The Chronicles of the Gold Ring Chapter Eight

The Shadow Raid

The forests north of Emberhelm were not empty. They whispered in the cold leaves rustling without wind, branches creaking as if bearing witness.

Every step of Taranis’s horse cracked frost from the dead undergrowth, and in the darkness, unseen eyes marked his passage.

The Black Shields had grown in only a handful of days. Seven now a band stitched together from thieves, deserters, exiled warriors, and one woman with hair like raven feathers whose blade was sharper than her tongue. She called herself Brianna , and unlike the others, she did not flinch when Taranis looked at her.

They camped in the hollows where no light could reach. They moved before sunrise, leaving only cold ashes behind, and they spoke little, except for the soft murmur of plans and the low hum of old battle songs.

Their first strike had been for food.
The second, for vengeance.
The third would be for a message, not just for them but the starving.

Bryn Halwyn a hill fort the Romans had claimed but not yet reforged in their own style. Its high earthwork walls crouched like a sleeping beast above the winding road. That road was crawling now with supply wagons, the torchlight of the guards bobbing like fireflies in the mist.

Taranis’s voice was a low growl “Shields black. Faces darker.”

The Shields moved as one, melting into the tree line. Arrows hissed from the dark, the first taking a Roman through the throat before his shout could leave his mouth. The second dropped a driver from his cart, spilling barrels into the mud.

Then came the torches. They arced through the air, their fire licking greedily at wagon covers, rope, and dry straw. Flames climbed fast, reflected in the wide eyes of panicked mules.

Taranis was already moving.
A shadow at the edge of the firelight, blade flashing, he cut through the first guard and didn’t stop. The air stank of blood and burning oak. The Romans shouted in their clipped tongue, but their formations shattered in the chaos.

By dawn, the road was empty but for the smell of wet ash and a single storm-sigil burned deep into the dirt where the wagons had stood.

When they were gone, the crows came, hopping between the blackened wheels and picking at the dead.

That night, beside a hidden fire, the Shields feasted on stolen bread and salt pork. Kerris leaned across the flames.

“What now?” she asked.

Taranis stared into the heart of the fire until his eyes stung.
“We keep going until there’s nothing left to take. Or until they come for me.”

Kerris smirked. “And if they do?”

He smiled without warmth. “Then they’ll find the storm waiting.” he replied with a grin

© 2025 Emma Hewitt. All rights reserved.This story and all characters within the StormborneLore world are the original creation of Emma Hewitt. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the author, except in the case of brief quotations used in reviews or scholarly works.