From the outer wall, Taranis could taste the storm before it broke sharp on the air, heavy in his bones. The valley below was black save for the faint glint of torchlight far beyond the river. The strangers from the ridge had come at last.
“They’re not raiders,” Drax said, joining him at the wall. “Too few for a siege. Too disciplined for a skirmish.”
“Too confident to live,” Taranis replied, though the set of his jaw told another story.
By the time the first horn blew, the outer gate was already under assault. Not a roar of chaos, but the steady, hammering rhythm of a trained force. Boldolph and Morrigan were first to meet them teeth bared, fur bristling, their snarls rolling over the walls like distant thunder.
Then the sky tore.
Pendragon and Tairneanach came from the dark like living fire. Wings swept low, scattering the first wave of attackers into the river. For a heartbeat, the night belonged to Emberhelm.
But then a cry from the inner courtyard.
Nessa, blade in hand, burst from the shadows. “Caelum’s chamber is empty!”
Taranis didn’t think he moved. Past the gate, through the melee, cutting down the enemy commander’s guard one by one until steel rang on steel. The man was quick, his armour unfamiliar banded metal, curved like river reeds, not the crude plates of the hill tribes. A shadow of Rome in the making.
Behind them, the wolves fought on. Boldolph took a spear to the ribs and kept moving. Morrigan’s howl was the last thing many would hear before the river claimed them.
Inside the sacred circle, Lore’s voice rose over the clash an old chant to bind the enemy’s will. Draven tried to hold the stones, his hands trembling against the carved runes. Rayne was nowhere to be seen.
The duel was short and brutal. Taranis drove his blade through the man’s chest, wrenching it free as lightning split the sky. But in that moment, the circle of stones shook. One the thirteenth stone cracked down its face with a sound like the earth breaking.
Pendragon roared once more, then wheeled away into the storm. Tairneanach followed. Neither would be seen again.
When the gate finally closed, the field beyond was strewn with the dead ours and theirs. Boldolph lay on the bridge, Morrigan beside him, the river taking their last breath.
And in the quiet after, Caelum was found untouched, but with a strip of strange iron tied to his crib. A mark, a warning, or a promise.
Taranis stood in the ruins of Emberhelm, rain running from his cloak, watching the storm move east.
“I will find who brought them to our gates,” he said.
From the shadows, Rayne’s voice answered, almost too soft to hear. “You won’t have to look far.”
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.
The trial fire still burned in the hearts of the warriors long after the flames had faded.
They left the stone circle at sunrise, the air thick with silence. Taranis walked unbound now, but still marked the collar firm around his neck, his wrists bruised, the pendant of obsidian pressing warm against his chest beneath the tunic Solaris had given him.
No one spoke of the dragon.
They didn’t need to. Its shadow had burned itself into every man’s memory.
By midday, they reached the edge of a sprawling war camp carved between high ridges and pine forest. Smoke rose from scattered fires. Grael dismounted first and gave the order for rest and supplies. Taranis stood nearby, posture straight, though his limbs ached from the days of trials and visions.
A hush followed him wherever he moved. Some men nodded. Others turned away.
One older warrior spat at his feet and muttered, “Dragon-kissed freak.”
Taranis didn’t respond. But Grael saw and said nothing.
Inside the central tent, the tension grew.
“You should exile him,” said Kareth, a clan captain with blood on his hands and ambition in his eyes. “Or bind him again. The men are talking.”
“This boy walks free after breaking formation, defying orders, and drawing the attention of beasts older than the gods?”
Grael looked up from the war map.
“Exactly. He walked through fire and survived. He fought off Clawclan while half my guard bled out in the dirt. He was named by a Seer. You want to leash him again? You do it.”
Kareth hesitated. “If he leads a rebellion, it’ll be your head.”
“No,” Grael said. “It’ll be his. If he earns death, he’ll find it. But if he earns something more, I won’t stand in the way.”
