The forests north of Emberhelm were not empty. They whispered in the cold leaves rustling without wind, branches creaking as if bearing witness.
Every step of Taranis’s horse cracked frost from the dead undergrowth, and in the darkness, unseen eyes marked his passage.
The Black Shields had grown in only a handful of days. Seven now a band stitched together from thieves, deserters, exiled warriors, and one woman with hair like raven feathers whose blade was sharper than her tongue. She called herself Brianna , and unlike the others, she did not flinch when Taranis looked at her.
They camped in the hollows where no light could reach. They moved before sunrise, leaving only cold ashes behind, and they spoke little, except for the soft murmur of plans and the low hum of old battle songs.
Their first strike had been for food. The second, for vengeance. The third would be for a message, not just for them but the starving.
Bryn Halwyn a hill fort the Romans had claimed but not yet reforged in their own style. Its high earthwork walls crouched like a sleeping beast above the winding road. That road was crawling now with supply wagons, the torchlight of the guards bobbing like fireflies in the mist.
Taranis’s voice was a low growl “Shields black. Faces darker.”
The Shields moved as one, melting into the tree line. Arrows hissed from the dark, the first taking a Roman through the throat before his shout could leave his mouth. The second dropped a driver from his cart, spilling barrels into the mud.
Then came the torches. They arced through the air, their fire licking greedily at wagon covers, rope, and dry straw. Flames climbed fast, reflected in the wide eyes of panicked mules.
Taranis was already moving. A shadow at the edge of the firelight, blade flashing, he cut through the first guard and didn’t stop. The air stank of blood and burning oak. The Romans shouted in their clipped tongue, but their formations shattered in the chaos.
By dawn, the road was empty but for the smell of wet ash and a single storm-sigil burned deep into the dirt where the wagons had stood.
When they were gone, the crows came, hopping between the blackened wheels and picking at the dead.
That night, beside a hidden fire, the Shields feasted on stolen bread and salt pork. Kerris leaned across the flames.
“What now?” she asked.
Taranis stared into the heart of the fire until his eyes stung. “We keep going until there’s nothing left to take. Or until they come for me.”
Kerris smirked. “And if they do?”
He smiled without warmth. “Then they’ll find the storm waiting.” he replied with a grin
Hear me, hearth-folk and warriors, for I speak of the High Warlord who walks the storm. His name is Taranis Stormborne, breaker of oaths, rider of wolves whose eyes burn like embers.
He has raided the corn from the winter barns, struck down chiefs beneath the peace banner, and set fire to groves where the gods were honoured.
The druids name him outlaw; the kings demand his head on a spear. Yet the warbands whisper, his name in the night, and some would follow him, even into the jaws of death.
If his banner rises in your valley, bar your gates and guard your herds, for where the Stormborne passes, the thunder will follow and the land will not rest.
The sky over Emberhelm was the colour of old iron, restless with the promise of rain.
Drax stood on the outer wall, eyes on the valley below, where the last of the summer haze clung to the river. Beside him, Taranis rested both hands on the stone, watching the horizon as though it might bite.
“You’re quieter than usual,” Drax said.
“I’m listening.”
“To what?”
“The wind,” Taranis murmured. “It changes when something’s coming.”
A raven cut the sky, wings beating hard against the weather. It landed on the wall, a thin strip of leather tied to its leg. Drax caught it, untied the strip, and read the message aloud:
Strangers on the ridge. Armed. Not raiders. Moving slow.
Taranis’s jaw flexed. “Slow means they know we’re watching.”
“Could be traders.”
“Could be worse.” His gaze didn’t leave the valley. “Tell the scouts to shadow them. No contact. Not yet.”
Drax nodded, but his eyes caught something else his brother’s hand, hovering near the hilt of his sword even now, when there was no battle to fight.
The Sacred Grove
The grove smelled of damp earth and crushed mint where the rains had touched the leaves. Nessa sat with Caelum in the shadow of an ancient oak, rocking the carved crib gently with her boot.
“You were born into a dangerous world,” she whispered to the child. “But so was I.”
The voice came from behind her, thin as wind through reeds. “Danger shapes the strong, girl.”
Nessa turned. An old woman stood between two leaning yews, her green cloak patched and frayed, her hair a braid of white and ash. Her eyes were the pale grey of morning frost.
She stepped forward without asking, bent low over the crib, and traced the runes with a fingertip.
