@ Dragon Clan Territory - The High Temple
The news reached the Dragon Clan by dawn.
A young priest, returning from his pilgrimage to Marcdallon's lair, found the dragon's body sprawled across the forest floor. The spear still embedded in her throat…bore the unmistakable markings of Vante craftsmanship.
The priest ran back to the Dragon Clan capital, his robes soaked with sweat, his voice hoarse from screaming.
"Marcdallon is dead! Marcdallon is dead!"
The news spread like wildfire.
Within hours, the entire clan knew. Warriors abandoned their training. Merchants closed their stalls. Mothers clutched their children and wept. Priests fell to their knees in the streets, wailing prayers to the gods.
And in the High Temple, where the clan's Chieftain (a fierce warrior named Draeven) presided over matters of state and rage ignited like a funeral pyre.
Draeven was not a man prone to mercy. He had earned his position through strength, cunning, and an unyielding code of honor. He had led the Dragon Clan through famines, plagues, and border skirmishes with rival factions. He was respected. He was feared.
But he had never known fury like this.
"Bring me my armor," he commanded, his voice low and cold. "Summon the commanders. Ready the troops."
His advisors exchanged nervous glances. "My lord," one of them ventured cautiously, "perhaps we should…"
"Perhaps what?" Draeven's voice was a whip crack. "Perhaps we should sit idle while our sacred guardian lies butchered in the forest? Perhaps we should forgive the Vante for this blasphemy?"
"It may have been an accident…"
"I do not care." Draeven slammed his fist on the table, splintering the wood.
"Marcdallon is dead. And someone will pay for it."
By midday, the Dragon Clan army was assembled.
Over three thousand warriors, clad in battle-worn armor and armed with swords, spears, and bows, stood in formation outside the capital gates. Their faces were hard, their eyes burning with righteous fury.
Draeven, mounted on a black warhorse and clad in crimson armor, addressed his troops.
"Brothers! Sisters! Today, we march not for conquest, but for justice! The Vante Clan has taken from us the most sacred being in our history. They have spat on our honor. They have murdered our guardian!"
A roar erupted from the assembled warriors.
"We will show them the meaning of Dragon fury!"
Draeven's voice rose to a bellow.
"We will make them bleed for what they have done!"
The army roared again, raising their weapons to the sky.
"TO WAR!"
@ The Border - Seven Hours Later
The Vante Clan sentries had been stationed at the border for seven hours when they heard it.
A distant rumble, like thunder rolling across the plains.
One of the sentries, a young man named Torin, squinted into the distance.
"Do you hear that?"
His companion, an older woman named Mara, nodded grimly.
"Horses. Lots of them."
The rumble grew louder and even closer.
And then, cresting the hill like a dark wave, the Dragon Clan army appeared.
Thousands of them.
Torin's face went pale. "Gods above..."
"Run," Mara said quietly. "Run back to the village. Warn them."
Torin didn't need to be told twice. He sprinted back toward the Vante capital, his legs pumping, his heart pounding in his ears.
Mara remained at her post, watching the approaching army with a sinking feeling in her chest.
This is how it ends, she thought.
@ Vante Clan - War Preparations
When Torin burst into the village square, gasping for breath and shouting about the Dragon Clan army, chaos erupted.
The Vante Chieftain, Orin, moved quickly. He summoned every able-bodied warrior in the clan, issued emergency orders, and prepared for the worst.
The Vante commander—a scarred veteran named Rael—stood before his assembled troops, his face painted with charcoal, his helmet covering his skull.
"Listen to me!" Rael's voice boomed across the square.
"The Dragon Clan thinks they can crush us. They think we are weak. They think we will roll over and die without a fight."
He drew his sword, holding it high.
"But we are Vante! We are the sons and daughters of the valleys! We have weathered droughts, famines, and plagues! We will not be broken by Dragon arrogance!"
The warriors roared in response.
"Today, we show them what it means to face the Vante!" Rael bellowed. "Sharpen your blades! Harden your hearts! Today, we go to WAR!"
The Vante forces charged toward the border, their war cries echoing across the land.
@ The First Battle
The two armies collided at the border like clashing titans.
Steel met steel. Shields splintered. Men and women screamed as blades found flesh. Blood soaked the earth, turning the soil dark and muddy.
The Dragon Clan warriors fought with savage fury, their grief and rage channeled into every blow. The Vante fought with desperate determination, refusing to be slaughtered without resistance.
The battle raged for hours.
By the time the sun set, over two thousand warriors lay dead on both sides. The border, once a place of peace and trade, had become a graveyard.
And as the surviving soldiers retreated to their respective camps, one thing was clear:
This war would not end quickly.
Thus began the Marcdallon War.
A conflict born not from greed or ambition, but from tragedy and misunderstanding.
A war that would span centuries, claiming millions of lives.
A war that would only end when a warrior marked by destiny…one who carried the Dragon's Print…rose to break the curse.
But that warrior had not yet been born.
And so, the bloodshed continued.