That night, Taranis sat near the outer fire, the pendant warm against his chest again. Solaris approached with a fresh poultice and a torn piece of roasted meat.
A growl echoed in the hills not wolf, not wind. Something deeper. Some warriors looked up. A few rose to check their weapons.
A young scout came running from the ridge.
“Smoke! North side. Something’s burning!”
They scrambled toward the hill’s edge and saw it.
A rival clan’s border camp was ash and ruin. No screams, no survivors. Only smoldering black earth and claw marks in the rock.
“Raiders?” Solaris asked.
“No,” Taranis said quietly. “It’s a warning.”
Grael joined them, silent, jaw tight.
Kareth was already shouting. “This is what he brings! The dragon follows him. Death follows him!”
“No,” Taranis said. “The dragon doesn’t follow me. It watches.”
“Same thing.”
Grael raised a hand. “Enough. We return to Emberhelm. There, the chieftains will decide what happens next.”
The journey to Emberhelm took two days. The stone fortress carved into the mountains stood stark against the dawn ancient, proud, watching the valley like a sentinel.
When they entered, the whispers turned to stares.
Children peeked from behind barrels. Elders crossed their arms. A group of shieldmaidens flanking the gate parted only after Grael rode forward and gave the sign.
Taranis dismounted, cloak billowing slightly behind him. No chains. No mask. Only the obsidian pendant.
In the Great Hall, the Five Voices of the War Council sat in a semi-circle.
Old warriors. Mothers of fallen sons. Leaders of lesser clans.
One stood Sern, a matriarch with fire in her eyes and silver in her braid.
“We saw the storm,” she said. “We saw the dragon’s wings. We heard the Seer’s cry.”
Another voice cut in a young man named Fenric, blood cousin to the boy Taranis had crippled.
“He’s cursed. He bled our kin, broke our laws, walked with beasts. Now you bring him here unbound?”
Grael stepped forward. “I bring you a warrior.”
“Not yet,” Sern said. “Not until the rite is finished.”
“What rite?” Taranis asked.
She pointed to the firepit at the centre of the chamber.
“You were bound by man. Now let the flame judge if you are bound by fate.”
They handed him a staff and stripped him to the waist. The collar remained. So did the pendant.
The fire was lit with dried hawthorn, wolf hair, and elder root.
He stepped into the circle.
“Do you claim name or no name?” Lady Sern asked.
Taranis raised his head. “I claim the storm.”
A gust of wind blew through the open doors behind him.
“Then speak your vow.”
Taranis closed his eyes.
“I was chained as beast. I was broken by man. But I rise not to rule only to walk free. I serve the flame, the wolves, the storm. If I break my word, may the dragon turn from me.”
He thrust the staff into the fire.
It did not burn.
Instead, the flame spiraled into the air and far above, the sky answered with a distant roar.
The hall went silent.
Lady Sern bowed her head.
“Then you are no longer beast. Nor slave. Nor tool.”
She placed her hand on his collar.
“From this day, you are Stormborne.”
She broke the collar with a hammer of bronze.
The pieces fell to the stone floor like the last chains of a life left behind.
Does that mean he’s free?” Solaris asked.
Taranis placed a hand to his neck, fingers brushing the worn ridge where the collar had once pressed deep.
“Or am I to be exiled?”
A hush fell again, broken only by the wind rustling through the pine above.
“Exile him,” came a voice from the gathered crowd, “and I will hunt him myself.”
All heads turned.
It was not Grael who spoke, nor one of the regular warband. It was a man cloaked in dark fur, standing apart from the others near the treeline scarred face, sun-dark skin, hair braided with bone. A chieftain from another clan.
“He bears the storm’s mark. He’s no beast. No slave. And not mine to cast out.” His voice was low, graveled with age and fire. “But if you send him away, don’t expect him to come back.”
Taranis didn’t flinch. His eyes locked on the stranger’s. He neither bowed nor raised his head. Just… endured.
Grael stepped forward.
