A Banner Torn (Book 1 Complete)

**as a note since this is my first story Ive done on here seriously, any interaction you have with the story beyond just reading it goes a long way toward this story being successful (even if it's just pointing out grammar and other mistakes). I will be uploading 2 or 3 times a week once it settles into a groove so I hope you hang around and read the future chapters as well... Thanks again**

Kaelid:

In a corner of the small village Aldermere flickering light and laughing voices crept out past the planks in a barn several seasons past its prime.

The barn smelled of straw, damp earth, and the lingering warmth of the day's sun still trapped in the wooden beams overhead. A small brazier burned in the corner, its flickering glow stretching shadows long across the wooden planks, transforming the humble space into a realm of mystery and adventure. To Kaelid, those shifting shapes weren't just ordinary shadows, but phantoms of warriors past, figures draped in heavy cloaks, watching silently as he and Rannek crouched near the fire, guardians of ancient battle wisdom passing judgment on their worthiness.

The brazier's flames danced, casting their faces in amber light that made their eyes shine with the fervor of true believers. This wasn't just a barn on the eastern edge of a small village, it was a fortress, a sanctuary where legends could be born and heroes made.

"I'm telling you," he insisted, eyes wide with conviction, "Kairnleid wasn't just a name in some dusty scroll. He was real, a giant of a man with arms thick as tree trunks and a voice that could shake the mountains. They say he split a warhorse in two with a single swing of his blade."

Kaelid shivered, but not from the cold that crept through the cracks in the barn walls. The image was too vivid, too impossible to be anything but magnificent. "That's impossible," he said, but his voice held no real doubt, only wonder.

Rannek smirked, the expression making him look older than his age. "That's what makes it a legend, Kae. The impossible made real." He picked up a stick from beside the brazier, testing its weight in his hand. "Can you imagine having that kind of strength? To be remembered forever?"

The wind pushed through the cracks in the wooden slats, rattling the walls as if unseen forces lingered just beyond them, eager to witness their games of glory. Kaelid clutched his knees, eyes wide, drinking in every word of Rannek's stories. The older boy had always been his window to a world bigger than their village, Rannek, who had lost his father before he could even remember him, who lived with his mother Julid in a house not unlike Kaelid's own, filled with the same kind of quiet that came from someone missing.

The fire crackled, sending embers swirling upward like tiny stars, caught in some invisible current that carried them toward the rafters before they winked out of existence.

"One stroke of steel," Rannek continued, lifting the broken wooden slat as if it were a mighty blade forged in the fires of legend. His face was solemn, transformed by the firelight into something ancient and knowing. "That's all it took." He swung it downward with a dramatic thunk into the dirt floor, the impact sending small puffs of dust dancing in the firelight.

Kaelid grinned, grabbing his own stick from the pile they'd gathered earlier. It was crooked and not nearly as impressive as Rannek's, but in the golden glow of the brazier, it gleamed with possibility. "One stroke of steel," he echoed, the words feeling powerful in his mouth, like a prayer or a promise.

He stood, adopting what he imagined was a warrior's stance, feet planted wide, shoulders squared, chin lifted in defiance of invisible enemies. "Do you think we'll ever be like that? Like Kairnleid and the others?"

Rannek rose beside him, suddenly serious. "We have to be," he said simply. "Our fathers were warriors. It's in our blood."

Kaelid nodded, though the mention of his father sent a familiar ache through his chest. He had been only four when Daelin had marched away with the other men, his armor gleaming in the morning sun. He remembered little more than a warm laugh, strong hands lifting him high, and the scent of leather and steel. The memories faded year by year, like footprints in sand slowly washed away by the tide.

"My uncle says there will always be another war," Kaelid said, swinging his makeshift sword in a wide arc. "He says that's just how the world is."

Rannek nodded sagely. "My mother says the same. That's why we have to be ready." He lunged forward suddenly, his stick clashing against Kaelid's with a sharp crack that echoed through the barn. "Defend yourself, warrior!"

Kaelid laughed, the sound bright and clear in the dusty air, as he parried Rannek's attack. They moved through the barn in a dance of advance and retreat, their shadows huge against the walls, giants battling for the fate of kingdoms. Their sticks clacked together, again and again, each impact a thunderclap in their imaginations, each dodge a feat of legendary agility.

Outside, the wind howled, rattling the barn doors on their hinges, but here, inside their fortress, inside their world of embers and stories, they were untouchable. They were not just two boys playing in the dust and straw, they were the inheritors of a legacy written in steel and courage, the next in a line of defenders stretching back beyond memory.