“Sky-born,” she murmured. “Storm-blessed. He will outlive his father’s crown… but not his father’s shadow.”
Nessa’s hand closed over the dagger at her belt. “What does that mean?”
The woman only smiled a sad, knowing curve of the mouth and stepped back into the trees. By the time Nessa reached the grove’s edge, she was gone.
The Council Stones
The gold circle gleamed beneath a bruised sky. Thirteen seats. Twelve filled.
Rayne’s voice carried first. “We should send the child away. Somewhere safe.”
“Safe?” Drax’s tone was a low growl. “You mean hidden.”
“Hidden is alive,” Rayne countered. “And alive is better than lying in the earth when prophecy catches him.”
Draven shifted in his seat, eyes down. “He’s a spark in dry grass. If the wrong hands reach him”
Lore’s voice cut through. “If fear writes the next chapter for us, we lose the right to call ourselves the Ring. Better we strengthen our walls than scatter our own blood to the winds.”
“You speak like someone who’s never buried a child,” Rayne said flatly.
Drax’s hand tightened on the stone armrest. “And you speak like someone who’d rather be rid of a burden than bear it.”
The silence that followed was sharp enough to bleed.
Rayne’s Quarters
Taranis didn’t knock. The door slammed against the wall as he stepped inside.
“You think I won’t hear what you say about my son?”
Rayne looked up from his table, unbothered. “Your son? Or your weakness?”
Taranis’s hand hit the table hard enough to rattle the cups. “If you move against him”
“If I wanted him gone,” Rayne interrupted, “he would be gone. I don’t need the Ring’s blessing for that.”
Taranis’s eyes narrowed. “Then you’re waiting.”
Rayne leaned back, smiling without warmth. “You’ve already faltered, brother. All I have to do is let the sky finish the work.”
The Outer Gate
The scouts returned at nightfall, mud on their boots and rain in their hair.
“They’ve reached the lower valley,” one said. “Twenty of them. And they’re asking for the Stormborne child by name.”
The Ring gathered in the torchlit hall, arguments sparking like flint. Some called for parley, others for steel.
Taranis stood apart, Caelum in his arms, the boy’s small hand gripping the edge of his father’s cloak.
“They will not take him while I breathe,” he said, and there was no room for doubt in his voice.
Final Beat
As orders rang through Emberhelm, Rayne stood in the shadows of the hall, Draven at his side.
“The warlord has chosen love over reason,” Rayne murmured. “Now we wait for the sky to fall.”
Outside, lightning flashed over the valley once, twice before the rain came.
An artistic representation featuring a vibrant blue sky, a radiant sun, and a colorful tree, embodying the themes of nature and rebirth.
The fires of the Ring had long since burned low. Smoke and judgment still clung to the stones, but the voices were gone scattered into the dark like leaves. The echoes of debate, of accusations half-spoken and oaths half-broken, were swallowed by wind.
Only Taranis remained.
He stood at the centre of the stone circle, not as a warlord or seer or storm-marked legend, but as a man uncertain of what to do next.
At his feet, a small crib newly carved, rough-edged but lovingly made sat in the shadow of an ancient standing stone.
Runes spiralled along its frame like protective thorns. Inside, the child slept, his breath barely stirring the wolfhide blanket that covered him.
Taranis stared. Watched. Listened to nothing but the sound of his son’s heartbeat soft, fragile, real.
“He’s mine,” he whispered.
The words fell like an oath.
He hadn’t spoken them aloud until now. Not to the Ring. Not even to himself. But the moment he looked into the child’s eyes, he had known.
There in that small, storm-dark gaze was the same flicker that had burned in his own since birth. A fire that would not die, even when beaten. Even when left in chains.
“I wasn’t sure,” he said, as if the child could hear him. “But now I am.”
Footsteps approached quiet but familiar. He didn’t turn.
Drax entered the ring with Aisin beside him. Her dark braid caught what little moonlight remained. She wore no armor, no crown but her presence always arrived like both.
They stood silently for a while, watching him.
“We thought you’d already gone,” Aisin said gently.
“I couldn’t,” Taranis replied. “Not yet.”
He gestured toward the crib, voice taut.
“I know what you’re thinking. That I’m out of character. That I’ve gone soft.”
He turned toward them now. His eyes were storm-lit, ringed with exhaustion. But beneath that a rawness neither of them had ever seen.
“He’s mine,” Taranis repeated. “There’s no denying it now.”