“He’s not exiled,” the general said. “Nor is he yet free. The trial burned away the mask, but chains leave scars longer than flame.”
“And what is he now?” Solaris asked.
Grael looked to the warriors, the gathered villagers, the scouts and wounded men who had seen the dragon descend.
“He is Stormborne,” he said. “Named not by man, but by thunder. And while I draw breath, that name will be honoured.”
There was a ripple in the crowd not agreement, not rejection. Just change. Unease becoming belief.
Taranis turned to Solaris. “Then I stay?”
Solaris nodded. “If you want to.”
“I don’t know what I want,” the boy admitted. “I only know I’m still breathing.”
Beside him, the black scale the one left by the dragon was now strung on a simple leather thong, hanging from his belt like a forgotten relic. He touched it once, gently.
A woman stepped forward from the watching crowd. She carried no weapons only a clay bowl filled with ash and herbs.
“I came from the ridge when I heard the trial fire was lit,” she said. “If the dragon marked him, then his wounds must be sealed properly. Not with chains. With earth.”
She knelt before Taranis and dipped two fingers into the bowl. Ash and sage stained her fingertips. She reached up and slowly touched each side of his jaw where the mask had pressed hardest.
“You have walked through smoke,” she whispered. “Now rise through flame.”
Taranis stood, a little taller than before.
Grael gave a curt nod. “We break camp tomorrow. Clawclan still stirs in the lowlands. But the boy rides his own horse now. No packs. No tether.”
“And the collar?” Solaris asked.
Grael glanced at it now lying in the dirt.
“Leave it where it fell.”
As the crowd began to scatter, a new chant rose quietly from the younger warriors near the fire.
After the fight taranis was dragged back to the hut. He knew the boy was harsh on other slaves and couldn’t miss the looks of hatred in some of the villagers eyes. The mask now back in place along with the tether and binds meant he couldn’t move his head. As soon as his hut was reached he stepped in and the door shut behind him.
He sat in the corner of his hut prisoner of war common, exile and excommunication was common but his life was far from the normal. He was more than a slave he was a tool to be forged and weilded at graels command. He was left with his thoughts uncomfortable and in pain as solaris walked in with a warriorand healer.
“Grael ordered fir you to see the healer. ” the Warrior stated “if we remove the mask you going to be good?”
Taranis tried his hardest to nod after a few minutes the mask was off.
“Are you OK? Grael said you can talk for a bit ” solaris said
“I’ve had worse you know that, thank you for everything.” Taranis said “how’s your brother?”
“Hes awake, says he can’t feel his legs but father told him to take it that the gods punishment for lying and dishonoured our ancestors. The wolves came they sit outside “
“Are they going to kill me?” Taranis asked
“No but your new master Grael is not an easy man. We move out in the morn, you’ll leave this behind you and fight. battles and wars, deliver food and water to troops train. One of our men needs a pack horse you’re it.” The Warrior said “but you’ll meet dragons”
“A pack horse?” Solaris asked
“Tanaris will be in binds and harnessed all the warriors belongings attached to this boy and the boy tethered to a horse. One thing falls then it’s the whip but he will be fed and watered “
“Just like with the water I spill a drop I’m beaten. It’s a slaves life solaris, I might survive or I might die but if I die it’s in battle”
“Honourable death” the Warrior said
“If that’s my future so be it.” Taranis said hearing the chieftain and freezing
“I want him dead Grael”
I want him dead, Grael!” the chieftain shouted from the edge of the fire circle. “That boy humiliated my son. The slaves whisper his name like he’s some hero!”
Grael didn’t flinch. He stepped forward slowly, hands clasped behind his back.
“Then teach your son not to lose.” “He can’t walk!” the chieftain barked. “Then perhaps next time, he’ll stand with honour before charging at one who’s already bleeding.”
Taranis stayed kneeling, the tether tightening each time he moved his neck. He didn’t dare speak but Solaris stood beside him, jaw clenched.
“He’s a slave, Grael. You’re a general why defend him?”
