@ The Battlefield - Dragon Clan Territory
The Marcdallon War had raged for three blood-soaked days, and still, the killing had not ceased.
Corpses littered the scorched earth like discarded grain after harvest. over three hundred soldiers lay dead, their bodies already bloating beneath the merciless sun. Another hundred and twenty-five men writhed in agony, missing limbs, blinded by enemy steel, or gutted and left to die slowly in the mud. The surviving troops moved like ghosts through the carnage, hollow-eyed and trembling, their strength long since bled into the soil.
Hunger gnawed at them worse than any blade. Three days without food. Two without water. Some men, driven mad by starvation, had done the unthinkable; they carved meat from the fallen enemy, roasting it over smoldering campfires with shaking hands and dead eyes. The smell of burning flesh mixed with blood and rot hung thick in the air.
But they were winning.
The Vante Clan forces had begun their retreat at dawn, falling back toward the eastern ridges in disarray. Victory was within reach. The Dragon Clan soldiers, despite their exhaustion, pushed forward with renewed fury, determined to break their enemy completely.
Theodore Roosevelt – Commander of the Dragon Clan armies and the most revered warrior of his generation, stood at the front lines, his armor drenched in blood that was not his own. His sword, an heirloom blade passed down through four generations, dripped red as he surveyed the battlefield with cold, calculating eyes.
"Press forward!" he bellowed, his voice cutting through the chaos like thunder. "Do not let them regroup! Drive them back to the mountains!"
His men roared in response, surging forward with whatever strength they had left.
But fate is a cruel architect.
A whistle split the air – so sharp, so sudden, that Theodore barely had time to register the sound before the arrow found him.
Thunk.
The arrow buried itself deep into his chest, punching through the gap in his armor just below his collarbone. The force of the impact knocked him backward, his sword clattering to the ground as he staggered, gasping for air that wouldn't come.
Blood bloomed across his tunic like a spreading rose.
"Commander!" someone screamed.
Theodore's vision blurred. His knees buckled. The world tilted sideways as he collapsed onto the blood-soaked earth, his fingers clawing uselessly at the arrow shaft protruding from his chest.
Through the haze of pain and the roar of battle around him, Theodore saw a figure sprinting toward him…a blur of motion, leaping over fallen soldiers and abandoned drums with desperate speed.
Logan.
His younger brother.
Logan Roosevelt, second-in-command of the Dragon Clan forces, had been coordinating the rear flank when he saw Theodore fall. Without hesitation, he abandoned his post and ran, a full kilometer across the battlefield, his heart hammering in his chest as he screamed his brother's name.
"Theodore! THEODORE!"
He reached him within seconds, dropping to his knees in the mud beside his fallen brother. Theodore's face had gone pale, his lips tinged with blue. Blood bubbled from his mouth with each labored breath.
"No, no, no..." Logan's hands trembled as he assessed the wound. The arrow had gone deep – too deep. He could see the tip protruding slightly from Theodore's back. If he pulled it out, his brother would bleed out in seconds.
"Stay with me," Logan muttered and his voice thick with panic and desperation. "Stay with me, brother."
With swift, brutal efficiency, Logan snapped the arrow shaft in half, leaving the barbed head embedded in Theodore's chest. Theodore let out a choked gasp, his body convulsing from the shock.
"I'm sorry, I'm sorry," Logan whispered, hooking his arms beneath Theodore's shoulders and dragging him toward the nearest horse. "You're going to be fine. You're going to be fine."
He heaved his brother onto the saddle, climbed up behind him, and kicked the horse into a gallop. They tore across the battlefield, weaving between the dying and the dead, until they reached the encampment at the rear.
@ Dragon Clan War Camp - Commander's Tent
Inside the tent, Logan tried to remain calm as he worked frantically.
He laid Theodore down on a bedroll and started cutting away the blood-soaked armor and tunic to expose the wound. The arrowhead was still lodged deep in his brother's chest, his brow furrowed when he noticed that it was nestled dangerously close to his heart and sweat beaded his brow.