Aisin moved to the crib. She looked down at the child with the quiet reverence of a priestess before a sacred flame. One hand reached out, slow and certain, to brush the boy’s brow.
“He’s strong,” she said. “But quiet. Like he already knows too much.”
Taranis exhaled hard. His voice wavered a rare thing.
“If it’s too much… if he’s too much to carry…” “We’re not strangers to raising children,” Drax said. “This one isn’t just any child,” Taranis replied. “He’s my child. And I was no angel.”
He looked to Aisin, then Drax his oldest brother, his iron pillar.
“I can take him elsewhere. To a quiet place. Far from the weight of prophecy. Far from the Ring. Just say the word.”
Drax frowned.
“You’d give him up?”
“I’d shield him,” Taranis corrected. “From this. From me.”
Aisin turned to him, calm and sharp all at once.
“You fear yourself more than your enemies?”
“Yes,” he said. “Because I dream of betrayal, but never the face. I wake with my hand on my blade. I feel hunted in my own mind.”
He swallowed.
“I don’t trust myself near him. Not like this.”
Drax stepped forward and gripped his brother’s arm.
“Then trust us.”
Aisin nodded. “He stays. He is blood. That’s enough.”
Taranis closed his eyes. A moment of stillness passed between them.
Then he whispered, “His name is Caelum.”
The name rang like truth in the circle.
Drax smiled faintly. “Sky-born. Storm-blessed.”
“Let’s hope he lives to become more than that,” Taranis murmured.
Later – The Grove Beyond Emberhelm
Rayne stood in the dark, half-shrouded by the charred remnants of an old grove. Draven hovered nearby, shoulders hunched.
“So. He’s claimed him,” Rayne said, not asking.
“He named him Caelum,” Draven replied.
Rayne smiled thin, sharp.
“That’s dangerous. Naming something is binding it to fate.”
“He’s a child, Rayne.”
“No,” Rayne said. “He’s a threat. A future. A soft spot waiting to be pierced.”
Draven said nothing. He looked at the ash, not the stars.
“You said we’d only observe,” he whispered.
Rayne stepped closer, boots silent against the earth.
“And we are. But sometimes watching is how you choose the moment. Let the warlord get sentimental. Let him love.”
He leaned in, voice silk-wrapped iron.
“Love makes good men hesitate. And hesitation… kills kings.”
Smoke still curled above the hills, but for now, the killing had paused. The Ring had demanded silence, and the land obeyed with the uneasy stillness of a wolf watching from the edge of firelight.
Taranis sat by the river, sharpening a blade he hadn’t drawn in days. The sound was steady, comforting a ritual older than words.
“You missed your council seat,” Nessa said behind him.
He didn’t turn. “Let them speak in circles. The wind will tell me what they decide.”
She stepped closer, arms folded, eyes sharp as ever. Her hair was damp from the river, her scar still raw but healing.
“You’re their warlord whether you wear a crown or not,” she said. “They listen for your storms.”
“I’m tired of storms,” he said, standing slowly. “I want peace.”
She raised an eyebrow. “Peace from war? Or from yourself?”
That hit deeper than he expected. He turned, finally, and faced her. “Do you ever stop fighting?”
“Only when I’m sleeping.” A half-smile appeared on her face “And sometimes not even then.”
He studied her in the fading light the blood on her hands that hadn’t come from mercy, the way she stood like someone expecting betrayal at any moment. And yet, she was still here.
“They called me cursed,” he said. “Storm-marked. Said I was born to end things, not build them.”
Nessa’s gaze didn’t waver. “Then build something anyway. Let the curse bite its own tail.”
He stepped toward her. Close enough to feel her breath, to see the flecks of gold in her eyes.
“You speak like a seer,” he said.
“I speak like a woman who’s already lost too much to superstition.”
He wanted to reach for her but didn’t. Instead, he offered his hand. Just his hand.
She stared at it like it was a blade, then took it.
No vows were spoken. No gods were called.
But something passed between them in that moment not love, not yet. Something older.
Something true.
Later that Night Emberhelm
Lore lit the sacred fire at the centre of the stone ring. The flame flared blue for a moment unnatural. Ominous.
Draven flinched. Rayne smiled.
“Balance is shifting,” Lore muttered, eyes on the flame. “Something has stirred it.”
Drax stood at the edge of the circle, arms crossed. “He’s with her again.”
Rayne’s voice was soft and snake-slick. “Then let him be. Let him forget his duty.”
Draven shifted uneasily. “If Taranis lets her in, he could let in worse.”
