@ The Next Morning - Logan's Estate
The morning sun had barely crested the horizon when Gary arrived at Logan's gate.
"Uncle Logan!" the boy called out, his voice bright despite the grief still clinging to him. "Uncle Logan, I'm here!"
From inside the estate, Logan's voice rang out. "Push the gate, boy! It's not locked!"
Gary pushed with all his might. The old wooden gate groaned and creaked—cri... cri... ckkk—before swinging open wide.
He stepped inside and spotted Logan near the stables, grooming a magnificent white stallion. The horse's coat gleamed in the early light, its mane flowing like silk.
"You came early," Logan remarked without looking up.
"You said tomorrow," Gary replied, walking closer. "You didn't say what time."
Logan smirked. "Fair enough."
Gary watched as Logan ran a brush through the horse's mane, his movements careful and practiced. The stallion shifted its weight, lifted its tail, and began to urinate, a steady stream pooling in the dirt.
Gary's eyes widened as he stared at the horse. "Uncle... your horse has a really big... um..."
Logan glanced at him, raising an eyebrow. "A really big what?"
"A... a pintle," Gary said, his cheeks flushing.
Logan barked out a laugh. "A pintle? Where the hell did you learn that word?"
"I read it in one of Father's books."
"Well, yes," Logan said, still grinning. "His name is cheetah and he does have a very big pintle. I call him cheetah that because he's faster than any other horse in the Dragon Clan."
Gary tilted his head. "Why is his pintle so big?"
Logan sighed, setting down the brush. "Alright, listen. It's called a penis. Some people call it other things, but that's the proper word. Male horses have them. It's part of how they reproduce and how they make baby horses."
Gary blinked. "Oh."
"Now, are we done talking about horse anatomy, or are you ready to train?"
Gary's face lit up. "I'm ready!"
"Good." Logan helped the boy climb onto Cheetah's back, then swung up behind him. "Hold on tight."
With a sharp whistle and a kick to the horse's flanks, they took off.
Cheetah lived up to his name, he tore across the open plains like a bolt of lightning, his hooves thundering against the earth. Gary clung to the saddle like his life depends on it, his heart pounding with exhilaration and fear.
Twenty minutes later, they arrived at the cliffside training grounds.
*
*
@ Cliffside Training Grounds
The plateau overlooked a vast valley, the wind whipping across the rocky expanse. Logan dismounted and began unpacking his gear, two bows and a quiver full of arrows.
"This is where your father and I used to train," Logan said, setting up a target at the far end of the clearing. "Every day, we'd come here and practice until our arms were too tired to draw the bowstring."
Gary stared at the target, his chest tightening. "Father trained here?"
"Every day," Logan confirmed. He handed Gary a small bow…lighter than his own, designed for a child. "Now, let me show you how this works."
For the next hour, Logan taught Gary the basics, how to hold the bow, how to nock an arrow, how to draw the string and aim. Gary listened intently, his young face set with determination.
"Alright," Logan said finally. "Give it a try."
Gary stepped forward, nocking an arrow with shaking hands. He drew the string back, his arm trembling from the effort, and took aim at the target.
He released.
The arrow flew straight and true, embedding itself dead center in the target.
Logan froze.
His eyes widened in disbelief.
"That's... that's impossible," he muttered. "It took me weeks to even hit the target at all."
Gary turned to him, grinning. "I did it! Did you see, Uncle? I hit it!"
Logan forced a smile, though his mind was racing. How? How did he do that on his first try?
"You did well, boy," Logan said slowly. "Very well."
But as Gary turned back to the target, Logan's expression darkened.
There was something about this child.
Something... extraordinary.
And Logan wasn't sure if that was a blessing, or a threat.
Chapter five: The Origin of Blood
More than ten centuries ago...
Before the land knew the taste of endless war, before the soil was stained with the blood of countless generations, there was peace.
The Dragon Clan and the Vante Clan lived as neighbors – not brothers, perhaps, but allies bound by trade, mutual respect, and the shared belief that the land they inhabited was sacred. Their territories stretched across fertile valleys and ancient forests, divided not by walls or armies, but by natural boundaries: rivers, mountain ranges, and the great Northern Plains where both clans grazed their livestock.
The Dragon Clan, known for their fierce warriors and deep spiritual connection to the elemental forces of nature, occupied the eastern highlands. Their cities were carved into mountainsides, their temples adorned with intricate carvings of serpents and flames. They worshipped strength, honor, and the eternal cycle of fire and rebirth.
The Vante Clan, by contrast, were masters of agriculture and craftsmanship. They built sprawling settlements in the western valleys, where golden wheat fields stretched to the horizon and orchards heavy with fruit lined the roads. They were scholars, artisans, and traders – a people who valued wisdom and prosperity over conquest.
For generations, the two clans coexisted in harmony. Dragon Clan warriors protected Vante merchants on their journeys through bandit-infested territories. Vante craftsmen forged weapons and tools for Dragon warriors. Their children played together at the borderlands. Their elders shared stories over communal fires.
It was not a perfect peace. There were disagreements, territorial disputes, the occasional drunken brawl at a market fair. But these were small things, resolved through negotiation and compromise.
And at the heart of this fragile balance lived a creature of impossible beauty and unimaginable power.
Her name was
MARCDALLON.