StormborneLore

Category: Malvern

  • The Chronicles of the Gold Ring Chapter Four.

    The Chronicles of the Gold Ring Chapter Four.

    The Storm Beneath the Cradle

    A vibrant artwork depicting a colorful tree with heart-shaped leaves under a bright blue sky, adorned with a large sun and intricate designs.
    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.”

    © 2025 EL Hewitt. All rights reserved.This story and all characters within the StormborneLore world are the original creation of EL Hewitt. Do not copy, repost, or adapt without permission.

    Further Reading

    The Library of Caernath

  • The Chronicles of the Gold Ring Chapter Two

    The Chronicles of the Gold Ring Chapter Two

    The Scar and the Storm

    The battle had turned.

    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.

    © 2025 Emma Hewitt. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the author, except in the case of brief quotations used in reviews or scholarly works.

    FUTHER READING

    The Chronicles of the Gold Ring… Chapter One

  • The Wilderness Years Part 6

    The Wilderness Years Part 6

    Embers of Power

    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.”

    “They always talk,” Grael replied coolly. “Let them.”

    “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.

    “You look like you haven’t slept in days.”

    “I haven’t,” Taranis murmured. “Something’s changing.”

    Solaris frowned. “You mean in you?”

    “No. In the world.”

    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.

    Stormborne.

    Not shouted.

    Not demanded.

    Spoken like a secret remembered.

    Like a name the wind had always known.

    © 2025 E.L. Hewitt. All rights reserved.
    This work is part of the StormborneLore series.
    Do not copy, reproduce, or distribute without permission.

    Further Reading

    THE WILDERNESS YEARS Part 1.

    THE WILDERNESS YEARS PART 2

    Taranis The Wilderness Years Part 3.

    The Wilderness Years Part 4

    The Wilderness Years Part 5

    The Iron Voice of Grael.

    One Foot in Two Worlds

    Survival Gruel of the Exile.

  • Forged from Fire: The Journey of Taranis

    Forged from Fire: The Journey of Taranis


    The campfire had burned low, all golden coals and wind-tossed ash, when Solaris approached the general.

    Taranis knelt nearby, shoulders hunched. His wrists were bound, but not tight just enough to remind. The black collar still pressed against his neck like a verdict carved in bone. His mask, polished smooth and pitiless, lay beside him like a shadow waiting to return.

    “Sir?” Solaris spoke softly. “Are we binding him again tonight?”

    Grael didn’t respond at once. He studied the boy or whatever he was becoming with a gaze that weighed survival against prophecy.

    “He walks beside the horse now,” Grael said. “Not behind it. That’s earned.”

    “But still tethered?”

    “Until trust is more than fire and fury.”

    Solaris hesitated, then asked more plainly, “And the food? He eats with us now?”

    “He eats what he earns,” Grael said. “He trains. He serves. He carries burdens. So we feed him as one of the line half rations until proven otherwise. If he bleeds for us again, the portions grow. But he’s no beggar. He earns it.”

    Taranis stirred. His voice cracked when he spoke.

    “Now I’ve got one foot in both worlds… the world of a chosen, and one of an outcast. One step wrong, and I’m whipped or worse. One step right, and they carve my name into stone.”

    Solaris frowned. “But the mask…”

    Grael stepped closer. He picked it up and turned it over in his hand.

    “We remove it when he fights. When he trains. When he speaks with command. But in towns and camps?” He pressed it gently to the boy’s face. “It reminds him and us of what he was forged from.”

    “Forged?” Solaris echoed. “Or broken?”

    Grael didn’t blink. “Both.”

    “And can he see through it?”

    “Barely. But that’s the point. To teach him to listen more. Feel more. Trust the wind and the wolves.”

    The fire cracked.

    Solaris stepped back, watching as the leather straps were tightened once more.

    “And when does it come off for good?”

    “When the storm calls him by name,” Grael said.

    “And if it never does?”

