A Banner Torn (Book 1 Complete)

**Thanks for at least giving me the chance of reading the second chapter. I hope you hang around and read the future chapters as well... Thanks again**

Kaelid:

The big fire jumped and danced in the middle of the gathering hall, painting everything gold! The wooden beams overhead glowed warm in the light, and the dirt floor looked almost magical. The whole place smelled amazing, with juicy meat cooking and sweet cider with spices that made Kaelid's nose tingle. It felt like the fire pushed back against the cold, dark night outside, keeping everyone safe inside. People were laughing and talking all around, their wooden cups making happy thumping sounds against the tables. Tonight was a feast night, not for any special reason, just because winter was coming soon, and everyone needed to be together before the cold, dark days ahead.

Kaelid sat cross-legged right by the fire, his elbows on his knees and his chin resting on his hands. His best friend Rannek sat right beside him. Both boys were super quiet, their eyes big and round as they watched the scarred men tell their amazing stories about battles and adventures. Other kids sat nearby too, Marta with her quick smile and smart eyes; Orlen, whose dad grew crops and who always looked at Kaelid like he wanted to challenge him; and even big Hewitt, the tanner's son, who was older and bigger than all of them. Hewitt sat a little bit away from the rest, trying to act like he didn't care about the stories, but Kaelid could tell he was listening just as hard as everyone else.

The firelight cast long shadows across weathered faces, each storyteller bearing marks of battles fought and survived. Some scars were visible - a missing ear, a crooked finger that never quite straightened after being broken, thin white lines cutting across tanned skin like faded maps of pain and survival. But the deepest wounds Kaelid was beginning to understand weren't the ones you could see. They lived in the quiet spaces between words, in the momentary hesitations, in the way these men's eyes would sometimes drift away from the warmth of the fire and into some distant, unreachable memory.

"And then," the old soldier leaned forward, his beard catching the firelight and turning into strings of shiny copper and gold, "Kairnleid raised his sword, gleaming bright as the morning sun. The ground SHOOK beneath his boots. The bad guys stopped in their tracks, too scared to move when they saw him standing there, strong as a mountain, fierce as a storm." The man's voice got lower, pulling them closer like a magical spell. "And when he struck, "

CLAP! The man smacked his hands together, loud as thunder! Kaelid jumped, his heart going THUMP-THUMP-THUMP against his ribs, the sound zipping through him like lightning.

"One blow," the man said, softer now, smiling under his big mustache. "One stroke of steel, and the battle was won."

Kaelid let out a big breath, his fingers gripping his shirt tight. He could see it happening, armies crashing together, colorful flags snapping in the wind, brave warriors cutting through enemy lines like heroes in the best stories. In his mind, Kairnleid was HUGE, his armor shining bright, his sword a flash of silver against the dark sky. He was EVERYTHING a warrior should be, brave, unstoppable, a living legend!

Across the fire, another man made a snorting sound that broke into Kaelid's daydream. "You always leave out the part where Kairnleid wouldn't wear a helmet and got hit in the head with a mace the next year," he said, laughing a little. "Died face-down in the mud, just like any other dummy who thinks nothing can hurt him."

The whole hall filled with laughter, men raising their cups, their voices warm and friendly from ale and old friendship. The men nodded, agreeing it was true, but nobody was being mean, they just understood things about fighting that Kaelid didn't know yet.

But Kaelid barely heard them. He turned to Rannek, grinning so wide his face almost hurt, feeling like his chest was full of fire and magic and possibility. "One blow," he whispered, the words like a secret code between them, like a promise.

Rannek grinned back, his eyes reflecting the dancing flames. "One stroke of steel."

The storyteller sat back, taking a big drink from his cup before putting it down with a THUNK. "Of course, that was before the eastern campaigns," he went on, looking toward the dark windows. "Before we knew what we were really facing."

The room got quiet suddenly, like when clouds cover up the moon. Kaelid felt it, the way the men's shoulders got tight, the way their eyes looked far away, seeing something that wasn't in the room.

"What were you facing?" Orlen asked in a small voice.

The storyteller looked at the other old warriors, and something passed between them without words. "War," he said finally, the word sounding heavy and important. "Real war, boy. Not the little fights of our fathers, but something that ate up whole villages, that turned the sky black with smoke and the rivers red with blood."

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Kaelid leaned forward, completely hooked. This was new, not the shiny legends they always told, but something rougher, something REAL. "Did we win?" he asked, the question burning in his throat like fire.

The man looked right at him, something mysterious flashing in his eyes. "We survived," he said simply. "Some of us."

Another warrior cleared his throat, breaking the scary feeling in the air. "That's enough of that," he said firmly. "These are children, Tannin. Save the scary stuff for when they're older."

The storyteller, Tannin, nodded, his face getting softer as he looked at all the young faces around him. "Sorry about that," he said, though Kaelid thought he didn't sound totally sorry. "Let me tell you instead about the Battle of Whispering Pines, where your fathers fought so bravely that people still sing songs about it in the capital."

