We saw him first when the moon stood still,
A shadow-thing, a shiver, a will.
No fur for warmth, no tribe for name,
Just eyes of storm and bones of flame.
He crouched beneath the hollow tree,
Where roots like fingers held memory.
A blade of flint. A soul unmade.
Too young for fate. Too old to fade.
We did not howl. We did not stir.
We watched, as watchers always were.
I bore my scar. He bore his own.
Boldolph’s growl was soft as stone.
The forest paused to hear his breath.
A child-shaped echo of life and death.
No fear in him. No plea. No prayer.
Only silence carved from despair.
He did not run. He did not speak.
The pact was formed without the weak.
A feather laid. A vow not sworn.
Yet something old was newly born.
The trees remember. The stones still hum.
The storm has teeth. The wild has come.
And though we walk on paw and air,
We saw the boy. And we were there.
Thank you for reading.
© 2025 Emma Hewitt / StormborneLore. All rights reserved.
Unauthorized copying or reproduction of this content is prohibited.
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If you would like to read more Taranis stories please see: The Prophecies and Tales of Taranis Unfolded
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