Chapter 286 — Two Days to War
The Hollow had never felt so alive—or so heavy with tension. From the moment Kael announced the Church's next strike, the streets had thrummed with the hammering of steel, the creak of wagons, and the voices of hundreds working in frantic unity.
The clang of Rogan's forge could be heard day and night, sparks spilling out like fireflies into the dark. Recruits drilled in the yards under Thalos's barking commands until their muscles quivered and their feet bled. Children darted between workers, carrying water or bundles of arrows, eager to help in any way. Even the elderly sharpened stakes or patched clothes for the soldiers.
Kael walked among them, cloak brushing against the stone, his presence drawing nods, salutes, and hopeful smiles. But beneath their resolve, he felt the fear—a simmering current of doubt that only his strength held at bay.
Varik and Zerathis returned with grim reports of the Church's army massing to the south. The priests' soldiers moved like zealots, numbers swelling with reinforcements from nearby villages. And at their head… the shadow of a single figure. Teren Valcor.
Kael felt it as clearly as the coming of a storm. That man was not simply a hunter—he was a predator walking in human skin.
"Two days," Kael muttered as he traced his finger along the map in the war room. "Two days until they come."
Rogan grunted. "Let them. We'll turn them back a second time."
"Not without losses," Azhara countered, arms folded. She smelled of herbs and poultices, her healer's garb dusted with ash from a long day. "Our numbers are strong, but not endless. If this Teren is half what the stories say, Kael will need to fight him, or the rest of us won't stand a chance."
Zerathis leaned against the wall, smirking, though his crimson eyes carried none of their usual humor. "The Dragon Slayer," he said, voice thick with disdain. "I've seen him once, long ago. His blade hums with magic—magic designed to pierce even scales. If he comes for you, Lord Kael, do not expect a simple duel. He will come to carve you open like a beast."
Kael's jaw tightened, but he met Zerathis's gaze without flinching. "Then I'll remind him what a beast truly looks like."
The room quieted at his words. Even the daemon lowered his eyes, acknowledging the resolve there.
The Hollow prepared as the sun dipped lower each day.
Lyria oversaw the stockpiles, counting blades, bolts, sacks of grain, and bundles of herbs with meticulous care. Her presence kept the quartermasters from cracking under pressure, and her sharp tongue cut through any excuse of laziness. "If a single bandage is missing when the wounded arrive, I'll know exactly whose hide to take it from," she snapped at one trembling scribe, though Kael saw the tired smile tugging at her lips.
In the training fields, Thalos and Rogan pushed the militia to their limits. "Faster!" Rogan bellowed, sparring with two men at once, knocking them flat in the mud. "The Church won't wait for you to catch your breath!" Beside him, Thalos corrected a recruit's stance, his patience iron-bound, though the weight of responsibility creased his face.
Zerathis, under Azhara's reluctant eye, stood at the edge of the healing tents. She had set him to work grinding herbs and learning names of medicines, a punishment he endured with sneering complaint but surprising effort. When Kael passed by, he caught the daemon's mutter: "I was made to rend flesh, not mend it." But still, his claws worked the mortar and pestle.
Even Saekaros proved his worth, standing in the town square and addressing the gathered people with words that steadied their hearts. "Do not fear," he cried, his voice echoing off stone and timber. "We stand united. Our leader does not falter, and neither shall we. Trust in Kael. Trust in the Hollow."
Kael heard it all, every voice, every hammer strike, every whispered prayer. He carried it with him like a mantle, heavier than steel.
On the eve of the second day, Kael stood on the battlements, the stars hidden behind a veil of storm clouds. The Hollow stretched below, torches flickering, guards pacing, the quiet hum of a people who had done everything they could.
Lyria joined him, silent at first. Then her hand found his. "Are you ready?" she asked.
Kael stared into the darkness, where he knew the Church was waiting, massing, hungering for blood. Somewhere in that black tide, Teren Valcor sharpened his blade.
"I'm ready," Kael said. "For the army. For him. For whatever comes."
Lyria squeezed his hand, her eyes never leaving his face.
Behind them, the Hollow settled into uneasy silence, every soul holding its breath. Tomorrow, the storm would break.
And Kael would be waiting.