I AM Kaelor Thane: The God Of War

The Memorial Day

The Memorial Day 

Thanes POV

After Shawn struck Sahil Riyas down, silence swept over the Warfield. The fire of gunpowder still hung in the air, thick and acrid, but the fighting had stopped. All that remained were the dead — Sahil, his band of terrorists, and the bodies of my comrades who had stood with me but would never rise again. Their weight was carried back to the barracks, wrapped in rough army sheets, stiff with blood. Every step the soldiers took was heavy, each footfall echoing the truth: they would not be walking beside us anymore.

When the bodies reached camp, the barracks transformed from a place of order to one of grief. Soldiers lined up in silence, helmets pressed against their chests. Some clenched fists so tightly that their knuckles turned white; others bowed their heads so low that their foreheads almost touched the floor. And yet, among the sorrow, I noticed something else — something sharper. Admiration. Respect. Not for me, but for Shawn.

Shawn had been the one to finish the mission, to kill Sahil when I had failed. Her success was louder than the cries of grief. My comrades began to see her not as the outsider she once was, but as someone who belonged among them — someone worthy. Words passed quickly through the barracks: She did it. She ended Sahil. She saved us all.They praised her precision, her strength, her value to the army. With every words, I felt my name shrink, my worth crumble like ash between their teeth.

President Mark Wilson himself expressed his disappointment in me. He did not shout; he did not need to. His silence was heavier than any rebuke. He looked at me as if I were no longer fit to carry the tasks I had once shouldered with pride. And just like that, doors that had once opened for me closed with a slam. I was no longer invited to handle serious terrorist cases. No longer trusted. No longer their hero.I was ridiculed, pitied, cast aside like a weapon that had lost its sharpness.

The shame carved deep into me. I could taste it in my throat, bitter and heavy. Yet beneath that shame lay something more dangerous: jealousy. Shawn stood in the light while I sank into shadow. She had become both my savior and my rival. Every time I looked at her, I saw a reflection of what I used to be — respected, strong, unbreakable. And worse still, every time I looked at her, I felt something stir inside me. A memory of flames and a blurred image who had once pulled me from fire. Could it be her? Or was my mind twisting itself cruelly?

For years, I had searched for the person who saved me that night. Some said it was a girl, others a boy. Some claimed it was someone in their twenties. No one could give me certainty, and certainty was what I craved. But when Shawn walked among us, I felt the same pull I had felt in the fire. The same unexplainable tether.

That evening, one of the lowest-ranked officers stood before us and made an announcement. His voice trembled with formality as he spoke: 

Tonight, we will hold the Memorial Day gathering in honor of our fallen comrades.His eyes shifted briefly to Shawn. *Lieutenant Shawn will be present as well.

A ripple passed through the room. The announcement meant more than just remembrance. It meant Shawn would once again stand in the center of attention, her presence will bring light while I remained in the darkness. I felt my jaw tighten. Did I hate her? Or did I admire her? I could not tell. But I knew one thing — jealousy burned through me like an infection.

Still, I had no choice but to attend. These were my comrades, my brothers, my family. They had died where I had lived. To stay away would dishonor them.

The memorial was held in the Great Hall, a place dressed in black and silver for the night. At the front stood a long row of coffins draped in flags. Each coffin bore the name of each soldiers who had fallen in battle against Sahil Riyas and his men. I walked down the line slowly, my eyes tracing each engraved plate. My throat tightened when I saw the names of those who had stood beside me, whose laughter had once filled the barracks, whose voices had once cheered me on in battle.

Outside, the graves had already been dug. Each soldier had been given a place of rest in the Field of Honor, a wide expanse just beyond the training grounds. The field stretched far, a sea of white crosses under the open sky. When the coffins were lowered into the ground earlier that day, soldiers had stood shoulder to shoulder, saluting as dirt was shoveled over their brothers. A rifle salute cracked through the air, each shot a farewell that echoed across the hills. I had stood among them, the sound of gunfire ringing in my chest, reminding me that death was closer than breath.

Now, in the hall, their memory filled the silence. Every corner seemed to breathe sorrow. Candles burned low, their flames flickering as if bowing in respect. Photographs of the dead hung on the walls, framed in black cloth. Their eyes followed us, watching to see if we would remember them with honor or shame.

I walked into that hall with my head high, though whispers chased me like shadows. I heard the soldiers murmuring: He failed them… he let them die… it should have been him.Their words slid like knives beneath my armor.

Yet I carried all their stares with me, forcing my back straight, forcing my shoulders to square. If I was going to face ridicule, I would do it standing tall.

To everyones surprise, I did not wear a suit or the traditional black attire expected on such a night. I wore my standard uniform, simple and unadorned, as if to say: I am still a soldier, even if you no longer see me as one. My entrance drew every eye in the hall. The weight of their gazes pressed against me, some sharp with judgment, others dull with disappointment.

I moved toward the table and picked up a glass of juice. The liquid was cold against my palm. I sipped it slowly, letting the taste anchor me, trying to clear the storm in my head. I stood off to the side, my back against the wall, my eyes scanning the hall for one person: Shawn.

And then I saw her.

She stood across the room, dressed in a sharp black suit. Not just any suit — the exact kind I remembered from that night when my world burned. The same cut. The same shade. The same aura of someone stepping through fire to pull me from ruin.

My chest tightened. The glass in my hand nearly slipped. Could it be?

I left the hall without thinking, my feet carrying me swiftly into the garden beyond. The night air was cooler there, scented with flowers that felt almost mocking in their sweetness. The garden was quiet, lanterns casting soft circles of light across the paths. And there she was — Shawn. Alone.

She turned when she heard my steps, her black suit catching the glow of the lanterns. In that moment, the world seemed to fold in on itself. I saw her standing there, and I saw the savior from my childhood flames overlapping her like two images pressed together. The batch on her sleeve, the cut of her jacket — it was all the same.

My thoughts tangled into a storm. Could it truly be her? Had Shawn been the one who pulled me from fire all those years ago? Or was I simply chasing ghosts, letting grief twist memory into illusion?

I stood there, drowning in questions, my mind refusing to give me peace.

Is Shawn truly my savior, or are m

y imaginations tricking me, drowned in my thoughts?