The mist lay thick over Britannia’s hills, silver and cold in the dawn light. Drax Stormborne rode through it in silence, his cloak trailing behind his horse like a banner of shadow. The seal of his office a bronze wolf set in iron hung heavy at his breast. Praefect of the Western Marches.

Rome had granted him the title, but the people called him something older. The Lawkeeper. The Storm’s Hand.
Sometimes, when whispers rose of rebellion or strange omens in the south. they spoke another name High Sheriff, as though the tongue of the future already sought him.

For weeks, Drax had heard the same rumours. A golden-eyed warrior training exiles in secret. Smugglers vanishing near the coast. Symbols carved in ash and stone a black shield marked by lightning.

He reined in his horse upon a ridge and looked east, where the mists thinned toward the sea. Somewhere beyond those waters, Taranis Stormborne still lived. His brother. His blood. His curse.

Duty demanded silence, but loyalty demanded truth. He not betray his oath to Rome, nor he ignore the storm rising beyond its borders.

“They call it rebellion,” he murmured, gloved hand tightening on the reins, “but it feels like fate.”

The wind rose, cold and sharp. Somewhere distant, thunder rumbled faint, like a memory.

“If this is the end of empires,” Drax said softly. “then let the Stormborne stand ready to shape what comes after.”

He turned his horse toward the fading sun, the wolf badge glinting on his chest. Law and blood would soon meet, and the legend of the Stormborne name would start anew.

© 2025 Emma Hewitt / StormborneLore. All rights reserved.
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