The Waiting Storm
December 430
The cage was colder than the rain.
Iron bars bit into Thunorric’s back as he leaned against them, the damp stone seeping through his shirt. His breath came slow, measured. He forced it that way. Panic wasted air.
Outside, the courtyard emptied.
Villagers were herded away like livestock, fear stamped into their faces. Some looked back. Some crossed themselves. Others spat in the mud and hurried on.
No one lingered.
Except his family.
Dægan stood at the far edge of the yard, fists clenched so tight his knuckles bled. He looked like a wolf chained beside its pack mate’s trap.
Leofric paced like a caged bird, whispering prayers he didn’t believe in anymore.
Rægenwine crouched with the boys, arms wrapped around all four.
Wulfie sobbed into his shoulder.
Bram stared at the cage, silent, eyes too old for his years.
Harold clutched his brother’s tunic.
James shook so hard his teeth rattled.
Thunorric met their gaze.
He lifted his head slowly.
Didn’t smile.
Didn’t joke.
Just looked at them.
And they felt it.
That storm-calm.
That unbreakable thing in him.
Dægan stepped forward before he could stop himself.
“They’ll kill you.”
“Aye,” Thun said quietly. “That’s the plan.”
“You’ve walked out of worse,” Dægan snapped. “Roman chains. Saxon blades. Hell itself”
“This one’s different.”
“Because you’re tired?” Dægan demanded. “Because you’re done fighting?”
Thunorric’s eyes hardened.
“No. Because I’m choosing.”
Silence fell.
Even the rain seemed to pause.
“I’ve spent centuries running,” Thun said.
“Running from kings. Gods. Wars that weren’t mine.”
His gaze drifted to the boys.
“I won’t run from this. Not if it buys them peace.”
Leofric swallowed.
“They’ll hunt us next.”
Thun shook his head.
“Not if they think the storm is dead.”
Dægan slammed his fist into the stone wall.
“They’ll never believe that.”
“They will if I die proper.”
Rægenwine cursed softly.
“You always were a bastard.”
Thun smirked faintly.
“Takes one to spot one.”
The Watchtower
A horn sounded from the hill.
Long.
Low.
The tower answered.
That old Roman watchtower stood on the ridge like a broken tooth, its shadow stretching across the marsh. Men climbed its steps, carrying torches.
Preparing.
Dægan followed their gaze.
“The gallows.”
Thun nodded.
“They’ve chosen the old place.”
“Why there?” Leofric asked.
“Because it’s seen empires fall,” Thun replied.
“They want to remind folk who owns the land now.”
The boys whimpered.
Thun forced himself to stand straighter.
“Lore.”
Leofric looked up.
“You tell them stories about me.”
Leofric frowned.
“Stories?”
“Not the ugly ones.”
“Tell ’em I laughed loud. Loved storms. Hated bullies.”
Dægan’s jaw trembled.
“And that you were stubborn as a mule,” he added.
Thun chuckled.
“Especially that.”
A soldier approached.
“You have until sunset.”
Dægan stepped between him and the cage.
“Touch him and I swear”
The hunter appeared behind him.
“You’ll watch.”
His smile was thin.
“Everyone watches.”
Then they left.
Again.
Leaving the Storm
Thunorric slid down the bars, sitting in the mud.
The pain was starting now.
Not in his body.
In the waiting.
He looked up at the sky.
Grey.
Empty.
Same as always.
“Not today,” he whispered again.
Not to fate.
Not to gods.
To himself.
From the tower, the rope was raised.
From the hill, the horn sounded again.
Dægan turned away.
Leofric covered the boys’ eyes.
Rægenwine whispered curses in three languages.
And Thunorric closed his.
Just for a moment.
Because storms rest too.
Before they break.
© 2025 Emma Hewitt StormborneLore. The characters, stories, names, and world-building elements of the Stormborne Saga are original works.
This includes Thunorric, Dægan, Leofric, the Black Shields, and all associated lore.They are owned exclusively by the author. Unauthorised copying, reposting, distribution, or adaptation of this content is strictly prohibited without written permission.
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