Chapter 279 – Whispers of Saint Ovre
The Hollow had grown quiet in the late hours of the evening, torches flickering in the streets, the laughter of children replaced by the distant hum of the forest outside its walls. It was on this night that two of Kael's most dangerous agents slipped beyond those walls, each taking a different path into the world.
Varik left cloaked in the garb of a traveling hunter, bow slung casually over his back, his face weathered by dirt and the smell of smoke rubbed into his cloak to mask the Hollow's distinct scent of oiled steel and woodfires. Zerathis, in contrast, vanished into the treeline like a shadow that refused to be swallowed, his daemon form half-concealed in the folds of a black robe Kael had ordered him to wear. They were hunting the same quarry, but each by their own method.
Varik's Path – The Hunter in the Crowd
The first town Varik slipped into was called Mireford, a damp trading post built along a sluggish river. Merchants, laborers, and mercenaries passed through often, and no one spared more than a glance for another traveler with a weary face and a full coin pouch.
Varik kept his ears open more than his mouth. He drank slowly at the tavern, his sharp eyes studying the ebb and flow of gossip. Farmers spoke of new taxes, of strange sermons being spread in neighboring villages. Mercenaries bragged about contracts in the east, fighting not against bandits or beasts but "heretics and the godless."
That was the first time Varik heard the name Saint Ovre.
A mercenary at the far table spat into the fire and said, "The Church of Saint Ovre is paying better than most kings. You burn out a nest of nonbelievers, they pay in gold and blessings. Twice the coin for every demi-human throat slit."
Varik's hand tightened around his cup. His face betrayed nothing, but inside, the hunter in him prowled.
Over the next two days, he followed the trail of whispers. He bribed a stable boy for information, bought drinks for a weary sellsword, shadowed a merchant caravan that carried not goods but priests. Piece by piece, he assembled a picture.
The Church of Saint Ovre was no minor sect. They had temples rising in half a dozen towns, banners marked with a golden sunburst pierced by a silver spear. Their sermons preached purity, the washing away of the "unblessed," and their soldiers were no common militia—they were drilled, armored, and fanatically loyal.
Two times the Hollow's population, Varik estimated grimly. And with zeal in their hearts, they would march to cleanse what they called a stain on the world.
Still, he needed proof. And so he broke into a small chapel on the outskirts of the city of Halem. Moving like a shadow between pews, he slipped past candles and sleeping priests until he found the records chamber.
There, beneath wax seals and the faded crest of Ovre, were orders—detailed, precise. The Church's High Priest had marked the Hollow as a den of heresy, a place where daemons, elves, and beasts conspired under a false king. Scouts had already been sent. An army would follow.
Varik left the chapel before dawn, his bow clutched tight. His task was complete. He only prayed Zerathis had been equally successful.
Zerathis's Path – The Monster in the Dark
While Varik worked like a patient blade, Zerathis moved like a hammer. He cared little for blending in—his presence alone sowed terror.
The daemon appeared at the gates of a border town under the cover of midnight mist, his burning eyes concealed beneath his hood. His voice was a low growl that slipped into the dreams of drunkards and guards alike. He didn't sneak; he demanded. When the guards raised spears, he broke them with a single flick of his wrist, bones shattering, men screaming into the night. He did not kill them—Kael's orders had been explicit—but he left them broken enough to remember their fear.
He interrogated priests, dragging them from their beds. Chains of shadow wrapped their throats, forcing truths from lips too terrified to lie. Every answer confirmed what Varik had already learned elsewhere: the Church of Saint Ovre was preparing for war.
But Zerathis uncovered something darker.
In a temple beneath the town of Welsend, he found a hidden chamber. Walls carved with runes of fire, altars stained with blood. Not sacrifices of beasts, but of demi-human captives—wolves, elves, even children. Their bones were stacked neatly, their skulls turned toward the golden sunburst of Ovre's emblem.
When he confronted the presiding priest, the man spat in his face and declared, "Saint Ovre grants us the right to cleanse this world. The Hollow is an abomination. You are an abomination."
Zerathis almost tore him in half. The urge burned in his veins, but Kael's voice echoed in his mind: No unnecessary deaths. No loose ends that scream of daemons.
Instead, Zerathis broke every candle, every altar, and chained the priest to the blood-soaked wall with his own rosary. He left the man alive but ruined, a warning etched into the temple stones: The Hollow watches.
When he left, rumors followed like smoke. The people whispered of a shadow that walked the night, of a terror that asked questions no one wanted to answer. To Zerathis, it was enough. He returned with knowledge, and with rage.
Return to the Hollow
Varik and Zerathis returned within a day of each other, each carrying the same conclusion in different tongues.
The council chamber filled quickly, tension heavy in the air. Kael sat at the head of the table, Lyria and Azhara flanking him, Rogan and Thalos leaning in close. When Varik laid the sealed orders of the Church on the table, silence fell.
"An army," Varik said simply, his voice flat. "Twice our number. Disciplined. Devout. They won't break easily."
Zerathis leaned forward, his clawed hands digging into the wood. "And they are not content with conquest. They butcher innocents in their temples. They paint themselves holy with the blood of your kind, Kael. They will not stop until the Hollow is ash."
The council erupted into voices—fear, anger, disbelief. Saekaros swore under his breath. Rogan slammed a fist into the table, demanding preemptive strikes. Lyria's eyes narrowed in icy calculation.
Through it all, Kael sat silent, his eyes on the flickering torchlight.
Finally, he rose.
"They call us abominations," he said, his voice steady but burning. "They call us heretics, unworthy of breath. They will come, and they will try to burn us from the world."
His gaze swept over his council, over Varik's weary face and Zerathis's burning eyes.
"Let them come. We do not bow to kings. We do not bow to lords. And we will not bow to gods. The Hollow will stand."
The chamber shook with the roar of approval, though the shadows of fear still lingered. Outside, the Hollow slept, unaware of the storm gathering on the horizon.
But Kael knew. And he swore silently to himself: no matter what god, man, or daemon threatened his people, he would break them.