    Grael didn’t answer.

    The wind howled across the ridge sharp and ancient.

    And far above, in the swirling clouds, something winged and watching passed through the sky without sound.

    By E.L. Hewitt StormborneLore

    Thank you for reading.© 2025 Emma Hewitt / StormborneLore. All rights reserved.Unauthorized copying or reproduction of this content is prohibited.

    If you enjoyed this story, like, share, or leave a comment. Your support keeps the storm alive and the chronicles continuing.

    To read more taranis stories please see The Prophecies and Tales of Taranis Unfolded

  • THE WILDERNESS YEARS Part 1.

    THE WILDERNESS YEARS Part 1.

    The enslaved Tanaris

    The clouds hung low, casting a strange dark light over the gathering. The council of elders stood in a tight circle around a young boy.

    “Stormborne, you are now and forever exiled from this village, this clan, and your family,” the elder leader declared, his eyes fixed on the child. Elder Ysra held the ceremonial staff before her, unmoving.

    The little boy turned to his family. “Father, I didnot hurt anyone. Please” he begged, but his words were met with silence.

    All thirteen of his brothers turned their backs. Then his mother did the same. Conan, his father, hesitated but looked away, knowing he could not stand against the council.

    Taranis ran from the camp, tears blinding him as he fled into the woods. His sprint slowed to a walk. He stumbled across berries and gathered nettles to eat. His first meal as an exile—nettles and nuts.

    “Not filling,” he whispered, “but the old ones ate it. Mama used to cook it.” He curled against the base of an ancient tree. Overhead, dragons roared. Wolves howled in the distance.

    Time stilled. The ache of loneliness pressed down on him. He missed his brothers, his mothers humming, and even his fathers barked commands. He walked on, aimless, until he saw a white wolf. He froze.

    The wolf approached, sniffed him, cautious but curious. Then a large black wolf circled nearby.

    “We will not hurt you. Iam Boldolph,’ said the black wolf said not aloud, but directly into his mind.

    ‘You you wont?” the boy whispered as other wolves approached, dropping meat at his feet.

    “No,” said the white wolf, lying down. “We are here to help. Your father sent us. I am Morrigan. Come, lie with me. Warm yourself.”

    Taranis walked to her and buried himself in her thick fur. Boldolph stood guard, ever watchful.

    He had lost his home, his name, and his kin. He had seen a friend die. Three winters passed, and the boy grew thin and pale, cradled in fur and silence. Then one morning, feverish and weak, he was found.

    “Father, hes curled up with the wolves,” a boy said.

    “We will take him. He will serve as a slave,” the man replied, lifting Taranis with ease.

    They carried him to their camp. Women nursed him back to health, but one day he awoke and reached for his neck. A collar.

    “Leave it,” said a teenage boy sitting nearby. ‘They will beat you if you touch it.”

    “Who are you?” Taranis rasped.

    ” I am Solaris of black claw. I am one of your owners sons,” he said, offering him bread. “You are in the Black Claw clans camp. My father found you fevered and curled up with wolves. You are to stay here as a slave.”

    From that day, Taranis worked from sunrise to sunset. He obeyed without question, learning to serve in kitchens and at the forge. He heard whispers of a cursed child, exiled and touched by dark forces.

    On his eighteenth birthday, he hauled stones beneath the harsh gaze of the masters. One man held a branch, ready to strike.

    He was tall now, but thin. His back bore scars from the collar and the lash. All he wanted was to see Boldolph and Morrigan again.

    A slap of something warm and wet stung his spine.

    “Keep it moving!” barked a voice.

    The clan leaders sons played nearby. Solaris laughed with his younger brothers by the grain shed. One of them, a tall boy with a cruel grin, threw a rotten turnip.

    It struck Taranis in the chest. The others laughed.

    “Stop it,” Solaris snapped. “He is not our enemy.”

    “He is a slave,” the older boy sneered. “You and Father found him half-dead. No name, no clan. Just stories of a cursed exile.”