“Or better,” Lore countered. “She may be a sword that cuts both ways.”
Rayne’s grin widened. “Then let’s see what she severs first.”
Outside the circle, a storm began to gather. Quiet, coiled. Watching.
The Circle of Stones, Emberhelm The storm broke slowly, not with thunder, but with footsteps.
Boots echoed between ancient stones as Taranis stepped into the sacred ring, his cloak still damp from river mist. Nessa walked a pace behind him, her eyes wary, her scar bright under the firelight.
The brothers stood in silence as he approached. Drax by the child’s cradle, Lore near the flame, Draven wringing his hands in shadow. Rayne stood like a blade left out in the cold smiling, but never warm.
Taranis’s voice cut through the stillness like flint on steel.
“I know what you speak when I’m not here. I hear it in the wind. I feel it in the ground. You question my loyalty because I do not sit with you every day. Because a girl now walks beside me.”
He looked at each of them in turn not as brothers, but as warriors who once bled beside him.
“Let me be clear. My oath to Caernath stands. I have not broken it. I will not.”
He turned briefly to Nessa, then back to the Ring, his voice rising with quiet fury.
“But I am not made of stone. I am not your thunder without end. Like you, I bleed. I grieve. And I deserve gods be damned to feel joy. To be loved.”
A gust of wind swept through the circle, snuffing one of the smaller fires. The shadows leaned in.
Taranis stepped closer to the central flame, gaze hard now.
“One of you will betray me. I don’t know when, or how. But it will be for power, land, and coin. That truth rots in the air. But hear me now.”
He unsheathed his blade, slowly, and drove it into the earth beside the flame.
“If you seek to take my crown, then come for me openly. Not with poison. Not with lies.”
His eyes flicked to Rayne just a heartbeat.
“Because I will forgive a blade. But I will not forgive a coward.”
The wind stilled. Even the stones seemed to listen.
Drax stepped forward first, his voice low and steady.
“My brother, I believe you. And should the time come I will not stand behind you. I will stand with you.”
Lore said nothing, but he placed his palm on the stone rune before him the sign of silent accord.
Draven looked down, unable to meet anyone’s gaze.
Rayne only smiled, slow and wolfish.
“You speak of storms and love as if either can save you,” he said softly. “But I wonder, brother… which will break you first?”
After Taranis walks away from the fire:
Nessa followed a few paces behind him, silent until they were beyond the edge of the circle. She spoke without looking at him.
“That wasn’t a warning. That was a reckoning.”
Taranis’s voice was low.
“They needed to hear it. And I needed to remember who I am.”
“And who is that?” she asked.
He paused, fingers brushing the hilt of the blade still buried in the earth behind them.
“A man who has been many things. But never loved and still whole.”
Ash fell like snow across the field, and the cries of dying men echoed over blood-stained earth. Taranis stood at the crest of the hill, his blade soaked, his breath ragged, eyes scanning the fray. His cloak snapped behind him, storm-charged and wild.
Then he saw her.
A blur of red hair and steel. She moved like fire unleashed cutting down two warriors with a rhythm so brutal it bordered on poetry. A deep scar crossed her cheek, fresh blood mingling with the old. Her spear spun once, twice, and buried itself in the chest of a man charging from behind.
She turned. Their eyes locked.
For a second, the war fell silent.
Taranis stepped forward. So did she.
They met in the no-man’s land between sides, blades raised not in anger, but instinct. Neither lowered their guard.
“You’re no foot soldier,” Taranis said, circling. “What are you?”
She didn’t smile, but her voice held a grin.
“I’m the reason you’re bleeding, warlord.”
He looked down. A shallow cut across his ribs. He hadn’t even felt it.
“I’d remember a woman like you,” he muttered, lowering his blade. “Name?”
“Nessa. And I don’t need saving.”
“I wasn’t offering,” he replied, “just watching the storm arrive.”
Her eyes narrowed. “You think this is a storm?” She stepped closer. “You’ve not seen anything yet.”
Then — the horn blew. Her side was retreating. She looked over her shoulder, then back at him.
“I should kill you,” she said.
“You should,” Taranis agreed, “but you won’t.”
She held his gaze another heartbeat… then turned and ran, vanishing into smoke and flame.
He stood alone, the sound of her name still echoing behind his ribs like thunder.
