Chapter 281 — The Drumbeat Before War
The council chamber brimmed with the scent of ink, sweat, and iron dust. It was not the place of idle words anymore, but of progress, of things counted, weighed, sharpened, and planned. Kael stood at the head of the table, arms folded across his chest as his council trickled in with their reports, each heavier than the last.
Rogan was first, his face smudged with soot, his hands still calloused from the yard. "The recruits can hold a line now," he grunted. "They're not soldiers, but they'll die like ones if it comes to it. I've drilled them until their arms went numb. They'll know which end of the spear kills."
Thalos followed, crisp and measured. "We've organized them into units of tens and fifties. Each cadre has a runner, each runner has signals to retreat or flank. They're green, yes, but they won't break at the first charge. At least… not all of them."
Lyria laid down two leather-bound ledgers onto the table with a thump. "Weapons stockpiled, caches buried, reserves tallied. We have enough arms to equip every able-bodied person twice over. Oil barrels have been sealed, and fire arrows prepared. If they burn, it will be us who sets the flame." She leaned forward, her tone sharp. "But the smiths are running on fumes. We'll need rest before long."
Azhara's voice was softer, but no less steady. "Healing tents are ready. We've doubled the stores of herbs, poultices, and salves. I've taught every hand that can hold a needle to stitch wounds, every mouth that can chant to hum a healer's tone. We are ready to mend what we can."
Saekaros adjusted his robes and spoke with calm clarity. "The people know. Not all the truth, but enough. We have mapped three evacuation routes and built hidden shelters in the woods. The message is clear: do not panic, follow your leaders. Morale is cautious, but it holds."
Varik, leaning lazily against the table, tossed down a rolled parchment. "Their commanders are named here. High Inquisitor Malreth leads them, with two generals under him. Zealots, each one. Their numbers are near twice ours, disciplined and armed with steel. They'll strike when the High Inquisitor declares the ground sanctified. Likely in the coming days."
Zerathis's voice rumbled like distant thunder. "Their lines are strong, but they are brittle when pressed on the edges. They are holy men first, soldiers second. Break their faith, and you break their will. I have seen armies like this crumble when their zeal runs dry."
Kael nodded slowly as he listened, his gaze sweeping over them all. "Then we are ready. Supplies, arms, training, healers, routes — we have done everything possible. The Hollow will not bend easily."
The reports ended, and for a long moment, silence reigned — the silence of people who had done all they could, and now waited for fate to draw the next move.
Days blurred.
The training yards never fell silent. Blades clashed, men and women screamed themselves hoarse learning to stand unbroken. The forges burned without pause, smoke trailing like battle standards above the Hollow. Healers worked by lantern-light, grinding herbs, weaving spells, practicing triage on straw dummies. The people of the Hollow moved like a single body, no longer fractured, each heart pounding to the same rhythm.
Kael walked among them, lending strength where he could — sparring with recruits, hauling barrels, whispering comfort to children. By night, he watched from the parapets, eyes turned to the distant tree line, waiting.
And then, a week later, the waiting ended.
The horns came first — long, mournful blasts that rolled over the hills. Scouts tumbled back into the Hollow, mud on their faces, fear in their eyes.
"They're here," one gasped, falling to his knees before the council hall. "The Church of Saint Ovre. Standards upon the horizon. Too many to count."
The Hollow was no longer waiting.
It was at war.