Grael stepped into the firelight.
“Because he fought. Because your warriors complain when it rains, but this one trains while bleeding through the mask. He obeys orders. He endures.”
A silence settled over the camp.
“Kill him,” Grael said flatly, “and you lose me. You lose your general, and every warrior loyal to my command.”
The chieftain said nothing for a long time.
Finally, he spat into the dirt.
“Then he’s your problem. But if he steps out of line he dies.” The chief stated seeing taranis being dragged for the final whipping.
Grael nodded once. “Fair.”
He turned to Taranis. “You leave at dawn. You’ll carry a warrior’s gear. You’ll bleed if you drop it. But you’ll eat. And if you survive… you may earn more than chains.”
They didn’t let him sleep and two guards sat with him watching every move he made and woke him up when he fell asleep.
He was bound to the horse before the sun rose. Packs were strapped to his chest, shoulders, and hips weapons, cloaks, food, firewood, even a spare shield. His arms were still tied at the wrists. A long leather tether looped from his collar to the saddle.
When the horse moved, he had to follow he struggled as his hands and ankles was secured and tried to fight out.
“Move like a beast,” one warrior sneered, “or we treat you like one.”
Solaris walked beside him for a while, silent. He didn’t speak until the ridge came into view.
“You won’t die today, Taranis.”
“I might.”
“No,” Solaris said. “I heard the wolves howl last night.”
By midday, the warriors halted for water and cold ashcakes. Taranis was given a small share enough to stand, not enough to rest.
One soldier deliberately dropped his pack just to watch Taranis stumble and get whipped.
“One drop, boy,” the punisher whispered. “One drop and I taste your blood again.”
But still he walked.
That night, they made camp near the edge of the highlands. The wind carried the scent of pine and smoke. The sky churned with clouds.
Taranis sat tethered to a post beside the horses, his mask unhooked for only minutes as he drank from a wooden bowl.
He didn’t speak. He listened.
The warriors talked of raids and dreams. Some whispered about dragons. One swore he’d seen a shadow in the sky.
“It was just a bird.”
“A bird doesn’t shake the trees when it lands.”
“Shut up. The general says we ride at dawn. We’ll see no dragons.”
But Taranis felt it.
There was a change in the air not wind, but something deeper. Older.
That night, chained and exhausted, he dreamed of fire. Of wings. Of eyes that glowed like suns.
And of a voice, not his own, whispering in the dark.
“The storm remembers you.”
The battle faded. Clawclan retreated, dragging their wounded into the trees.
Taranis collapsed onto his knees.
Solaris limped to him, his cheek slashed open. “You saved us,” he whispered.
Grael stepped forward. He looked down at the boy who, only days ago, had been whipped, starved, and muzzled like a beast.
“You’re bound. And still you fight.”
Taranis didn’t speak.
“You could’ve run. You didn’t.”
Still, silence.
“I said you’d be a tool. Maybe you’re more than that.”
He reached down and, without a word, cut the tether with his dagger.
“You still wear the collar. But from now on… you walk beside the horse.”
Taranis looked up just long enough to nod.
And far above them, in the grey sky beyond the trees, something passed overhead. Something large. Something with wings.
No one saw it clearly.
But Taranis looked to the sky and whispered, under his breath:
“I remember you.”
“They talking about him?” A warrior asked
“Yes I remember his birth, the sun and moon crossed the wolves howled and dragons roared. He’s been chosen by our ancestors and gods but the Seer said he was cursed “
Taranis looked to the boy then grael “am I to be the pack horse?’
Grael didn’t answer right away.
He crouched down, blood drying on his jaw, and looked the boy in the eye.
“You were meant to carry our burdens. Now you carry our survival.”
Taranis looked down at his wrists. The rope marks were deep. He flexed his fingers slowly testing the damage, testing the truth of the moment.
“Then I carry it,” he said quietly. “Until I break… or become something else.”
A few warriors exchanged glances.
One spat. Another bowed his head.
