When Storms Break
December 430
They marched him at dusk.
Chains clanked with every step, iron biting his skin raw. The road to the tower was lined with villagers forced to watch. Spears kept them back. Fear kept them silent.
The sky burned red.
Not sunset.
An omen.
The watchtower loomed above them, old Roman stone cracked and blackened by centuries of blood. The gallows stood beneath it, fresh wood, fresh rope.
Waiting.
Thunorric walked with his head high.
Not proud.
Not defiant.
Just unbroken.
Dægan followed at a distance, held back by soldiers. His eyes never left his brother. Leofric walked beside him, lips moving in prayers that sounded more like curses now.
Rægenwine stayed with the boys.
Wulfie cried openly.
Harold hid his face.
James shook.
Bram stared at the rope with silent hatred.
The hunter rode ahead, cloak snapping in the wind like a crow’s wing.
“On the platform,” he barked.
They dragged Thun up the steps.
The crowd had grown. Word had spread. Executions were entertainment to kings.
Thun looked out over them.
Farmers.
Mothers.
Old men.
Children forced to watch death.
“This is for you,” the hunter shouted.
“Let this be a lesson to all who defy the crown!”
A murmur moved through the crowd.
Not fear.
Anger.
Thun felt it.
Like thunder in the distance.
They forced him to his knees.
The rope brushed his neck.
Rough.
Cold.
Final.
The hunter leaned close.
“Any last words?”
Thun lifted his head slowly.
“Aye.”
The hunter smirked.
“Beg.”
Thun spat blood at his boots.
“Kings rot. Crowns rust. Storms don’t kneel.”
The crowd stirred.
A woman cried out.
“Leave him!”
A man shouted.
“He fed us!”
“He saved my boy!”
The soldiers turned their spears.
“Silence!”
Dægan snapped.
“No.”
His voice cut through the air like a blade.
“No more.”
He lunged.
A spear struck his shoulder but he kept coming, ripping it free, charging the platform.
Leofric roared and followed, staff swinging, cracking bone.
Chaos exploded.
Villagers surged ahead.
Not to watch.
To fight.
Pitchforks.
Stones.
Bare hands.
The Black Shields poured from the trees like wolves.
Steel rang.
Blood sprayed.
A soldier fell screaming as Dægan buried his blade in his throat.
Leofric smashed a helm, the man beneath it crumpling.
Rægenwine shoved the boys behind a fallen cart.
“Don’t move!”
Thunorric saw it all.
The storm breaking.
The hunter swore and raised his sword.
“Hang him!”
The executioner kicked the stool.
It flew.
The rope snapped tight.
Pain exploded in Thun’s neck.
Darkness clawed his vision.
Dægan screamed.
“No!”
Leofric hurled his staff, cracking the executioner’s skull.
He dropped.
The rope still held.
Thun kicked wildly, lungs burning.
The world blurred.
Then… A blade. Rægenwine.
He cut the rope.
Thun hit the ground hard.
Gasping.
Choking.
Alive.
Dægan was beside him instantly.
“Brother!”
Thun coughed blood.
“Bloody… dramatic…”
Dægan laughed and cried at the same time.
The fight raged around them.
Villagers turned on soldiers.
Years of hunger poured into fists.
A woman stabbed a man with a bread knife.
A boy threw stones until his hands bled.
The hunter mounted his horse.
“Retreat!”
But it was too late.
The storm had broken.
The people were done kneeling.
Thun forced himself upright, grabbed a fallen sword.
He looked at the crowd.
“Go home!” he roared.
“Take your lives back!”
They cheered.
Not for him.
For themselves.
The king’s men fled.
Blood soaked the hill.
The tower watched.
As it always had.
Dægan pulled Thun close.
“You should be dead.”
Thun smirked weakly.
“Disappointing, ain’t it?”
Leofric collapsed to his knees, laughing.
Rægenwine brought the boys.
They threw themselves at their father.
“DA!”
Thun held them.
Tight.
Breathing them in.
Alive.
For now.
Above them, the rope swayed in the wind.
Empty.
The storm had passed.
But war had begun.
copyright ELH2026
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