A Week Later Riverbank Clearing The village was in ruins blackened timbers, smoke curling from half-dead hearths. Survivors were few, and even they shrank from him as he passed. They whispered of a warrior woman who had held the bridge alone until the flames took her horse and half her shield arm.
Taranis followed the trail until it ended in a clearing by the river. And there she was.
Kneeling in the shallows, Nessa washed blood from her skin. Her armor was battered. Her shoulder bound with torn linen. But her spine was straight, and her hand never strayed far from the dagger at her hip.
“I should have known,” she said, not looking up. “Storms always return to the wreckage.”
Taranis didn’t smile. “You survived.”
“I always do.” She rose, eyes sharp. “Here to finish what we didn’t start?”
He stepped forward. “I came to offer a truce.”
She scoffed. “Why? Because I didn’t kill you the first time?”
“No,” he said. “Because I want to know why you fight like a warrior, but bleed like someone with nothing left to lose.”
Her jaw clenched. “You think you can read me, warlord? You think I’m one of your stories?”
“No,” Taranis said quietly, “but I know the look of someone trying to die just slowly enough to call it bravery.”
She drew her dagger, fast as lightning. Held it to his throat.
“Careful. You don’t know me.”
“I know enough,” he said, unmoving. “Your people are scattered. Your command is gone. And yet you stood alone at that bridge for strangers.”
“That’s more than you’ve done lately,” she snapped. “You walk the land like a ghost and leave nothing behind but ashes.”
His hand rose not to his weapon, but to gently press her dagger aside.
“I’m tired of ghosts,” he said.
They stood there, breath mingling, battle-scarred and burning. Neither of them moved. Neither of them lowered their guard.
But the space between them began to change.
“Besides I fight for those I deem worthy. That includes the people of Emberhelm.” Taranis smirked. “You’ve shown me you’re a friend of Emberhelm.”
He extended his hand.
“Who are you?” she asked.
“Taranis,” he said. “Who are you, my lady?”
“Nessa.”
The Night of Lammas.
That night, the people of Emberhelm feasted beneath the stars.
Lammas the first harvest was a time of bread and song, fire and gratitude. Children danced between torches, and the scent of roasted grain filled the cooling air. Drums echoed off the stones, old and deep, like the heartbeats of the land itself.
Taranis stood at the edge of it all, watching, half in shadow. Nessa leaned against a pillar beside him, arms folded, hair loose from its braid.
“I thought you’d be dancing,” he said.
“I don’t dance for tradition,” she replied. “Only for survival. Or joy.”
“Is this not joy?”
She looked around. The laughter. The flames. The peace however temporary. “Maybe.”
A silence fell between them, not awkward, just heavy with the unspoken.
“Come with me,” she said at last.
No orders. No questions. Just a truth spoken plainly. He followed.
They slipped from the celebration like ghosts, weaving through the orchard paths behind Emberhelm. The air was thick with ripening apples and the hum of distant music. When they reached the old stone lodge near the outer walls, she pushed the door open with one hand and led him in without a word.
There were no declarations. No romance wrapped in flowers or oaths. Only need.
Their bodies met like storm and flame fast, urgent, tangled with the memory of battle and the ache of survival. There was laughter when his armor refused to loosen, curses when her hair caught on his clasp, and a growl low in his throat when she bit his shoulder hard enough to mark.
Neither knew what the next day would bring. That was why it mattered.
That night, they made love like warriors with a fierceness born of loss and the tenderness of those who had bled for strangers.
Later, tangled in furs, the fire crackling low, she lay with her head against his chest.
“If I die tomorrow,” she murmured, “I’ll die warm.”
“You won’t,” he said, but his fingers curled tighter around her waist.
Outside, the stars burned cold and bright, and the first autumn wind began to stir.
He placed his hand gently on her belly.
“You and my son will live.”
Whispers in the Dark.
The next morning, the Ring summoned Taranis.
The gold circle at the council stones shone under a pale sky. Thirteen seats twelve filled. Lore was already speaking when Taranis entered, his voice low but urgent.
As he took his place, Nessa moved through the old halls of Emberhelm alone, her instincts sharp. Her step slowed when she passed the northern storeroom. Voices carried.
Rayne.
“We wait until the snows. When the passes are blocked, and he’s far from Emberhelm, we strike. The Ring will fall without him.”
Another voice, unsure. “He’s your brother.”
“Which is why I know his weakness.”
Nessa froze, the words burning into her mind.
Betrayal was coming.
And she was carrying the only thing that might save him.