Logan's hands were stained with blood up to his elbows but he moved with the precision of a man who had sewn up countless soldiers on the battlefield.
Other times, he wouldn't have shaken or became completely pale except this was different.
This was his only brother.
"Hold on, Theo," Logan muttered, his voice cracking as he fought to push back the emotions that were choking him. "Just hold on."
He cleaned the wound as best he could, applied a poultice of crushed herbs and ash, and wrapped Theodore's torso in thick linen bandages.
For two days, Theodore lay in a feverish stupor and most times delirious. He was hovering between life and death while Logan sat vigil by his side, refusing to eat and refusing to sleep.
The battle ended on the third day. The Vante Clan had been conquered and their forces scattered into the wilderness. The Dragon Clan soldiers returned to camp victorious, but their cheers were muted. They had won, yes, but at a terrible cost.
When Theodore finally opened his eyes on the evening of the second day, Logan nearly wept with relief.
"Brother..." Theodore's voice was a rasp, barely audible. His eyes, once sharp and commanding, were dim and unfocused.
Logan leaned in close, forcing a smile onto his face even as tears threatened to spill.
"You're awake. Thank the gods, you're awake."
Theo groaned and struggled to say something but Logan quickly stilled him, "Don't speak, Theo. Save your strength. I removed the arrow…it was deep, but you'll heal. You just need to rest. A week, maybe two, and you'll be back on your feet."
Theodore's lips twitched into something that might have been a smile. He coughed weakly, and a thin line of blood trickled from the corner of his mouth.
"You and I both know..." he whispered, his breath shallow and labored, "...I won't make it out of this camp."
"Don't say that!" Logan's voice cracked with desperation. "You've never lost a battle, Theo. Never. You're the strongest man I know. You can fight this. You have to fight this."
Theodore's hand, cold and trembling, reached out and gripped Logan's wrist. His fingers were weak, but his gaze was steady.
"Listen to me, Logan."
Logan fell silent, his throat tightening.
"If I don't make it..." Theodore paused, coughing again. More blood. "...take this."
With great effort, Theodore reached beneath his tattered cloak and pulled out a medallion, a circular pendant of tarnished silver, engraved with the symbol of a dragon coiled around a flame. It hung from a worn leather cord, the kind a soldier might wear beneath his armor, close to his heart.
Theodore pressed it into Logan's palm, his fingers trembling. "Give this to my son. To Gary. Tell him... tell him I love him."
Logan stared at the medallion, his vision blurring with unshed tears. "You'll give it to him yourself, Theo. You'll…"
Theo clamped his hand on Logan's, "Promise me." He said with a firm voice despite the weakness ravaging his body. "Promise me you'll take care of my family. Train Gary. Teach him how to fight. How to be brave. And when the time comes... when he's ready... give him the letter."
Logan's breath hitched. "What letter?"
Theodore's eyes fluttered closed. His breathing grew shallow, each exhale weaker than the last.
"Theo? Theo, stay with me!" Logan yelled desperately as he gripped his brother's shoulders, shaking him gently. "What letter? Theodore!"
But Theodore's chest stilled.
Logan pressed his ear to his brother's chest, listening desperately for the thud of a heartbeat but only silence met his ears.
"No..." Logan whispered, his voice hollow. "No, no, no..."
He sat back on his heels and rocked himself, staring at his brother's lifeless face. Theodore's eyes were closed, his expression peaceful, as if he had simply fallen asleep.
But he was gone.
Logan clenched his jaw, forcing down the sob that clawed its way up his throat. He wiped his face with the back of his hand, smearing blood across his cheek, and stood slowly. His legs felt like lead and his chest felt hollow.
Outside the tent, the soldiers were celebrating their victory, unaware that their commander, the hero of the Dragon Clan had just breathed his last.
Logan stepped out into the fading light of dusk. The men saw him immediately, their laughter dying on their lips as they took in the look on his face and they knew even without being told.
Without a word, Logan turned and walked toward the commandant tent, the medallion clutched tightly in his fist.
The Dragon Clan had won the battle.
But they had lost their greatest warrior.