“Let him sleep near the fire tonight,” Grael ordered. “No post. No chains. The wolves already guard him.”
Taranis blinked.
“What about the mask?”
“That’s your punishment,” Grael said. “And your shield. When you’ve earned the right to speak freely, I’ll take it off.”
He turned to walk away, but paused.
“You fight like a beast. You serve like a soldier. But the way you looked at the sky… you don’t belong to either.”
“Then what do I belong to?” Taranis asked.
Grael didn’t answer.
That night, they laid him near the fire. Not close enough for comfort but not tied like an animal.
He lay on his side, the stars overhead flickering like coals in the stormclouds.
Solaris sat a few feet away, rubbing his wounded cheek.
“You saw it too, didn’t you?” Taranis whispered.
“The shape in the sky?”
Taranis nodded.
“It wasn’t a bird. It was watching.”
Solaris didn’t reply, but the fire cracked loudly. The wolves had not returned but they were near.
And from the distant hills, a single, low roar echoed through the trees.
Taranis closed his eyes.
“I remember you,” he whispered again.
The following morning taranis worked on preparing food for the warriors his keepers and master even though the mask was on tight he tried to remove it
“Leave it ” grael ordered “let the villages we pass through see you, now we rebind your hands but you walk next to your escorts horse. “
The following morning, Taranis worked on preparing food for the warriors, his keepers, and his master. Though the mask was tight across his face, he kept trying to loosen it with his bound hands.
“Leave it,” Grael ordered. “Let the villagers we pass through see you. Now we rebind your hands but you walk beside your escort’s horse.”
Taranis said nothing. He only lowered his head and allowed them to tie his wrists. He wasn’t sure if it was obedience or something colder, something heavier settling over him like rain.
They passed through two valleys and a narrow ridge before making camp near the edge of a standing stone circle. Some of the warriors murmured uneasily. Even Grael gave the stones a wide berth.
That night, they made no fire.
Taranis was tethered again, not far from the edge of the trees. The air turned colder, sharper. Mist crept along the earth like breath from a wounded god.
No wolves howled. No birds sang.
And yet, he heard something.
It was not sound. It was presence. A warmth in the back of his skull. A shimmer in the spine.
He shifted in the darkness, straining against the binds. The mask scraped his face. He whispered to no one:
“Are you still watching me?”
Then something answered.
Not with words. With flame.
The world tilted. He saw fire not burning but dancing. Wings that cast no shadow. Eyes that looked through memory, through bone, through time itself.
He saw wolves white and black running beside him. He saw the collar fall. He saw the whip break. He saw himself standing atop a high ridge, cloaked in storm.
And the dragon. Always the dragon.
Massive. Black. Eyes like dying stars. Its breath shimmered with lightning. Its wings spread wider than the sky.
“You are not made. You are called.”
The voice was thunder in his chest, in his blood. His limbs burned but not with pain. With recognition.
“You are not theirs. You are ours.”
He fell.
He didn’t remember hitting the earth, but when he woke, the sun had not yet risen. His shirt was soaked with sweat. The tether was still tied but something was different.
The mask was gone.
He sat up, panicked, reaching for it, expecting punishment.
But there, in the grass before him, was a single black scale.
No one else was near. Not Solaris. Not Grael. Just the wind, and the watching stones.
And footprints.
Not human. Not wolf.
Clawed. Burnt into the soil like coals had kissed it.
He stared at them, wide-eyed, breath catching in his throat.
Behind him, a voice broke the silence.
“I heard you cry out.”
It was Grael.
Taranis turned, expecting fury but Grael only studied the ground.
He knelt, picked up the black scale, held it to the sky.
“I’ve seen this once before,” he murmured. “When I was a child, a dragon fell on the coast and scorched the rocks. My father said it was an omen. A war was coming.”
Taranis didn’t speak.
Graell looked at him. Not as a slave. Not as a tool.
As something else.
“Did it speak to you?” he asked.
Taranis hesitated. Then, slowly, nodded.