The mood lifted, and all the kids leaned in eagerly for another exciting story about heroes. But Kaelid couldn't forget the look in Tannin's eyes, or the feeling that there was more to the story, parts nobody was telling them. He looked across the hall where his uncle Doran sat, his walking stick leaning against the bench beside him, half his face hidden in shadow. There was something about the way his uncle was sitting, so still and tight, that told him it wasn't just his hurt leg causing him pain.

For the first time, Kaelid wondered what stories his uncle never told, what memories he kept locked up inside behind his serious face and strict ways. What had he seen in the east that made him so protective, so afraid of anything unknown?

But then Tannin started talking again, his voice going up and down like music, and Kaelid was pulled back into the story, back into the wonderful world of heroes and legends where good guys always win and brave people always get rewarded with glory.

The fire burned bright, making their shadows stretch long against the walls. Outside, the wind whispered through the trees, bringing the first hint of winter. But here, right now, wrapped in warmth and amazing stories, Kaelid felt only one thing for sure, someday, he too would have stories this good to tell!

Doran:

Laughter rang through the hall, warm and easy as spilled ale. Kaelid leaned forward with the other village boys, drinking in the warriors' tales like they were honeyed milk. Doran's calloused hand tightened around his clay jug as the familiar ghosts settled into their seats at the edge of firelight.

They came as they always did - first whole, then ruined.

His old Squad leader Joric materialized near the ale casks, armor gleaming like parade day. For half a breath, he was whole - thick mustache twitching with suppressed laughter at some long-dead joke. Then the firelight shifted, and Doran saw the cavity where his chest should be, ribs splayed like butchered stags, frost clinging to the ragged edges of his surcoat. The man who'd taught Doran to track now carried winter in his wound.

"To the Eastern Campaign!" someone shouted. Living hands raised mugs. Dead hands lifted phantom cups, their fingers blackened stumps. A bombard victim flickered in the shadows - just a torso fused to melted armor, jaw working soundlessly where his face should be.

Doran drank. The liquor burned away Joric's frozen corpse, leaving only good-natured laughter. For now.

Then he saw him.

Marek materialized cross-legged by the hearth, whole and unbloodied. Doran's breath hitched. Even in death, his friend kept that damnable peace about him - no accusatory stare, no gaping wounds. Just as he'd been before the night Doran abandoned his post to snatch an hour's sleep. Before the raiders slipped through the unguarded pass.

"Not your fault," the ghost's eyes seemed to say as his form flickered. Blood bloomed across Marek's tunic, the axe wound that had killed three sleeping men appearing like a poppy in fast bloom. Doran watched the stain spread - same pattern as that dawn when he'd found the body curled around his wife's last letter.

The jug trembled in Doran's hands. He drank deep, but the ghosts remained - clean tunic to blood-soaked ruin and back again. The others faded with each swallow: Joric's frost-rimmed corpse, the bombard victim's melted face, the spearman whose head now lolled at an impossible angle. Only Marek persisted, smiling that infuriating forgiving smile.

A child's gasp broke through. Kaelid stared at him - Daelin's eyes in a boy's face. Doran forced a grin, the expression cracking like old leather. "Another round!" he barked, slamming the empty jug down. The living men cheered. The dead raised their phantom cups.

The soldier smiled, just enough to make them look away. Just enough to let them keep believing. His friend looked over at them, too translucent to all the world except in the man's head. He nodded to them and sat beside Doran, consoling him like he always had. Like he always would.. Doran's breath shuddering in his chest.

It was just pure luck that the enemy had found the gap in the guards left by his sleeping form. That they had found that particular tent to tear into while the occupants were fast asleep.

As the new ale arrived, Marek's ghost stayed sitting and reached out. Not to accuse, but to rest a translucent arm on Doran's heaving shoulders. A comfort. Forgiveness Doran could never accept.

Outside, the night leaned heavy against the wooden walls, thick with unspoken stories.. Each ghost that flickered at the edges of Doran's vision carried a fragment of a truth too raw to be spoken aloud, too painful to be forgotten. They were not just memories, but living fragments of a conflict that had carved itself into the very souls of those who survived. And survive they had - not through heroism, but through a brutal calculus of chance and momentary grace that defied all rational understanding.

Doran drank until the world swam. Drank until only Marek remained among the fading ghosts, his form wavering between the friend who'd shared stolen apples behind the barracks and the corpse that still haunted his nights.

"Go on," Doran slurred under his breath. "Ain't you tormented me enough?"

Marek's ghost simply pointed at Kaelid, now reenacting some heroic stand with Rannek. The boy's laughter rang as brightly as swordplay. When Doran looked back, the specter was gone - taking temporary peace with him.

Outside, the river whispered of eastern winds and gathering dark. Doran's bad leg throbbed as he reached for another jug. Some ghosts couldn't be drowned, only endured. Some debts couldn't be paid, only carried.

He eventually finished the jug. Even Marek had gone, leaving only the blackness of oblivion. Maybe they'd stay gone a little longer this time. Maybe.