"The eastern kingdoms are sending their armies," Rannek declared, his voice dropping to a growl as he adopted the persona of a grizzled scout. "They've crossed the river. Thousands of them, with war machines and dark magic."

Kaelid spun, blocking an imaginary arrow with his stick. "Then we stand our ground," he replied, falling easily into the game. "We hold the line, like Kairnleid at the Battle of Broken Shields."

Rannek grinned, the expression fierce in the firelight. "To the last man."

"To the last breath," Kaelid agreed.

And for a moment, as the fire crackled and the shadows danced around them, it was all real, the danger, the glory, the unbreakable bond between warriors who faced death together. For a moment, they were not just playing at being heroes.

They were heroes, in the only way that truly mattered.

Maerwen:

The stew clung to the spoon like brown dishwater. Three years back it would've thickened your tongue with venison fat and thyme. Now it just tasted of the knife-scrapings from their root cellar - parsnip skins masquerading as sustenance. Maerwen stirred without watching, her knuckles white around the spoon's handle. The fire spat weakly.

This novel's true home is a different platform. Support the author by finding it there.

Outside, the wind kept up its hollow song. Same tune every evening since they'd come with their black armbands and lowered gazes. Since her knees had met these floorboards and stayed there for three days. Her body remembered the exact pattern of those grooves beneath her palms.

Kaelid's laughter pierced through the rotting barn walls. Always war games. Always valor. She envied him those paper-thin delusions. Let him play conqueror until the real world came to collect its debt.

The spoon clincked against the pot. Her hands moved on their own - wipe palms on apron, adjust firewood that didn't need adjusting, avoid looking at Daelin's empty chair. The house breathed wrong without the boy's chaos. Walls leaned closer. Shadows pooled thicker where his light didn't reach.

A knock. Julid stood haloed in sleet, offering flour like communion wafers. "Marta's father had extra."

She took the bundle. Her smile muscles twitched. "You shouldn't."

They never said the real things. Never "We're drowning" or "I can't do this another winter". Julid's eyes flicked to the loft where Kaelid's boots should've been. "Barn again?"

"Hero business." The word curdled in her throat. Hero meant a cairn of river stones north of the mill. Hero meant learning to butcher rabbits alone.

Julid hovered by the fire, hands outstretched like she could steal warmth through her palms. "They'll be alright."

They both watched the lie hang between them. The boys would grow into men who'd march east for coin or honor or boredom. The village women would kneel on these same floors, scrubbing blood from secondhand tunics. Her fingers found the notch in the table where Daelin's hunting knife had slipped - a fossil from when accidents could still be mended.

"Tea's weak," she warned, pouring anyway.

Julid's laugh came out cracked. "Everything is."

They drank in the special silence of shared ruin. She counted Kaelid's boot-nails in the ceiling beams - seventeen, eighteen. The wind gnawed at the shutters. When Julid left, taking her temporary warmth, the cold settled deeper into the mortar.

Maerwen stared at the stew skin forming. Three years tomorrow. She should mark it. Should feel something besides this leaden hollowness where her grief used to burn.

Upstairs, Kaelid's mattress creaked. She pressed her forehead to the cold windowpane. Out in the yard, the barn door swung loose on its hinges - an imaginary fortress fallen to the night.

Kaelid:

The game wasn't over. Not yet. Not while there was still daylight filtering through the cracks in the barn walls, not while there were still enemies to vanquish and glory to be won.

The barn doors creaked as the wind battered them, the sound like the groan of a wounded beast. For a moment, Kaelid imagined it wasn't the wind at all, but some unseen enemy testing their defenses, looking for weakness, preparing to breach their fortress. He grabbed his stick, gripping it tight, his knuckles white against the weathered wood. "If they break through, we fight," he declared, his voice steady despite the flutter of excitement in his chest.

Rannek nodded solemnly, taking up position beside him, his own weapon at the ready. "To the last breath," he agreed, the oath binding them together in their imagined peril.

The wind shrieked again, a high, keening wail that sent shivers down Kaelid's spine, but the doors held firm against the onslaught. The moment stretched, taut with anticipation, before the gust subsided, leaving only the gentle creak of settling wood.

Rannek let out a breath, his shoulders relaxing as he turned to Kaelid with a grin. "We live to fight another day, it seems."