“It remembered me,” he whispered.
Grael studied him for a long time.
Then, instead of shouting or binding him tighter, he tossed the scale back into the dirt.
“We leave at sunrise,” he said. “But you ride now. No pack, no tether.”
“But?”
“Don’t argue. The wolves walk tonight. I won’t have them mistaking my general for a jailer.”
He left without another word.
Taranis looked once more at the scale.
He didn’t pick it up.
He didn’t need to.
Because far above, in the mist just clearing from the trees, he saw it.
A black shape. Not flying circling.
Watching.
The trail narrowed where the pines grew thicker. Roots tangled like veins across the path, and a wet mist clung low to the earth. It was the kind of mist that swallowed sound, choked movement, and stirred old tales of spirits that walked in silence.
Taranis walked beside the horse, arms still loosely bound, though the reins were slack. No mask, but the bruises where it had been were livid. He moved stiffly, eyes always searching. Behind him, Solaris coughed twice, limping slightly from his wound.
They passed under an arch of old stone weathered, moss-covered. No one knew who had built it. Even Grael avoided looking at it for too long.
“Hold,” came the call. Grael raised a hand. The warriors stopped. The silence was heavy, too heavy.
Birds had vanished. The wind had gone still.
Taranis felt it first. Not fear instinct. A tremor through the earth. He reached for the horse’s mane, steadying it. The animal was restless, nostrils flaring.
Then movement.
From the mists came arrows.
Three struck the front scout before he could cry out. Grael shouted and drew his axe, but shadows surged from the trees on both sides. Raiders or worse. Perhaps Clawclan remnants, or wild clans untamed by any banner.
The battle was chaos. Horses reared, warriors scattered. Solaris was knocked to the ground. Grael fought like a bear, roaring commands.
Taranis didn’t hesitate.
The bindings fell away in the confusion a mercy or a mistake, he didn’t know. He grabbed a dropped spear and ran.
Two raiders cornered Solaris. One raised a club.
Taranis screamed a guttural, wordless sound and drove the spear through the attacker’s side. Blood sprayed his face. The second turned too late. Taranis tackled him, fists flying.
It wasn’t grace. It was rage. Raw survival.
Behind him, Solaris scrambled up, eyes wide.
“Taranis!”
But the boy didn’t stop. Another warrior was down the horse wounded. He yanked the reins and shouted, forcing the beast to rise and kick. Then he turned, grabbed a fallen axe, and joined the circle around Grael.
They fought back-to-back.
The mist swallowed screams.
The enemy fled at last dragging bodies, howling curses.
Taranis stood bloodied, panting, face cut and limbs shaking. Grael stared at him.
“You broke formation,” the general said.
“I saved Solaris.”
“You disobeyed orders.”
Taranis nodded.
“And?”
Grael’s mouth twitched.
“And you live. That’s more than can be said for six of mine.”
He turned to the surviving warriors. “Form ranks. Bury the dead. Leave the cursed.”
Taranis felt the weight of that last word. But no one bound him again.
Solaris came to him later, pressing a bandage to his side.
“You shouldn’t have done that.”
“They would’ve done worse if I hadn’t.”
He stared at the mist, which still hung beyond the stones.
“They were hunting me, I think. Not you.”
Solaris didn’t answer. But he didn’t argue.
That night, the dragon circled again. But this time, Taranis didn’t flinch.
He stood outside the camp’s firelight, head raised to the clouds.
And whispered, “I’m not done yet.”
Vision and the Flame
The sun had barely risen, and the mist still clung to the hills like a shroud when they set out again. Taranis rode beside the horse now, his wrists still bound to the mane, but the pack had been removed. His shoulders ached from days of carrying warrior burdens, but now they felt strangely light too light, as if something unseen pressed down instead.
Behind them, the standing stones faded into the fog, silent witnesses to whatever had happened the night before.
Solaris walked beside him.
“You dreamt again, didn’t you?” he asked.