Battles became rare. Raids grew smaller, born less from conquest and more from desperation. The crops suffered under strange seasons. Hunger took more than steel ever could. But with hardship came strange progress sharper tools, tighter village bonds, cleverer defences. Old powers shifted. The land quieted, not in peace, but in waiting.
And in that uneasy quiet, Taranis was content.
For the first time in years, he did not lead an army. He pursued a girl instead one with a scar beneath her eye and a laugh like war drums. She gave as good as she got, and that delighted him. The village wives said she would either tame him or kill him. The bards were divided on which would be the better story.
Meanwhile, I, Drax, his brother by blood and blade, walked a different path. I raised my people among the hills and rivers of Caernath. Children on hips, grain in hand, my wife laughing in doorways. I had earned my peace, or so I believed.
Lore, always the wisest of us, had vanished into his libraries. He said little, but he read much stars, omens, bones, spells. His son was growing fast, and Lore spoke often of unity, of law, of councils instead of kings.
Even Draven kept to himself in those days, unsure of where to cast his loyalty. And Rayne, well… Rayne’s silence was never a good sign.
Then the rumours came.
Another village, wiped clean. A warlord found burnt and broken, no enemies in sight. Smoke and whispers. They say a giant walked the battlefield, crowned in fire and storm. One witness swore she saw a great horned beast at his side. Another swore it was a dragon, wings spread across the sky like nightfall.
The name on their tongues? Taranis.
And with his name, the same plea echoed once again from the mouths of elders, farmers, and war-chiefs alike: “Take the crown.”
He refused. For the thirteenth time.
No matter their offerings gold, land, blood-oaths he turned his back on kingship. He called no banners. Built no fortress. No throne. Yet still he came when battle called. He turned tides, struck down tyrants, disappeared again into wind and legend.
And so, we formed the Ring not a court of nobles, but of equals. Thirteen warriors, leaders, seers, and voices of the old ways. It stood for balance, for judgment, for law older than any written word. At its centre: a circle of sacred stones, each carved with the oath of Stormborne.
And there, in that ring, Taranis spoke not often but when he did, the skies listened.
We thought we were building something unbreakable.
But we were wrong.
Because while we looked outward at the world beyond the hills, a darker storm gathered within us. In the silence of Lore’s spells, in the smile behind Rayne’s eyes, in the omens Draven refused to speak aloud.
The Thirteenth Ring was strong. But it only took one brother’s betrayal to crack the stone. And so the storm began to turn inward.
“Where’s the mother?” I asked.
“Her village was attacked. They slaughtered her while she screamed my name,” Taranis said.
The circle of stones stood solemn beneath a heavy sky bruised with gathering storm clouds. Within the sacred ring, thirteen seats carved with ancient runes and oaths bore silent witness as the brothers gathered once more.
Taranis sat with the weight of years pressing upon him, the child cradled carefully in Drax’s strong arms a fragile ember amidst the gathering darkness. The air was thick, charged with the unspoken dread of a prophecy unfolding.
Lore was the first to break the silence, stepping forward with measured grace. His voice was calm but sharp as flint, each word deliberate and coldly reasoned.
“Brother,” Lore said, eyes fixed on Taranis, “you speak of betrayal as if the serpent has already struck. Who do you suspect? Who harbors this poison within our bloodline?”
Rayne’s lips twitched into a mocking smile, his gaze a knife’s edge glinting in the half-light.
“Perhaps,” Rayne replied smoothly, “the betrayal lies not in our veins but in the stubbornness of one who refuses the crown. The storm we fear may well be born of his silence.”
Draven shifted uneasily on his stone, fingers twisting nervously as he swallowed hard.
“I… I cannot imagine we would turn against our own,” Draven stammered. “We are brothers forged in battle. Our oaths hold us true.”
Taranis’s gaze snapped sharply to Draven, eyes burning with bitter warning. “Blood is thicker than loyalty,” Taranis said quietly, “but fate is the thinnest thread of all easily severed, and often broken by the weakest hand.”
I stood from my seat, the strength in my voice like a hammer striking an anvil. “I swear to all here, I will raise this child as my own, guard him with my life. No harm will come to him under my watch.”
Rayne’s eyes narrowed dangerously. “Loyalty is a coin with many faces, brother,” Rayne said softly, stepping closer. “What of your people? Your wife and child? When the scales are tipped, whose cries will you hear first?”
Lore raised a hand, tracing the worn runes on his stone seat with thoughtful fingers.