    That was me. Eight years old, alone in the snow. They said I was cursed. Touched by darkness.

    But I was just a child.

    He didnot remember lunging only the feel of dirt flying behind his heels. Rage took over.

    The branch came down before he landed a punch.

    Crack.

    Pain burst across his shoulders. A second strike. A third, slower, deliberate.

    Taranis didnot cry out.

    The man loomed. “You want to fight the leaders sons? Try again, and we will gut the wolves that raised you. Make you skin them yourself.”

    That stopped him.

    His vision blurred. He tasted blood his or someone else’s he wasn’t sure but then a shadow blocked the light.

    Solaris.

    He stepped forward, fists clenched but low.

    “You will kill him like this,” Solaris said.

    “Hes still breathing,” the overseer growled. “Let the beast learn his place.”

    “Hes not a beast.” Solaris growled

    Silence.

    “I have seen beasts. This ones still human.”

    That day, there were no more beatings. But no food either.

    Night fell cold. Taranis curled beside the embers, shivering.

    Footsteps. He didnot lift his head. If they came to hurt him, so be it.

    Something thudded beside him. Bread, wrapped in cloth.

    “Its Still warm,” Solaris muttered. “I stole it before dinner. Donot die. Not yet.”

    “it’s good I don’t intend to” Taranis took the bread in both hands. The warmth bled into his finger as he stared at the fire. There was a time hed healed a bird, mended his brothers broken arm. Even healed his brother but now He touched his collar.

    “I will escape. I will kill them all,’ he whispered.

    His family was a fading memory. The names Rayne, Drax, Draven, Lore blurred in his mind.

    Then he heard a howl. “Thats Silver,” he whispered.” Thats Boldolph. And Morrigan. They stayed near.”

    Men came. They dragged him to a tree marked by rope and tied his hands above his head. Children threw scraps at his face. Laughter. Rotten food.

    A man approached. Large, green-eyed, wrapped in furs.

    “Slave, you will stay here overnight. No food for two days for daring to touch my son,” he said. “Twenty lashes if you try anything.”

    Taranis bowed his head. He knew not to speak. Not to fight.

    As they walked away, he remained in silence, bound and bruised.

    “Two days,” the man said to a woman. “No food. No water. Do not tend his wounds.”

    The coals glowed nearby.

    “Make him walk it,” said a boy named Root. They prodded Taranis toward hot stones.

    He resisted.

    “Please don’t make me’ he pleaded his hands rebound and a tether held by another boy.

    “Walk,” another growled.

    A younger boy smirked as he stepped across the coals unfazed.

    “Hes not normal,” whispered Calor. “Is that the one the enemy fears?”

    ‘He speaks with wolves. And dragons,” the Seer answered.

    “Bring our best fighter,” the leader ordered. “Let them fight.”

    They dragged Taranis, barely conscious, to the firelit circle. The crowd formed in a crooked ring.

    Barefoot, bruised, he stood in the dirt. His collar scraped with every breath.

    Rukar, the clans champion, stepped forward. Twice his size. A necklace of teeth. Leather-wrapped fists.

    “Fight,” the elder barked.

    No weapons. No mercy.

    The first punch knocked him flat. The second split his lip.

    Thunder cracked. Lightning danced.

    “Come on, exile,” someone jeered. “Show us your curse.”

    But Taranis rolled. Rukars foot slammed into a stone instead of ribs.

    Taranis launched upward, shoulder-first into Rukars knee. The brute staggered.

    Dirt in the eyes. A headbutt. Teeth bared like a wolf.

    Rukar swung. Another blow grazed Taranis temple. Blood poured.

    This was not about victory.

    It was about survival.

    He twisted low, locking Rukars arm. A snap echoed. The champion fell, howling.

    Silence.

    Taranis knelt over him, ready to strike.

    He didn’t move. He just stood

    Bloodied. Shaking. Alive.

