Chapter 280 — Musters and Mandates
The council chamber hummed with a new sort of energy — not the idle politicking Kael had endured in the first days of the Hollow, but the focused, brittle drive of people who knew a storm was coming and had to decide whether to build walls or to sharpen spears. Torches threw long, trembling light across maps and ledgers. Outside the windows, smoke from the forges rose in lazy columns; inside, every face was hard with purpose.
Kael stood at the head of the great oak table, the magisteel sword's weight irrelevant to the heavier thing he bore. He let the murmurs die and laid one hand on the map spread before them: a cloth map with the Hollow at its center, trade routes inked in brown, villages and outposts marked in neat script. He tapped the road that ran east and north toward the towns Varik had visited.
"They march from three points," Varik said when Kael looked to him. His voice was low and calm, the sound of a man who'd read what others had missed. "Regiments gathering at Halem and Mireford to the north, and a larger host massing in the south near Welsend. Their movement will be slow, deliberate — they march like priests, not raiders. Discipline, legions of pikes and shields. They will try to surround us and starve us out before a frontal assault."
Zerathis leaned against the far wall like a cliff. The molten veins in his skin dimmed and flared with the motion of his thoughts. "They think themselves holy," he said with a flat edge. "They will march in clean ranks and fall like brush under a storm if you tempt them into battle on your terms. We choose the terms."
Kael's mouth tightened. "Then we force a fight that favors us. We do not stand in a field and simply die to their pikes."
He straightened, and the room fell very still; every person there felt the weight of the decision that would follow. Kael spoke with short, precise commands — the kind of orders that made things happen.
"Zerathis. Varik. You two will find their commanders. Learn their numbers — not guesses, not rumors. Who leads them? Where do their supply lines run? Which regiments are professional soldiers, and which are religious militia drunk on fervor? If you can, find the High Priest of Saint Ovre's banner-bearer. I want a face to carry guilt." He looked up, eyes burning: "Bring them back alive if you can. If not… bring me proof. Documents, seals, anything that names them and their masters."
Varik inclined his head. "Silent, surgical. With no court and no parade." He tapped the map with a finger along the northern road. "I'll run north at dusk. I'll use old merchant routes, the cover of craftsmen and barges on the river. I'll listen in their inns, read their ledgers, and follow any priest with more coin than sense."
"South for me," Zerathis said simply. "Where the blood is thick, I will move the shadow through the reeds. I will get close enough to smell the god on their breath. I will not kill men who would make better intelligence than corpses."
Kael nodded once. "Then go. And remember — no scenes. No unnecessary blood. We don't need to light their fires with our own."
He turned, hand sweeping the map to the western reaches of the Hollow. "Rogan, Thalos — you two take command of the militia and the recruits. You'll divide our forces into mobile cadres and home guards. Teach them to fight in the woods. Move away from the line-of-sight battles the church prefers. Train them in ambushes, in hit-and-run, in collapsing pikes. Your goal is to break their cohesion, not to meet it head-on."
Rogan's face split into a grin that wasn't entirely warmth. "I'll teach them to hate a spear until they dream of axes." He thudded his fist into his palm. "We'll turn pikes into firewood."
Thalos, steady and deliberate, added, "I'll focus on formations and discipline among the cadres. If they're expecting bands of raiders, we'll give them coordinated tactics that can split, fold, and vanish into the trees."
Kael gave a small, approving nod. "Good. Lyria — you will oversee our armories, our stockpiles, and the distribution. Count every spear, every quiver, every barrel of oil. Create redundancies. Move reserves into hidden caches. I want lists and locations by sunrise tomorrow. We can't be caught with half our weapons rusted in some storeroom when the first horn sounds."
Lyria's jaw set. "I'll reorganize the forge schedule and assign smithing shifts. I'll set up satellite caches and mark trails for quick resupply. I'll check the quality of the blades personally." She looked toward the map and back at Kael. "No weak iron, no broken straps."
Azhara's expression drew tight with focus. "I will inventory medicines, herb stores, and the heals the nomads brought. I'll conscript every herbalist within a day's ride to send what they can spare. I'll set up triage stations and train teams who can administer field care. If we are to be broken, we'll mend faster than they can press the advantage."
Saekaros, who had been listening with eyebrows drawn into a map of worry, finally spoke. "I will inform the people. Calm in public, instructions in private. Evacuation routes, false staging, decoys where necessary. I'll draft proclamations — keep the message simple and unwavering: work, prepare, trust your leaders." His voice hardened. "They will need morale, not panic."
Kael peered around the room, seeing each face light with the terrible business of preparation. "One more thing," he said, and the chamber leaned in. "We will not be the only people they test. Send out envoys under Varik's cover to reach possible allies — Thalren, the ocean king, the nomad host. Tell them what we know. We may need support the moment the first standard is raised."
Varik's mouth was a thin line. "I'll be ghost and messenger."
"And one more," Kael added, looking over to the quiet place where Seliora and Zerathis watched. "Seliora will remain under Thalos's watch. Her knowledge of mana could be the edge we need to counter relics or wards the Church might employ. Keep her close and under guard."
Thalos inclined his head. "She'll teach and be tested."
Zerathis's molten eyes sparked at the word guard, then cooled when Kael's gaze met his. "Understood," he rumbled. "I will not be the jailer by preference, but I will ensure the key remains in our hands."
Kael took a breath that tasted like iron and smoke. "No heroics. No martyrdom. Lives are currency now. Spend them wisely."
Outside, the Hollow's forges kept time like a second heartbeat. Soldiers and smiths, healers and scribes — all arced into motion. Plans unfolded into lists, which unfurled into tasks, which vanished into midnight as men, women, and demi-humans moved like ants under a moon.
As the meeting broke, Rogan and Thalos paired off to the training yards; Lyria strode directly to the forge; Azhara's small, intense team of healers started compiling her lists; Saekaros began drafting his first public words.
Varik and Zerathis left last, slipping into the dusk with the kind of kinship forged by shared danger: one a silent blade, the other a living storm. Kael watched them go, then turned to Lyria and Azhara who lingered at his side.
"If we survive this," Kael said quietly, not as a threat but as a vow, "we'll rebuild better. We'll make the Hollow mean something."
Lyria placed a hand on his forearm, her touch simple and fierce. "We'll survive because we have to."
Azhara's gaze met his, steady and oddly warm. "And when the blood settles, we'll sew what's left back together."
Kael let himself exhale into the dimming light. Orders had been given. Hands had been set to work. For the first time since the whispers started, the Hollow moved not just with purpose, but with unity.
Outside, along the roads, something like a distant drum began to pulse — a reminder that the world would not wait.