The Fire of the Forgotten
The island smoldered beneath a grey dawn, volcanic ash drifting in spirals that mirrored the labyrinth of the Black Shields’ training paths. Taranis Stormborne stood atop a jagged cliff, chains long gone, his shadow cast over the men who moved like echoes of his command.
“Strength is patience,” he reminded them, voice low but unyielding. “Silence is more than absence; it is a weapon.”
The men obeyed, their movements precise, their eyes alert to every change in wind or light. Exiles, criminals, and freed soldiers had become something else entirely a force of quiet purpose. In the flickering smoke of the island’s vents, Taranis traced lines in the sand, marking the future with symbols only they understood.
A scout returned, breathless and wide-eyed. “Rumors, Lupus… Rome speaks of shadows in the hills, whispers of an army unknown.”
Taranis nodded, the storm within him mirrored in the sky above. Lightning tore across the horizon. “Let them whisper,” he said. “Every shadow will remind them: the storm bends, but it never breaks.”
© 2025 Emma Hewitt / StormborneLore. All rights reserved. Unauthorized copying or reproduction of this content is prohibited.
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