would." Thalos's tone was firm, cutting through Kael's protest. "You've been shielding her, holding her at arm's length in decisions like the one you made with the slavers. Why? Because of Druaka."
The name landed like a hammer blow. Kael froze, his breath caught in his chest.
Thalos stepped closer, his gaze sharp. "You loved her too. She was a mountain at your side, but even mountains can fall. Druaka made a mistake, Kael. She misread the fight, pushed too far, and it cost her life. And you—" He jabbed a finger toward Kael's chest. "You've been carrying that guilt like chains ever since. You think if you keep Lyria away from the edge, if you bear all the blood yourself, she'll be safe. That's your mistake."
Kael swallowed hard, shadows stirring at his feet like restless serpents. "You don't understand. I can't—"
"I understand more than you think," Thalos interrupted. His voice softened, though it lost none of its edge. "You two aren't enemies. But people who love each other? They can nearly kill one another in anger. They can scream, they can lash out, they can wound each other deeply. That doesn't mean they don't still love. It means they're alive. Lyria doesn't need your protection from the world or from you. She needs your trust. Druaka died because of war, not because you trusted her. Don't turn that scar into a prison for Lyria."
The words dug deep, deeper than Kael wanted to admit. He remembered Druaka's smile, her booming laugh, the way she had stood as though nothing could touch her — until something did. He remembered holding her as her blood poured into the earth, the helplessness, the rage. He remembered swearing he'd never let it happen again.
Maybe Thalos was right. Maybe in his desperation to protect, he had bound Lyria in shackles she didn't deserve.
Kael ran a hand over his face, the shadows dispersing, his breath unsteady. "You think I should give her time?"
"I think you should give her respect," Thalos answered simply. "Time, space, honesty. She'll come back to you. You both will. But only if you stop trying to carry her on your shoulders like she's made of glass."
For the first time in days, Kael let out a dry, humorless laugh. "Even when she nearly put an arrow through my throat?"
Thalos shrugged. "I said people who love each other can nearly kill one another. The important word there is 'nearly.' She didn't. She won't. You're Kael, and she's Lyria. That's worth trusting."
Kael looked down at the wood in his hands, then slowly let it fall to the ground. For the first time, the thought of speaking to Lyria again didn't feel like stepping into a battlefield. It felt like stepping into the truth.
The Hollow around them rang with the sounds of preparation: axes striking, ropes tightening, arrows being fletched by careful hands. The storm was coming. But Kael knew now that before it broke, he had something else he had to mend.
And this time, he wouldn't keep her at arm's length.