    The Seers voice broke the silence. “The wolves taught him well.”

    Taranis bowed to the master, kneeling as he had once knelt to his father.

    “Take him to the tree,” the leader said. “Hes now a warrior-slave. He will earn his freedom in battle. But punishment for attacking my son still stands.”

    They resecured him to the tree, pain burning through every limb.

    Later that night, Solaris approached with broth. His father watched.

    “You are a warrior-slave now,” Solaris said. “They will send you to war.”

    Taranis did not answer.

    He just drank the broth and stared into the fire.

    Copyright EL Hewitt

  • The Halls of Emberhelm

    The Halls of Emberhelm

    Court Beneath the Storm


    A tale from the Chronicles of Taranis Stormborne

    The stone halls of Emberhelm still held the breath of thunder. The storm had passed, but the scent of damp earth and smoke clung to every crack and carving.

    Outside, the banners of the three Houses shifted gently in the wind. Flame, Shadow, and Storm. Inside, the High Warlord of Caernath sat upon the seat of judgment, the storm-carved throne of his ancestors.

    Taranis wore no crown. His only adornment was the silver cuff upon his wrist, the one shaped like twisted flame. Around him stood those who had fought beside him, bled for him, defied death with him.

    Lore stood silent to the left, hands folded into his long dark sleeves. Boldolph crouched at the side of the hall like a black statue, eyes ever scanning. Draven leaned near the great hearth, murmuring with a war-priest. Rayne stood furthest back, half-shadowed, watching everything.

    The court was full.

    Farmers. Warriors. Mothers. Messengers. Petitioners. Accusers.

    This was the burden of the Stormborne to listen.

    The first voice was a child’s.

    “My brother did not steal,” she said, eyes red from the wind. She clutched a doll made of grass and thread. “He only took what the wolves left. We were hungry.”

    Her mother knelt beside her, face pale, silent with shame.

    Taranis rose. “Where is the boy now?”

    A man stepped forward. Greying, armed, not unkind. “In the cells, my lord. The bread he took belonged to House Umbra’s stores.”

    Lore turned his head slowly. “Bread unused for days. Moulding in a bin.”

    “Aye,” said the man. “But rules are rules.”

    Taranis stepped down from the dais. He did not look at the guards. He knelt to the girl.

    “What is your name?”

    “Aella,” she whispered.

    “Aella,” he said, “your brother is no thief. He is a survivor. And from this day, your family eats under the protection of Emberhelm.”

    He turned to the court. “Let the stores be opened to those in hunger. Starvation is not a crime. And those who would hoard while others suffer will answer to me.”

    The next petition was colder.

    Two men from the borderlands bowed stiffly. One bore a jagged scar along his scalp.

    “My lord, Black Claw banners were seen near the Witherwood. We ask permission to hunt them down.”

    A murmur rose. Boldolph straightened.

    Taranis narrowed his eyes. “How many?”

    “A dozen. More. Hiding in the ruins.”

    Rayne shifted, his hand brushing the old collar scar on his neck.

    “No,” said Taranis.

    Gasps.

    “We do not chase ghosts and bleed men for vengeance. Not now. Not today. Fortify the border. Send scouts. But no hunt.”

    The men looked uneasy.

    Draven raised his voice. “What if they attack?”

    “Then we crush them,” said Taranis, steel in his voice. “But we do not start the fire.”

    Boldolph gave a faint growl of approval.

    Later, as the court thinned, an old woman with clouded eyes was led forward.

    “I was once a healer,” she said. “Cast out in the time before. I seek no pardon, only a place.”

    Morrigan stepped ahead from the shadows.

    “I know her,” she said. “She taught me names of plants I still use.”

    Taranis looked to the court. “Is there any who speak against her?”

    Silence.

    “Then let her be welcomed to Hearthrest,” he said. “Let her wisdom serve again.”

    The old woman wept.

    As the hall emptied, Lore remained behind.

    “You did well,” he said.