Taranis gave a slow nod.
Solaris leaned in. “Was it him?”
“I think so. Not a man. Not a god. Not… entirely dragon either.”
Solaris frowned. “Then what?”
Taranis didn’t answer.
Grael rode ahead, silent but alert, his eyes scanning the ridgeline as if expecting danger. The rest of the war party followed in a narrow column. They were headed toward the cliffs of Mornhallow, where Clawclan had last been seen regrouping.
By midday, they halted to rest at a wide outcrop overlooking a valley. Taranis was allowed to drink, but his hands remained bound. Solaris crouched near him with a waterskin.
“You’re changing,” Solaris said quietly. “Even they see it. Some of the warriors bowed their heads this morning when you passed.”
“I’m still a slave.”
“You’re something else too.”
Taranis turned away, but not before Solaris caught the flicker of doubt in his eyes.
The sky darkened again before the meal was finished. Smoke not campfire smoke, but thick, rising plumes was seen in the east. Grael gave the signal. They moved quickly, descending the ridge, navigating goat trails that wound between crag and cliff.
By the time they reached the valley floor, the earth trembled.
At first, they thought it was an earthquake. But no quake smelled of sulfur. No quake hissed like breathing from beneath the earth.
And then came the roar.
Not beast. Not storm.
Something older.
The horses bucked. One warrior fell and screamed as his leg snapped under a panicked hoof.
Taranis barely stayed upright. His tether snapped and he fell, face-first into the mud. The mask bit into his skin.
Solaris was shouting. Grael drew his blade.
Then the sky opened.
A shape black and massive hurtled through the clouds. It didn’t land. It circled once. Twice.
And then it vanished beyond the cliffs.
Silence followed. Every man stared.
“Did we just”
“A dragon,” another whispered. “Not a tale. Not a shadow. A real one.”
Taranis rose slowly. His knees shook. Not from fear but from recognition.
“That’s the one,” he muttered.
Solaris helped him up.
“You knew it would come.”
“I don’t know how I knew. But it saw me again.”
Before anything more could be said, the sound of warhorns echoed from the east.
Clawclan.
They hadn’t been retreating. They’d been setting a trap.
Grael didn’t hesitate.
“We hold the ridge. Shield line at the rocks. Archers up high. Taranis stay behind.”
Taranis stepped forward.
“No.”
Grael turned. “You’re not armed.”
“Then arm me.”
For a moment, the general stared at the boy.
Then he nodded once.
Solaris tossed Taranis a short spear and a wooden shield with a dented rim.
“You know how to use these?”
“I’ll learn fast.”
They made their stand on a narrow path between two jagged boulders. Only five could pass at once. Perfect for defense, if they could hold.
Clawclan came like thunder painted warriors, snarling and shirtless, brandishing stone blades and axes. Their faces were streaked with blood. Their chants shook the cliffs.
Taranis took his place beside Solaris, shield raised, heart pounding.
“Steady,” Grael called. “Let them come.”
And they did.
The first wave slammed into the shield wall. Taranis staggered but held. He drove his spear forward, felt it sink into flesh. A scream. Blood sprayed across his mask.
Another came, swinging wildly. Taranis ducked. The shield cracked from the impact, but he held the line.
Beside him, Solaris shouted and slashed.
More fell.
More came.
Then the sky split again.
A streak of flame carved across the cliffside. Rocks exploded into the air. The Clawclan halted mid-charge. Some turned and ran.
Above them, the dragon hovered.
Its wings didn’t beat they ruled the air.
Its eyes twin suns fixed on Taranis.
And it roared.
This time, Taranis didn’t flinch.
He stepped forward, mask dripping blood, shield broken, spear held in both hands like a torch.
And the dragon landed.
Right before him.
The warriors fell back. Even Grael froze.
But Taranis walked forward.
Closer.
Closer.
Until the dragon lowered its head.
And spoke.
Not aloud. Not with words.
But in fire, and wind, and memory.
