The last of the rain had faded, leaving the courtyard of Pennocrucium slick with light. Drax stood with his men, issuing orders for the road north, when a shout broke the morning calm.
A boy no more than ten came running from the treeline. Bare-foot and wild-eyed, his breath tearing in the cold air. The guards moved to intercept, but Drax raised a hand.
The child stumbled to a halt before him, clutching a scrap of parchment tight against his chest.
“He said to give you this,” the boy gasped.
“Who?” Drax asked.
The boy only pointed back toward the woods. “The man with the scars. He said you’d know.”
A chill heavier than the rain settled over the praefect. Slowly, Drax took the parchment. The wax seal bore a spiral mark the Ring of the Stormborne.
He turned the seal over in his palm, the crimson wax cracked and flaking like old blood.
“Did he say anything else?”
The boy shook his head. “Only that the sea’s not where he’s coming from anymore.”
Drax looked up, scanning the mist beyond the walls.
“Go home, lad,” he said quietly. “And tell your mother to keep her doors barred tonight.”
When the child was gone, Drax broke the seal. The message inside was written in a firm, weathered hand one he had not seen since the exile.
Brother,
If Rome still owns your heart, it will soon own your sons. The storm has left the sea. Meet me where the law ends and the wild begins at Cnocc.
— T.
Drax folded the letter and slid it into his cloak. Around him, his men watched, waiting for orders.
“Mount up,” he said finally. “We ride before sunset.”
“Sir?” his aide asked. “The boy”
“Forget the boy.” Drax’s gaze lingered on the northern horizon, where thunderclouds gathered over the hills.
“Remember the name.”
The road north was half-swallowed by mist.
The horses hooves splashed through the puddled ruts. The sound muted beneath the weight of silence that followed them from Pennocrucium.
Drax rode ahead, the sealed parchment still heavy in his cloak. Each mile drew him closer to the hill he had sworn never to see again Cnocc. the place Rome had called untamed and his people had called sacred.
Behind him, his men rode uneasily. They had fought rebels, pirates, and ghosts of empire. But none of them knew what to do with silence that breathed like a living thing.
“Sir,” Maren said quietly, drawing level with his father. “We’re far past the patrol lines. There are no markers, no forts… not even smoke from farms.”
“There used to be farms,” Drax replied. “Before the Empire burned them.”
The boy said nothing more.
They reached the crest by dusk. The land opened out before them rolling forest and wet moor. Scattered with standing stones like broken teeth in the earth. The wind smelled of peat and lightning.
A movement caught Drax’s eye a flicker among the stones. A man watching, cloaked and hooded.
Drax reined in. “Hold.”
The riders stopped. The watcher didn’t flee. Instead, he raised a horn old, carved from a blackened ram’s horn and blew once, low and deep. The sound rolled through the mist like thunder in a cave.
Within moments, others appeared half a dozen figures stepping from the treeline. The shields blackened, armour mismatched, but each bearing the spiral mark upon their arms.
The Black Shields.
Maren’s hand went to his sword. “Father”
“Wait.”
Drax dismounted slowly, his boots sinking into the wet soil. He walked ahead alone until the leader stepped out a woman. Tall and scarred, with iron rings braided through her dark hair.
“Praefect Drax Stormborne,” she said, her voice low and steady. “Or do you answer to Rome only now?”
Drax studied her face. “I answer to my blood when it calls me by name.”
She nodded once. “Then the storm welcomes you home.”
From behind her, two men carried something between them a bundle wrapped in oilcloth, heavy and dark. They laid it at Drax’s feet.
He knelt, unwrapping it. Inside lay a Roman helm scorched, the crest torn away and beneath it. A bronze medallion marked with the eagle of the Twelfth Legion.
Maren’s breath caught. “That’s”
“Proof,” Drax said softly. “That my brother isn’t bluffing.”
The woman met his gaze. “Taranis waits at the standing circle by dawn. He says he’ll speak to you not the Praefect, not the lawman. The brother.”
Drax rose slowly, rain dripping from his cloak. “Then he shall have both.”
Thunder rolled again closer this time, echoing through the hollow hills.
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 want to read more about Drax please see The Chronicles of Drax
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