@ The Forest Near the Border - A Fateful Afternoon
Kael was tired.
He had been tracking the buffalo herd for three days, following their trail through dense forest and across rocky terrain. His waterskin was nearly empty. His legs ached. His stomach growled with hunger.
But he could not return to his village empty-handed.
The winter had been harsh. The Vante Clan's grain stores were dangerously low. Game had become scarce, driven away by an unseasonably cold spring. Kael's wife was pregnant with their first child, and his younger sister had fallen ill with fever two weeks prior.
He needed this kill.
The buffalo – a massive bull with a scarred hide and horns like curved swords, grazed near the riverbank, unaware of the hunter watching from the underbrush. Kael crouched low, his heart pounding in his chest as he gripped his spear tightly.
The weapon was old, passed down from his father. The wooden shaft was worn smooth from years of use, the iron tip dulled and chipped from countless hunts. But it would have to do.
Kael steadied his breathing, watching the buffalo's every movement. The beast was massive, easily three times his weight. One wrong move, and it would gore him before he could even run.
He waited.
The buffalo lowered its head to drink from the river, its massive shoulders exposed.
Now.
Kael sprang from the bushes, his arm cocked back. He hurled the spear with all his strength, aiming for the soft spot just behind the buffalo's shoulder blade; the kill zone.
But his aim was off.
The spear flew wide, embedding itself in the soft earth several feet to the left of the buffalo. The beast's head snapped up, its eyes rolling in panic. It let out a bellowing roar and bolted, crashing through the underbrush with terrifying speed.
"No! No!" Kael cursed, sprinting after it. He couldn't lose this animal, not after three days of tracking.
He retrieved his spear and ran, his lungs burning as he chased the fleeing buffalo through the forest. The beast was fast, but panic made it clumsy. It stumbled over roots, crashed through low-hanging branches, leaving a clear trail of broken foliage.
Kael pursued relentlessly, his vision narrowing to a single point: the buffalo's retreating form.
Finally, the beast slowed, its sides heaving with exhaustion. It had run itself ragged. Kael saw his chance.
He raised his spear again, planted his feet, and took careful aim.
This time, he would not miss.
He hurled the weapon with every ounce of strength he had left.
The spear flew true.
But at that exact moment, a shadow passed overhead.
Marcdallon, drawn by the commotion, had descended from the sky. She had seen the struggling buffalo, sensed its panic, and guided by some ancient instinct, moved to intervene.
Perhaps she thought to calm the beast. Perhaps she simply wanted to observe. The dragon had always been curious about the creatures that shared her territory.
Whatever her intent, it did not matter.
The spear, meant for the buffalo's skull, veered upward at the last second, and buried itself deep into the soft flesh beneath Marcdallon's jaw.
Time seemed to stop.
Kael stood frozen, his arm still extended, his eyes wide with horror.
The dragon let out a sound unlike anything he had ever heard – a roar so loud, so filled with pain and shock, that it shook the trees and sent birds scattering into the sky for miles around.
Marcdallon staggered backward, her massive head thrashing as she tried to dislodge the spear. Her golden eyes, usually so serene, blazed with agony and confusion.
Blood; thick, dark, and steaming, poured from the wound, cascading down her neck and spattering the forest floor.
"No..." Kael whispered, his voice barely audible. "No, no, no..."
The dragon's legs buckled. Her great wings, which had carried her across continents, flailed uselessly as she collapsed onto her side. The ground shook with the impact, and Kael was thrown to his knees.
Marcdallon's breathing grew labored, each exhale a wet, rattling gasp. Her golden eyes dimmed, the fire within them flickering like a dying candle.
And then, with one final, shuddering breath, the light went out.
Silence.
The forest, which moments ago had been filled with the sounds of life, birdsong, rustling leaves, the distant rush of the river, was now utterly still.
Kael remained on his knees, staring at the dragon's lifeless body. His hands trembled. His mind raced, unable to process what had just happened.
He had killed Marcdallon.
The sacred guardian of the Dragon Clan.
The most revered creature in all the land.
"What have I done?" he whispered, his voice cracking. "What have I done?"
Chapter seven
e?"
@ The Vante Clan - Council Chambers
Kael ran.
He abandoned the buffalo, abandoned his spear, and ran as fast as his legs could carry him. He crashed through the forest, stumbled across rivers, and didn't stop until he reached the gates of his village.
By the time he arrived, the sun had set. His clothes were torn, his face scratched and bleeding from low-hanging branches. He looked like a man fleeing from demons.
"Kael!" One of the village guards called out, rushing to meet him. "What happened? Are you hurt?"
Kael couldn't speak. He bent over, hands on his knees, gasping for air. When he finally found his voice, the words tumbled out in a frantic torrent.
"I need... to see... the Chieftain. Now. Now."
The guard's expression darkened. "What's wrong?"
"Just take me to him!" Kael shouted, grabbing the man by his tunic. "Please!"
Minutes later, Kael stood before the Vante Chieftain – an elderly man named Orin, whose face was lined with age and wisdom. The council chamber was filled with the clan's elders, all of whom had been summoned on short notice.
"Speak," Orin commanded, his voice calm but firm. "What has happened?"
Kael swallowed hard, his throat dry. "I was hunting near the border. I... I was trying to kill a buffalo. But something went wrong. The spear... it... it hit..."
"Spit it out, boy," one of the elders snapped.
Kael's voice broke. "I killed Marcdallon."
The room erupted.
"What?!"
"That's impossible!"
"You lying fool…"
"SILENCE!" Orin's voice cut through the chaos like a blade. The room fell quiet. The Chieftain's eyes bored into Kael's.
"Explain yourself. Every detail."
Kael recounted the story – the hunt, the missed throw, the chase, the dragon's sudden appearance, the spear finding its mark. By the time he finished, the council chamber was deathly silent.
Orin leaned back in his chair, his face pale. "This is... catastrophic."
"It was an accident!" Kael pleaded. "I didn't mean to…"
"Intent does not matter," Orin interrupted, his voice heavy with resignation.
"The Dragon Clan will not care whether it was an accident or an act of war. Marcdallon was their sacred guardian. They will see this as an unforgivable act of aggression."
One of the elders, a woman named Elara, spoke up. "Then we must send an envoy immediately. Explain what happened. Offer reparations…"
"They will not listen," another elder said grimly. "The Dragon Clan does not forgive easily."
Orin stood slowly, his joints creaking. "Summon the warriors. Station guards at the border. If the Dragon Clan comes for us, we will not go quietly."
Kael felt the blood drain from his face. "You think they'll attack?"
Orin met his gaze, and in the old man's eyes, Kael saw the weight of inevitable tragedy.
"I don't think, boy. I know."