Chapter 334 – Stone, Sweat, and Sparks of Life
The Hollow still smelled of ash.
The air was thick with it, clinging to lungs and hair, seeping into tents and clothing no matter how much one scrubbed. Yet among the ruin, new sounds had taken root—axes splitting lumber, saws rasping against timber, hammer and chisel meeting stone. The Hollow lived. It fought, even as it bled.
And for the first time, the Sea King labored alongside it.
The King in the Ashes
Thalren was no stranger to command, to standing above the sweat of men and giving orders that moved armies. Yet here, amidst the ruined streets of the Hollow, he set aside crown and robe. He lifted beams with his own shoulders, his strength as steady as the tide. His hands grew calloused with rope burns, his boots blackened with soot.
The Hollow's people watched him with a mix of awe and suspicion. They had never seen a king carry stone on his back or drive stakes into the earth with his own hands. But he did, silently, steadily, until even the suspicion gave way to quiet respect.
He was not here to rule them.
He was here to rebuild beside them.
Conversations in the Ruins
Each council member crossed paths with Thalren in their own way, and in those moments, bonds began to form.
Rogan was the first. The giant of a man, scarred and gruff, swung hammers as if they weighed nothing, shouting encouragement that carried across the work site. "No crooked beams! You want your roof falling in come the first storm? Then put your back into it, lads!"
When Thalren arrived at his side, Rogan gave a grunt of acknowledgment, wiping sweat from his brow.
"You work like a soldier," Rogan said, passing him a length of timber.
"I am one," Thalren replied simply, setting it against the frame of a wall.
Rogan chuckled, his rough voice booming. "Good. Means I won't have to yell at you when you start slacking. You've got strong arms for a king. Maybe too strong—don't make the rest of us look bad, eh?"
The two worked in companionable silence for a time. Then, quieter, Rogan added: "What you did—sending aid, coming yourself—it means something. More than you know. For that, I'll call you brother, king or not."
Thalren inclined his head. "Then I will call you the same."
Later, Thalren found himself beside Selina, who had claimed a half-burned table as her war-desk. Parchment, charcoal, and ink cluttered the surface as she drew sharp, precise lines of buildings yet to exist. Her braid was streaked with ash, her fingers stained black, but her eyes burned bright.
"You're precise," Thalren observed, studying the sketch of a two-story hall.
"I have to be," she said, not looking up. "Every line means time. Every mistake means lives sleeping under tarps for another month. Precision is survival."
He studied her a moment longer. "You remind me of my queen. She draws war maps with the same intensity."
That made Selina pause. She set the charcoal down and finally looked at him. "This isn't war, but it feels like it. Every board is a battle, every roof a victory."
Thalren nodded. "Then you are its general. And you are winning."
For the first time since they met, Selina smiled faintly.
Varik and Fenrik were together, overseeing the training yard that had been converted into a dual-purpose station: half militia drill, half guard post for the builders.
Fenrik, as always, had little patience for ceremony. "You're Thalren, aye? King of the oceans, master of ships, or some such title?" His grin was sharp, but his eyes were wary.
Thalren arched a brow. "And you are Fenrik—the one who never stops talking."
Varik smirked faintly at that, while Fenrik barked a laugh. "Ha! You've got bite. Good. Bite is needed here."
Varik stepped forward, ever the measured one. "We appreciate the aid. Supplies, builders, soldiers—it gives our people a chance. But make no mistake, your Highness. Orcs were only the beginning. We cannot afford to grow soft because of temporary relief."
Thalren met his gaze evenly. "I would not insult you by assuming otherwise. The ocean teaches the same lesson: a calm tide is only a mask for storms."
Varik inclined his head in acknowledgment, a rare gesture of respect.
And for the first time, Fenrik stayed silent.
Last was Lyria, and unlike the others, she did not seek work when Thalren found her. She knelt at Kael's side, as she always did, watching over him as though her gaze alone could anchor him to life.
"You should rest," Thalren said quietly as he approached.
"I'll rest when he wakes," she answered, not looking up. Her voice was soft, but unyielding.
The Sea King studied her a moment. There was something unshakable about her—the quiet kind of strength that did not roar but endured.
"He fought for you," Thalren said at last.
She finally looked at him, her eyes glassy but fierce. "He fought for all of us. But yes… for me, too." Her lips trembled. "And if he dies for it, I'll never forgive him."
Thalren placed a steady hand on her shoulder. "Then do not let him die. Anchor him, Lyria. Remind him why he must return."
Her grip on Kael's hand tightened.
The Stirring
That night, as the Hollow's campfires burned low and the workers settled into weary silence, the healer's tent grew still.
Azhara had joined Lyria at Kael's side, the two women keeping vigil in the soft lamplight. They spoke little—only whispers of worry, only prayers whispered to gods that had never once answered them.
Then Kael's chest hitched. His breath grew ragged, uneven, as though fighting unseen chains. His lips parted.
"…Lyria…"
The name was no louder than a sigh, but it shattered the silence like thunder. Lyria was on him in an instant, clutching his hand to her lips, tears streaming freely.
"I'm here," she whispered, voice breaking. "I'm here, Kael."
Another breath. Another word.
"…Azhara…"
The priestess's composure cracked. She bowed over him, clutching his other hand against her chest, her tears falling onto his skin. "You stubborn, reckless man. You came back to us…"
Kael stirred weakly, his head rolling slightly to one side, his voice still faint but desperate. "Don't… leave me…"
Neither woman let go. They held him, anchored him, as if their touch alone could call him back from the abyss.
And slowly, Kael's trembling stilled. His breath steadied. His presence returned.
Outside, the Hollow still groaned with labor and ruin. But inside that tent, for the first time since the battle, hope stirred with him.