The Eagle and the Storm

Dawn crept slow over Cnocc, a thin gold edge behind the rain clouds. Mist clung to the standing stones, turning the world to shadow and breath.

Drax waited alone within the circle, his Armour dark with dew. Around him, the forest held its silence not even the birds dared speak before the storm.

A shape emerged from the trees. Bare-headed, cloak torn by wind, eyes bright with the same lightning that lived in the sea.

“Taranis,” Drax said quietly.

“Brother.”

They faced each other across the stones, a dozen paces apart soldier and exile, lawman and outlaw, blood and storm.

“You sent the boy,” Drax began. “You risked Rome’s wrath to deliver a letter. Why?”

“Because words still travel where armies can’t,” Taranis replied. “And because you needed to see the truth before Rome writes it for you.”

Drax’s hand went to the hilt at his belt, but he did not draw. “The truth is that you lead rebellion.”

“The truth,” Taranis said, stepping closer, “is that Rome rots from within. You see it, even in Pennocrucium the taxes, the prisons, the wards rising against their own peacekeepers. You know their order is just another storm wearing iron.”

“Law keeps the world from tearing itself apart.”

Taranis smiled faintly. “Then tell me, brother which law spared our people?”

The question hung like a blade between them.

Drax’s voice dropped. “You’ll bring ruin on every soul north of the wall.”

“And you’ll call it justice when the legions do it first.”

Lightning cracked behind the hills, casting their faces in white fire. For a heartbeat, they were children again mud on their hands, the taste of rain on their tongues.

Then it was gone.

Drax exhaled slowly. “If I turn my back on Rome, they’ll come for my sons.”

“Then send them to me,” Taranis said. “I’ll keep them safe and teach them what it means to be Stormborne.”

Drax met his brother’s gaze, every oath and scar warring inside him. “You ask too much.”

“I ask what blood demands.”

The wind rose, carrying the scent of thunder and pine. Somewhere beyond the ridge, a horn sounded Roman, sharp and close.

Taranis looked toward it, then back at his brother. “You didn’t come alone.”

Drax’s jaw tightened. “I had no choice.”

“You always had a choice.”

He turned, cloak whipping in the wind, and vanished into the mist.

Drax stood amid the stones, thunder rolling like a closing gate. For the first time in years, he no longer knew which storm he served.

The horn still echoed when Drax turned toward the ridge.
Rain came again sharp, cold, unending washing the footprints from the mud where his brother had stood.

From the southern slope came the sound of Armour. The steady rhythm of Roman discipline: shields clashing, orders barked, hooves grinding stone.

Centurion Varro rode up through the mist, helm crested, voice clipped.
“Praefect! You were told to wait at the lower ford. Our scouts saw movement rebels, by the look.”

Drax said nothing. His men shifted behind him, uneasy under the Centurion’s glare.

Varro’s gaze swept the clearing. “You’ve been here long, sir?”

“Long enough.”

“Any sign of the outlaws?”

Drax’s hand brushed the rain-darkened hilt of his sword. “None that concern Rome.”

Varro frowned. “Sir?”

“Withdraw your men to the ridge. If they move through the forest, they’ll spook what they can’t catch.”

Varro hesitated, suspicion flickering behind his eyes. “The Governor will want a report.”

“He’ll have one,” Drax said, voice like iron. “But not from you.”

Varro opened his mouth, then thought better of it. He saluted stiffly and wheeled his horse. The soldiers followed, vanishing into the haze.

When the last sound of their march had gone, Drax turned back to the standing stones. The mist seemed thicker now, the air charged and whispering.

He drew his sword not for battle, but for memory. The blade caught a sliver of light and, for a heartbeat, reflected the spiral carved into the nearest stone.

From the forest edge came a faint flicker of movement a figure, hooded and still. Not Taranis, but one of his kin. She raised her hand, palm out, the mark of the storm inked in black across her skin.

A silent vow.

Drax sheathed his sword. “Tell him,” he said quietly, though she not hear, “that I won’t be his enemy again.”

The woman vanished into the fog.

Behind Drax, Maren approached, cloak dripping. “Father… what will you tell Rome?”

“The truth,” Drax said, mounting his horse. “Just not all of it.”

As they rode back toward Pennocrucium, thunder rolled once more not from the sky, but from the earth itself. The storm was awake again.

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