“We stand at a crossroads. The old gods grow silent; new faiths rise from the south and east. It is no betrayal to seek survival. Perhaps adaptation is the true path.”
Taranis’s jaw clenched, muscles taut with anger and grief. “Survival without honor is death,” he growled. “One of you will fracture this Ring. When that stone breaks, the whole will crumble. Mark my words.”
A sudden gust of wind swept through the circle, rattling the ancient stones like a voice from the past. The child stirred in my arms, a small cry cutting through the tension like a knife.
The brothers’ eyes flickered to the babe innocent yet burdened with the weight of prophecy.
Silence fell again, thick with dread and unspoken accusations.
Rayne smiled then, colder and sharper than any blade. “So be it,” he whispered. “Let the storm come. I will be ready.”
From the edge of the circle, Draven lowered his gaze, his hands trembling. Behind closed eyes, fear and uncertainty warred in his heart a battle he dared not share.
Lore’s eyes scanned the sky, already darkening with rolling thunder. “We must decide soon,” Lore murmured, “for if we do not act, the fates will decide for us.”
Taranis stared out over the ring, his voice low but resolute.
“The time of peace is over. The Ring must hold or all we built will fall to ruin.”
He stood slowly, setting the child gently in my arms before turning toward the path out of the circle.
As he walked away, his figure a storm-shadow against the fading light, the brothers remained each wrestling with the secrets they now carried.
Taranis stood for hours, his injured back pressed against the tree. Two men watched his every move.
“Hey, stop right there, slave,” one growled, noticing a hand slipping free. He strode over and punched the teen in the stomach, making Taranis grunt in pain. Then he resecured the hand and looped a rope around the boy’s neck.
“Just move. Go on, make my day, exiled one,” said the stocky, dark-haired guard.
“I just wanted water. It’s right there. Please, Sorrel,” Taranis pleaded.
“You know the orders. Two days without,” said the other man, watching closely. “Your commander will come tomorrow. Commander Greal.”
“Should we secure his head too?” the man added. “No movement at all?”
“No. He’s got the collar, and the rope’s above it. It should be tight. His hands are secured again. We just follow orders. No food. No water,” Sorrel replied.
“Commander Greal? That’s who I’m under?” Taranis managed to spit out. The rope around his neck made it hard to breathe or swallow.
“Yes. He’s coming to train you. You’ll be tethered. Chains, binds ankles, wrists, neck until he says otherwise, cursed exile.”
Taranis swallowed, almost choking.
As the sun rose and the shifts changed, a smith appeared.
“Time to change the collar, but that rope makes it tricky,” he muttered. He carried tools stone and bone hammers, and a strange new collar made of carved deer bone and inlaid stones, blessed by the Seer.
“No please. I’m sorry,” Taranis whispered, trying to hide his fear.
“Hey, Tanar, look at me,” Solaris said gently, stepping forward. “You’re the kid who doesn’t fear anything, right? The one who slept with wolves and rides dragons?”
“Morrigan and Boldolph,” Taranis whispered. “They still howl.”
“Yes. They cry for you.” Solaris crouched. “I know you’re scared. I asked if you could play after this punishment. But you have to stay in the clan’s sight.”
“Really?” Taranis asked, making a face as the smith worked.
The old collar shattered. The Seer stepped forward, chanting softly. The new collar was fitted around his neck tight but precise.
“This is to contain and restrict what you are believed to be,” the Seer said. “It bears your name in the old tongue. Carved by flame. Blessed in shadow. It does not break unless your master wills it.”
“Will it grow with him?” Solaris asked.
“It will last a few years. Then we replace it. But it is a warrior’s collar.”
“Can we still attach the tether?” a guard asked.
“Here,” said the smith, tapping the metal hoop. “The restraints remain the same.”
Everyone in the village looked to the boy some with sorrow, some with fear.
“Master, I won’t run or hurt anyone. You saved me,” Taranis said softly. But the masters voice remain silent, the boy had been their property 7 years nothing would change it.
He was removed from the tree. His hands were bound low at the waist. The sinew cords bit deeper with every hour. A leather tether linked the collar to his wrists, forcing him to hunch forward.
“Walk,” the clan leader commanded.
Taranis took a few difficult steps.
“Father, how long is he in this for?” Calor asked.
“This is punishment. When I see a correction in his behaviour, I’ll allow an alteration.”
After a few steps, Taranis fell.
“Get up,” barked a guard.