    “I did what had to be done.”

    “Which is often the hardest thing.”

    Taranis sat again upon the throne. He looked to the high carved beams, where the banners of the Stormborne rustled gently.

    “The war will come again,” he said.

    “It always does.”

    “Then let this peace be something worth protecting.”

    Lore nodded. “So we fight, not for power. But for dignity.”

    Taranis gave a half smile.

    “For bread. For brothers. For those who can’t fight. That’s what this court is for.”

    And above them all, in the rafters where the light touched the carvings of wolves and dragons, the storm winds whispered through the stone:

    © StormborneLore. Written by Emma for StormborneLore. Not for reproduction. All rights reserved.

    💬 If this spoke to you, please like, share, and subscribe to support our mythic journey.

  • After the Duel

    After the Duel

    A Fireside Conversation

    The courtyard had long emptied. The ash of the fire pits still glowed faintly, casting soft light on stone walls and weary limbs.

    Taranis sat alone, legs stretched, a jug of broth in one hand,. the other flexing and sore from the clash with Boldolph.

    The crack of staffs still echoed in his bones.

    Footsteps approached not boots, but clawed paws. Heavy, padded, unmistakable.

    Boldolph.

    Without a word, the old wolf-man knelt beside him, a strip of clean linen in hand. He took Taranis’s wrist and began to bind the bruises, slow and methodical, like a ritual done a hundred times.

    “You didn’t hold back,” Taranis said after a moment.

    “You didn’t ask me to.”

    The silence between them was old, familiar. Like the stillness before a storm. Or the hush before a boy became a warlord.

    “I needed them to see I bleed too,” Taranis muttered, wincing as the linen tightened. “That I fall. That I get back up.”

    Boldolph grunted.

    “They already know you bleed,” he said. “They just needed to see you still feel it.”

    Taranis looked toward the sky. Smoke trailed like threads into the blackness. One dragon circled high above, a quiet sentinel.

    “I keep thinking,” he said, “about when I was exiled. Alone in the wilds. All I had was that storm inside me and the promise that no one was coming.”

    He looked down at the staff beside him.

    “And now… now there’s you. Solaris. Lore. Drax. Rayne. Even Draven. I have everything I never thought I would. And I don’t know how to hold it without crushing it.”

    Boldolph didn’t speak at first. Just poured a second jug of broth and handed it to him.

    Then he said, low and hoarse:
    “Every beast that’s ever bared teeth knows fear. Not of pain. Of losing what it’s fought to protect.”

    He paused, eyes distant.

    “I was exiled once too. Long before you were born. I clawed through snow and silence, not knowing if I was cursed or chosen. I still don’t.”

    Taranis turned to him.

    “You stayed. Even cursed. Even as a wolf.”

    Boldolph nodded.

    “Because someone had to. And because I believed that one day, the one I guarded would understand the weight of the fire he carried.”

    The flames crackled beside them. Taranis took a slow sip of broth.

    “I understand it now.”

    Boldolph gave a grunt soft, almost approving. Then he stood, stretched, and turned toward the shadows.

    “You’re not alone anymore, High Warlord,” he said. “Stop trying to fight like you are.”

    Then he was gone, back into the night, tail flicking behind him like a whisper of old magic.

    Taranis sat a while longer.

    Then he smiled.

    Not like a warlord. Not like a weapon.

    Like a man who had bled, fallen, and been lifted again by the hand of a wolf.

    Thank you for reading.© 2025 Emma Hewitt / StormborneLore. All rights reserved.Unauthorized copying or reproduction of this content is prohibited.

    If you enjoyed this story, like, share, or leave a comment. Your support keeps the storm alive and the chronicles continuing.

  • The Road to Umbra Written from Lore’s perspective

    The Road to Umbra Written from Lore’s perspective

    An abstract illustration featuring a colorful design with intertwined patterns, prominently displaying the words 'LORE STORMBORNE' and 'ELH' at the center.
    A vibrant artwork reflecting the themes of struggle and resilience in the narrative of StormborneLore.