Kaelid laughed, the sound bright with relief and lingering excitement, as he dropped his makeshift sword into the straw. The firelight painted the barn in deep golds and flickering reds, a world full of warmth and heroism where anything was possible. "We should head back," he said reluctantly, glancing toward the doors. "It's getting late, and my mother will worry."

Rannek nodded, kicking dirt over the brazier to smother the flames. "Tomorrow, then? Same time?"

"Same time," Kaelid agreed, already looking forward to continuing their adventures. "Maybe we can get Marta to join us. She said her father told her about the Battle of Whispering Pines."

"Girls don't know about battles," Rannek scoffed, but there was no real conviction in his voice. They both knew Marta was different, fierce and clever, with a knack for strategy that had won her more than one game of stones against the village boys.

"She knows more than Hewitt," Kaelid pointed out, naming one of the older boys who often watched their games with a mixture of disdain and poorly hidden interest. "All he ever talks about is how his father says monsters are gathering in the eastern forest."

Rannek rolled his eyes. "Hewitt's father sees monsters in every shadow and puddle. Ma says he's still fighting battles that ended years ago."

They pushed open the barn doors together, stepping out into the fading daylight. The wind had died down, leaving the air crisp and clear, the sky above them painted in shades of orange and purple as the sun sank toward the horizon. The village spread out before them, a collection of sturdy houses and workshops nestled against the gentle curve of the river. Smoke rose from chimneys in lazy spirals, carrying the scent of cooking fires and home.

"Race you to the bridge?" Rannek suggested, already tensing to run.

Kaelid grinned, accepting the challenge without words. They weren't just two boys playing in the dust anymore. They were warriors, brothers in arms, bound by oaths spoken in firelight and sealed with laughter.

They were something more.

Maerwen:

Kaelid crashed through the door like sunlight made flesh, scattering the gloom that had settled into the cottage's bones during his absence. Maerwen watched him shake off the cold with that relentless, untethered energy of his, the kind that hadn't yet curdled into understanding.

Her own joints ached just to see it. The fire she'd been staring at for hours hadn't touched the chill in her hands.

"You're late," she said to the stew pot, not turning. The words came automatic, hollow as the rest of her. What did time even mean here, in this room where the days bled together? She'd forgotten to refill the woodpile again. The broth smelled like ash.

But then he was there, all windburn and boyish triumph, breathlessly recounting his stand against "eastern invaders" (the barn's sagging door, the winter gales). His voice cut through the static in her skull. Maerwen ladled stew into his bowl, thinner every week, but he didn't seem to notice and let the ritual of it anchor her. Two hands. One spoon. Don't spill. Simple motions her body remembered when her mind kept… slipping.

He talked through a mouthful of carrots. "Rannek says we'll be just like our dads someday!"

The ladle clattered against the pot. For a heartbeat, the cottage dissolved into memory, Daelin's laugh against her neck, the way he'd spun Kaelid in the air as a toddler, the absence that now hung over every room like rot. Her throat tightened. She focused on the splinter in the table's edge. Pressed her thumb against it until the pain sharpened her breath.

"Uncle Doran says Father could throw a knife fifty paces!"

Doran's still drinking through his grief then. She wanted to scream. To shake her son and say 'your hero bled out in the mud for nothing', and the world didn't even pause to notice. Instead, she said, "He preferred his bow," and hated how flat it sounded. Hated that she couldn't give him the truth or the lie, just this… husk of a story.

Kaelid's grin faltered. She forced her mouth into something resembling a smile, muscles moving on strings, a marionette of motherhood. "Help me wash up after," she said, "and I'll tell you about the pheasant he tracked through the ice storm."

The boy lit up, and for a moment, the crushing weight lifted. She could almost breathe. Almost believe the creaking cottage wasn't shrinking daily, that the cold was just winter and not the world itself slowly freezing solid around them.

He chattered while she scraped the pot. She let the words wash over her, clinging to their rhythm. When he finally yawned and trudged to bed, the silence rushed back in like floodwater. Maerwen stared at the dying embers. The darkness in the corners seemed thicker now. Hungrier.

She should bank the fire. Check the door latch. Plan tomorrow's meals. Instead, she sat very still, with fingertips tracing the knife notch Daelin had left in the table years ago. The cold seeped up through the floorboards, through her boots, into marrow. Outside, the wind wailed, or maybe that was just her own breath, ragged and too loud in the hollowed-out quiet.

Kaelid's laughter drifted down from the loft, already soft with sleep. She closed her eyes. Let the sound wrap around her like a shroud.

Morning would come. It always did