The leader grabbed Solaris’s arm. “No. He must do it alone. No one helps him.”
“Fuck you,” Taranis hissed, losing his temper. He tried to turn his head, but the tether tightened around his throat. He struggled. Slowly, painfully, he managed to rise to his knees.
“I’ll kill you for this. One day.”
For that outburst, they dragged him through the camp by the tether. Word spread fast the exile had defied them again.
They brought him to the sacred stone circle.
Taranis staggered. Blood dried at the corners of his mouth. The clan watched not with pity, but quiet judgment.
At the center, the clan leader held a mask.
It was beast-shaped, stitched hide, with a carved bone bit meant to force the jaw open and silent. Leather straps dangled like tongues.
“This is what you become when you threaten your own,” he said. “Not man. Not wolf. Not worthy of freedom.”
He strapped the mask to Taranis’s face. The bone slipped between his teeth. The world became heat, shame, and pressure.
They paraded him around the circle. No words. No cheers. Only the crackle of fire and the quiet of judgment.
Then they brought him back to the tree.
He was secured again tether pulled tight, hands bound low, unable to straighten. A bucket of clean water sat just out of reach.
Solaris and a friend sat nearby.
“I get that he hates us,” the friend muttered. “But this? This isn’t helping.”
“How long’s your dad leaving him like that?”
“He’s planning a fight. Says the slave goes in bound. As punishment.”
Later, a group approached the tree. “He’s fighting the hunter who disrespected your father,” one said. “Only this time, he doesn’t get unbound.”
“That’s death,” Nudge said. “This is a unique slave.”
They dragged Taranis toward the circle again. Tether at his neck. Hands bound. Mask still biting. His feet scraped the dirt.
The hunter was waiting older, heavier, armed with a bone club.
“This one’s half-starved and shackled,” the man jeered. “A gift fight.”
The Seer raised her hand. “Begin.”
The club came down fast.
Taranis dodged. Took the blow on the shoulder. Pain exploded. He dropped. Rolled. Used the tether’s pull to spin and slammed his wrists into the man’s knee.
A stumble.
The crowd laughed and jeered .
He stood barefoot, bleeding, bound and faced his enemy.
This time, he waited. At the last second, he kicked low behind the knee. The hunter dropped.
Taranis slammed into him, shoulder first. They hit the ground hard.
Bound wrists wrapped around the man’s throat.
“Enough,” said the Seer.
He didn’t let go.
“Enough!” she repeated.
He finally released the man, who gasped for breath.
Taranis stood. Mask soaked in blood. Breath ragged.
“He’s not just a slave,” Solaris whispered. “He’s… something else.”
One of the leader’s sons stepped forward. “Kill him.”
Taranis hesitated.
Then the look in his eyes went blank.
He obeyed.
He killed with a single motion. Trained. Efficient.
The camp went still.
“I didn’t think he’d actually do it,” the son whispered.
“You made him do it,” Solaris said coldly. “He obeyed your order.”
The leader stepped forward.
“I gave no such command. But a command was followed.”
He turned away.
“Take him to the Ridge.”
They dragged him up the mountain path.
The wind screamed. No songs. No prayers. Just feet against earth.
The Ridge loomed an old stone, cracked and worn by time.
They fastened him there. Arms above his head. Rope around his chest. Collar tethered tight. Ankles bound. Spine locked in an arch. The mask stayed on.
No fire. Only wind. And a wooden bucket of water, just out of reach.
Night came.
Time blurred.
He dreamed of wolves. Of fire in the sky. Of names long forgotten Rayne, Drax, Lore.
And then Solaris came.
“I asked my father for leniency,” he said softly. “He said pain teaches obedience.”
“This isn’t obedience,” his friend muttered. “It’s madness.”
Solaris crouched.
“I don’t want you to die,” he whispered. “But I can’t stop this. Not tonight.”
Before leaving, he placed a carved stone with a sun symbol beside the bucket.
A promise.
The night passed.
Morning came.
He had not died.
And that, somehow, was worse.
When they removed the mask, the clan leader gave him a small sip of water.
“Why did you kill him?” he asked.
“Your son told me to,” Taranis said, voice raw. “If I don’t obey, I’m punished. I did what I was told and still, I’m punished.”
“How long do I stay like this?”
“One day,” the man said. “You’ll be taken down tonight. Try not to fight the restraints.”
A boy ran up the path.
“The general is here. He demands to see the prisoner.”
StormborneLore 