    House of Shadow

    I do not speak of heroes.
    I speak of those who walked in silence.
    Of boots torn at the sole,
    and breath taken with care
    lest the wind betray them.

    I walked the road to Umbra alone,
    but never unmarked.
    Each tree knew my name,
    each stone held a memory,
    and the crows whispered
    what the living dared not say.

    My brothers called it exile.
    The warlords called it treason.
    The wolves knew better.
    They call it the long return.

    I did not carry banners.
    I carried wounds.

    I did not seek the throne.
    I sought peace and found shadows
    that bled like I did.

    And when the night fell thick with frost,
    and even the stars looked away,
    I did not pray for light.

    A heartfelt thank you for engaging with the narrative of StormborneLore, inviting readers to support the storytelling journey.

  • Training Day at Ignis

    Training Day at Ignis

    A tale from the halls of Emberhelm

    The morning mist clung to the valley like a second skin. Emberhelm’s courtyard steamed with breath and sweat, the scent of stone, ash, and boiled roots heavy in the air. Around the inner circle, newly chosen warriors waited nervous, eager, some barely out of boyhood. Others bore scars older than Taranis himself.

    At the centre stood the High Warlord of Caernath. His cloak cast aside, sleeves rolled, storm-grey eyes fixed on the line before him.

    “No blades today,” he said. “Not until your hands know what weight feels like.”

    He tossed a staff to the first in line. Then another. And another. Each warrior caught their weapon or fumbled it those who dropped theirs were told, simply, “Again.” And made to run.

    On the other side of the training ground, beneath the shadow of the stone wolf banner, Boldolph paced in silence.

    His pack half-men, half-beasts, with eyes like old moons watched him without blinking. He spoke low, but his voice carried like thunder over ice.

    “You are not pets. Not soldiers. You are guardians.”
    A pause.
    “You see a child in harm’s way, you do not wait for orders. You act. That is the law of the wolf.”

    One of the younger wolves whimpered. Boldolph turned sharply.
    “Fear is not failure. Freezing is. Move even if it hurts.”

    Across the field, Taranis raised his voice again.

    “This is Ignis. This is fire. You’re not here to impress me. You’re here to withstand the storm, and stand through it.”

    He glanced at Boldolph.

    “Or do you want to spar with his lot instead?”

    A low growl rippled from the wolf-warriors.

    The chosen laughed nervously until Boldolph nodded. One of his warriors, a massive figure with a half-healed burn across his chest. stepped ahead, gripping a staff as thick as a child’s leg.

    Taranis smiled. “Right then. Let’s see who learned to dance.”

    The wolf-warrior advanced, silent but for the low crunch of earth beneath padded feet. His height matched any war-chief. His eyes amber, slit like a blade of dusk fixed on the line of young recruits now stepping back.

    Taranis caught Boldolph’s eye.

    The old wolf-man crossed his arms, his growl half amusement, half challenge.

    “Too much for them?” Taranis asked.

    “They need to know pain has teeth. And that not all enemies snarl first.”

    The recruits shifted nervously. One tried to step ahead, but Taranis raised a hand.

    “No,” he said. “Not yet.”

    Then, slowly, he removed the silver cuff from his wrist. The one shaped like twisted flame and dropped it into the dust.

    The courtyard hushed.

    Boldolph straightened, his expression unreadable.

    “You mean to fight me?” he said, stepping ahead, voice low.

    Taranis rolled his shoulder and took a training staff from the rack.
    “Not to wound,” he replied. “To remind.”

    Boldolph took his own heavier, gnarled like a branch torn from an ancient tree.

    They circled.

    The recruits, wolf-men, and even dragons above watched in stillness.

    Then Boldolph struck fast, low, aiming to knock out Taranis’s legs. But the warlord leapt, twisting mid-air, landing in a crouch with a grin. He swept his staff up, tapping Boldolph’s ribs before stepping back.

