Chapter 298 — A Hollow at Peace
The Hollow breathed differently after the battles. The streets bustled not with fear, but with life—children ran between stalls, smithies sang with the ring of hammers, and the faint scent of bread carried through the stone corridors. For the first time in weeks, Kael allowed himself to simply walk without a blade in his hand.
He spent his morning in the healing tents, seated beside Azhara. Her complexion was still pale, her strength not fully returned, but her eyes were sharp as ever. She scolded a young recruit for fussing over a scraped knee as though it were a death wound.
"You should be resting," Kael said softly, crouching beside her cot.
"I should be working," Azhara countered, fixing him with that unshakable gaze. "If I don't keep my hands moving, I'll lose myself to guilt. Better I tend small wounds than dwell on how close I came to…" Her voice faltered for the first time.
Kael reached out, covering her hand with his. "You didn't fail us. You saved us. If anyone here has to carry guilt, it's me."
Her lips trembled, but she gave a small smile. "Then perhaps we'll share the burden. But only if you promise to stop skulking like a guilty child."
That drew a laugh from him, and for the first time in days, Azhara's shoulders relaxed.
Later, Kael joined the miners at the southern quarry. The hollow echoed with pickaxes striking stone, grunts of effort, and the rough cadence of a work song. One of the older miners—a broad-shouldered man with dust in his beard—began a low chant, and soon voices rose around him.
Kael surprised them by joining in. His voice carried strong, rough but steady, and the rhythm spread through the line. Even the youngest workers began swinging in time with the beat, laughter mingling with the song. For a while, Kael was not the Dragon of the Hollow, not their ruler or warrior—just another man hauling stone beside them.
When the song ended, the quarry rang with applause and good-natured teasing. Kael wiped sweat from his brow, smiling as though he'd been born to this life of toil instead of battle.
Selina found him there, leaning against the scaffolding with a knowing smirk. Her silver eyes followed him as he hefted a slab of stone onto a cart with two other men.
"You wear the commoner's mask well," she said when he approached. "But don't forget you are more than a worker among them."
"I know," Kael replied, dusting his hands. "But they need to see me here. To see I bleed and sweat the same way they do."
Selina tilted her head, lips curving. "Then show them that same resolve in training. You're strong, Kael—but strength alone cannot carry a council. You saw it in the battle. Each of us faltered, each of us wished we had been sharper, faster, more prepared."
Kael's smile faded into thoughtfulness. "You're saying mandatory training."
"I'm saying discipline," Selina corrected. "We cannot afford to have councilors who lead only in voice. If we are to survive what's coming, every leader must also be a weapon."
He looked out across the miners, the smiths, the healers bustling through the hollow. Their lives hung on his decisions, his council's strength.
"Perhaps you're right," Kael murmured. "If we expect the people to fight, then the council must be their example. Stronger. Sharper. No exceptions."
Selina's smirk deepened, pleased. "Then let us see how many of your councilors curse your name when you tell them they'll sweat like the recruits."
Kael chuckled, shaking his head. "Better they curse me now than fail when the time comes."
And with that, the seed was planted—a new resolve to temper not just his blade, but the very pillars of the Hollow.