“You remember me. And I… remember you.”
Taranis knelt.
Not as a slave.
Not as a beast.
But as something becoming.
The dragon blinked once.
Then, with a gust that knocked warriors off their feet, it took flight.
And vanished again into the clouds.
Solaris approached, wide-eyed.
“Why you?”
Taranis looked up, face pale beneath the blood and ash.
“I don’t know.”
Grael finally stepped forward, voice low.
“I do.”
Taranis stood.
“You are the storm’s child,” Grael said. “Not born to chains, but tested by them.”
And no one, not even the elders, spoke against it.
They reached the war camp by dusk.
The Clawclan had vanished into the trees, routed and broken. The warriors murmured as they set up their shelters some glanced at Taranis with wide eyes, others crossed themselves when he passed. The dragon’s presence still hung over them like a storm that refused to break.
Taranis was no longer tethered.
He walked freely hands still raw, the mask still slung at his belt, but his stride had changed. Even Solaris noticed it.
“You walk like one of us now,” he said.
“I’m not.”
“You’re not one of them either.”
Grael called the warriors to the central fire. It blazed tall and angry, fed with cedar and hawthorn. The general stood before it, arms crossed.
“We lost three. The rest live. And we saw a dragon today,” he began.
No one argued.
He looked to Taranis.
“This boy stood when others fell. He held the line. He walked forward when we stepped back. And the dragon” he paused, “bowed its head to him.”
A few warriors whispered. One spat again, but more now watched with quiet awe.
“Some say he is cursed. Others, chosen.”
A new voice cut the air.
“The prophecy speaks of one who carries fire without flame.”
Everyone turned.
A woman stepped from the darkness.
Tall, hooded, robes stained with travel and blood. Around her neck hung bones carved with ancient sigils.
“The Seer,” Solaris whispered.
Taranis stood still as she approached. She carried no weapon, yet everyone stepped aside.
She looked into his face without blinking.
“You have seen it,” she said.
He nodded.
“The wings. The storm. The breath that burns without smoke.”
Another nod.
“You wear no mark, and yet you are marked. You are not born of dragons, but they know your name.”
Grael stepped forward, cautious. “You spoke of this before?”
“I saw it in the flames when he was born,” she replied. “I warned the elders. They said he was cursed that wolves would follow him, that chains would bind him, that thunder would weep at his death.”
Taranis narrowed his eyes.
“At my death?”
She touched his shoulder. Her hand was cold. “You must die to rise.”
The fire cracked loudly.
Grael frowned. “Speak plainly.”
The Seer turned toward the flame. “He must break. Only then will the storm choose him. And only then will the dragon name him.”
Taranis looked at her sharply.
“The dragon has no name?”
“None that mortals are worthy to speak,” she said. “But it may grant him one. If he survives what’s coming.”
Solaris stepped forward. “What is coming?”
She didn’t answer. Instead, she reached into her cloak and drew out a pendant obsidian carved with a spiral.
She placed it in Taranis’s hand.
“You’ll know when to use it.”
He stared at the stone. It was warm. Pulsing, almost. Like a heartbeat.
The Seer turned to go.
“Wait!” Taranis called.
“What am I?”
She paused at the edge of the firelight.
“You are not yet.”
And then she vanished into the dark.
The camp slowly quieted. No one laughed. No one sang. They drank in silence.
Taranis sat beside the fire, the pendant still in his hand. Solaris joined him.
“You believe her?”
“I don’t know what I believe,” Taranis whispered. “But I remember that dragon. Not just from this week. From before. From… childhood. Dreams.”
Solaris tilted his head. “You think it’s the same one?”
“I know it is.”
The wind shifted. Smoke curled into the stars.
“Then you’re not just a slave, Taranis,” Solaris said. “You’re the start of something.”
Taranis stared into the fire.
“I don’t want to be.”
“Too late.”
He closed his fist around the pendant.
And far in the distance, where the cliffs met the clouds, the dragon watched.
StormborneLore 