    “Sloppy,” he said. “You’re slower in your old age.”

    Boldolph snarled, but it wasn’t anger. It was the old dance.
    The rhythm of claw and command.

    He lunged again this time a full force blow. Their staffs cracked like thunder as they met. Sparks flew from the impact. Recruits flinched. One dragon above rumbled softly, folding its wings to watch closer.

    They moved like storm and shadow:

    Taranis fluid, forged in battlefields and flame.

    Boldolph grounded, brutal, unshakable like the old hills.

    Neither aimed to kill.
    But neither held back.

    A final clash and both stopped, locked staff to staff, breathing heavy, eyes locked.

    “You’ve grown,” Boldolph said, finally. “Not just in size.”

    “And you’ve not changed,” Taranis replied, sweat on his brow. “Still the rock I lean on.”

    He broke the hold, stepped back, and offered a hand.

    Boldolph took it without hesitation. The courtyard erupted in cheers both from humans and wolves alike.

    Taranis turned to the watching recruits.
    “This,” he said, gesturing between them, “is how you lead. Not with fear. But with fire, with honour, and with those who would bite your enemies long before they betray your trust.”

    Boldolph gave a rare smile.

    “And don’t forget,” he growled to the recruits, “the wolves are watching.”

    Further Reading

    The Prophecies and Tales of Taranis Unfolded

  • Did Bronze Age People Know About Ley Lines?

    Did Bronze Age People Know About Ley Lines?


    Spoiler: Not by name but they felt the land’s power.

    They didn’t call them ley lines.
    They didn’t mark them with ink.
    But the builders of cairns and stone paths walked in tune with something deep a rhythm etched in earth and sky.

    Across prehistoric Britain, ancient people aligned their lives and deaths with natural forces that modern names can only echo.

    🧭 What Are Ley Lines?
    Today, ley lines are understood as invisible paths said to connect places of ancient or spiritual importance a kind of unseen network crossing the landscape.

    The idea gained attention in the 1920s when Alfred Watkins, a British thinker and historian, observed that many old sites from standing stones and burial mounds to chapels and crossroads seemed to fall into long, straight lines on the map.

    Though his view was practical at first, later generations embraced the mystical side. The idea of earth energy flowing beneath our feet became a key part of modern folklore, spiritual healing, and even fiction.

    🔥 Did Bronze Age People Believe in Them?
    They had no word for “ley lines.”
    But they knew how to read the land.

    Stone Circles & Sunlines
    Sites like Stonehenge were built with exact alignments to solstices, star paths, and natural landmarks. These weren’t accidents they were maps carved in stone.

    Sacred Roads
    Ceremonial trackways like the raised Avenue near Stonehenge weren’t for trade. They were used in rituals, processions, or seasonal gatherings.

    High Cairns & Burial Sites
    Ancient barrows were often placed on ridges visible for miles, suggesting a belief in sightlines and spiritual pathways.

    Mystic Memory
    Many later myths from Celtic and Welsh traditions speak of dragon roads, fairy paths, and spirit lines echoes of older beliefs in a world shaped by invisible forces.

    🌌 In StormborneLore…

    House Ignis draws from the fire-veins beneath the Malvern Hills

    House Umbra guards the shadows where old stones hum

    House Tempestas rides the storm-lines through the Marches

    House Terra roots into the deep stones of the north

    House Lumen awakens where sun and soul meet

    And in the centre Emberhelm, where all lines converge, and prophecy stirs the stones.

    🐉 So… Did They Know?
    Not in words.
    But in ritual, in rhythm, and in the way their bones followed the wind, the ancient people of Britain lived by the lines long before we gave them a name.

    And perhaps, deep under our modern roads and ruins…
    the lines are still there, waiting.

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    A colorful illustration encouraging readers to engage with StormborneLore’s content, featuring a sunny sky and grassy background.