StormborneLore

Category: Original Story

  • The Storm Dragon and Flame Father: Tales of Taranis

    The Storm Dragon and Flame Father: Tales of Taranis


    Tairneanach and Pendragon Spirits of Storm, Fire, and Fate

    A colorful illustration featuring a mythical dragon in a vibrant landscape adorned with swirling leaves and celestial elements, representing Tairneanach and Pendragon, alongside intricate Celtic knots in the corners.
    A vibrant illustration of Tairneanach, the Storm Dragon, embodying the elements of fury and prophecy amidst a colorful backdrop.

    The Storm That Watches


    They say a great wyrm once roamed Biddulph Moor. A beast of smoke and sky, hunted by men with spears of bronze and fear in their bellies. But no man killed it.

    The creature rose into the thunderclouds and vanished, taking the storm with it.

    The next day, nothing grew on the moor but blackened heather.

    That wyrm became Tairneanach, the Storm Dragon not a creature of fire, but of prophecy. His breath is wind. His scales shimmer like wet slate. He is the first when a child is born under an omen sky. The last to vanish when a soul is cast out unjustly.

    “He is not tamed. Not ridden. He chooses.”
    Whispered in the dreams of outcasts and seers.

    He spoke once to Taranis, though none saw him but the moon. And ever since, storms gather when the boy is near.

    Pendragon the King of the First Flame.


    Before the first stone stood upright, before wolves wore names, there was Pendragon the Flame Father.
    He does not fly in the sky, but in the bloodline of heroes.

    His heart is fire, but his wisdom is older than heat. Some say he shaped the bones of the land. Others say he waits beneath the earth, dreaming.

    He is the King of Dragons, but he does not rule — he remembers.

    Pendragon comes not in rage, but in reckoning. When a soul is weighed against fate itself, he is the one who tips the scale. He appeared in the old hills beyond Cannock. Curled in flame and sorrow when the first chieftain died protecting a starving tribe. That fire still burns in the soil.

    The Blood Oath of the Stormborne
    It is said the Stormborne line carries both marks:

    The Eye of Tairneanach

    vision, fury, and unnatural storms

    The Flame of Pendragon

    mercy, fire, and legacy

    Taranis bears both.
    He is not just watched by dragons he is of them.


    Tairneanach: Name derived from Irish/Scottish Gaelic tairneanach meaning “thunder.”

    Pendragon: Traditional Welsh/British title, here re-imagined as the Flame Father, not a king by rule but by spirit.

    This lore blends:

    The Biddulph Dragon (real Staffordshire tale)

    Knucker folklore & storm-serpent myths

    Cannock Chase legends & draconic omens

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

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  • Taranis Stormborne: A Poem of Exile and Resilience

    Taranis Stormborne: A Poem of Exile and Resilience

    A Poem of Exile and Identity.

    A Poem by Taranis Stormborne

    I was the name they would not say,
    The thirteenth son they gave away.
    Born too late, with skies in veins,
    A storm that whispered through their shame.

    They blessed the first, they praised the strong,
    Each brother’s place in tribal song.
    But I a hush, a trembling glance,
    A question wrapped in circumstance.

    I healed the bird. They saw a curse.
    They watched me rise, then feared me worse.


    A child of feather, flame, and thread
    A boy who woke what should be dead.

    I bore no crown, but bore the cost.
    Of every death, of every loss.
    Too small for war, too young for blame,
    Yet still I walked through fire and name.

    Exiled not for deed, but fear.
    No grave was mine, no cradle near.
    Yet wolves have eyes where men have blind,
    And storms remember those they find.

    So let the bards forget my face.
    Let time erase the tribal place.
    For fire burns but does not beg
    And storms are born on broken legs.

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    Cover of ‘The Chronicles of Taranis’ featuring intricate patterns and vibrant colors.

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

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  • The Birth of the Ashborn

    The Birth of the Ashborn

    A poem from the whispers of the forest after Taranis saves the she-wolf and her pups.

    They say the storm once walked alone,
    Through fire’s breath and forests blown.
    A child of exile, ash, and flame,
    Who bore no crown, yet earned his name.

    He found her there the mother torn,
    Her belly bruised, her breath still warm.
    The hunters laughed. The kindling caught.
    But mercy moved where rage was taught.

    The wolves rose first with fang and howl.
    Then he, with eyes that shook the boughs.
    Through smoke he tore the yew’s black roots,
    And bore her forth with bloodied boots.

    The fire danced. The forest burned.
    But in the blaze, a legend turned.
    Three pups were born from soot and sky,
    And none who watched tell you why.

    One bore lightning on its spine,
    One with eyes of gold, divine.
    And one was pale as ghostly thread
    The fire not fled, but burned instead.

    Now whisperers call him Storm fire still,
    The boy who chose not rage but will.
    Who fed the flame and spared the beast,
    And from that night, the howls increased.

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

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  • The Cursed Child: A Tale of Light and Storms

    The Cursed Child: A Tale of Light and Storms

    Born not in shadow,

    but storm-split light.
    With wolves at his side.

    and fire for breath,
    He walks between day and the deepening night,
    A child of healing, a whisper of death.

    They called him cursed, they called him flame,
    Yet none could deny the spark in his palm.
    He bore no weapon, he sought no fame
    But the winds bent low to kiss his calm.

    When Drax lay broken, minds turned black,
    Taranis reached, and thunder wept.
    The fever fled, the soul came back
    And the child collapsed, as the forest slept.

    Now they watch him with fearful eyes,
    This babe who speaks in ancient tongue.


    Yet storms do not ask if the fire should rise…
    They rise because the world’s begun.

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    The Prophecies and Tales of Taranis Unfolded

  • The Bitter Berry

    The Bitter Berry

    Isolation

    The punishment was isolation not exile, not quite. Taranis, though still only a babe by the tribe’s reckoning, was watched but not spoken to. No brothers played with him. No mother’s lullaby wrapped him in comfort. He was to be observed, not nurtured. Fed, but not spoken to. Cared for, but not loved.

    It was said the elders feared what he would become. A child with glowing hands who healed a broken mind just as easily break others, they whispered.

    And so, silence fell over him like a second skin.

    But the boy the boy did not stop being hungry.

    On the third day of his confinement, Taranis wandered just beyond the shadow of the chief’s hut.
    He was old enough to walk, too young to know danger. And he was hungry.

    He saw berries.

    They gleamed with dew, small and red like droplets of blood upon the brambles. They looked like the ones Nyx used to give him in summer. He plucked them, popped one in his mouth, and smiled.

    Within minutes, the world tilted.

    Taranis clutched his belly, his body shaking. His legs gave way as a cry tore from his throat not of pain alone, but of betrayal.


    The world blurred. The air thickened. He vomited violently and collapsed into the underbrush.

    From the edge of the village, Nyx saw the fall.

    “FATHER!” she screamed, racing ahead before any guards stop her. “Taranis! Taranis!”

    Conan came running, as did Lore and Boldolph, the great black wolf. Lore scooped the child into his arms, his skin already burning with fever again, his lips pale and trembling.

    “What’s he done?” Lore cried.

    “Berries,” said Morrigan softly from the tree line. “The bitter kind. Poisonous to children.”

    Nyx was sobbing now, her hands over her mouth. “He didn’t know. He was hungry. He was hungry and no one fed him.”

    Father turned to the elders, fury flashing in his eyes.

    The elders said nothing.

    That night, the laws were rewritten.

    Taranis would not be left alone again. He would still be watched, still be studied but never again forgotten.

    Because even a stormborn child needs more than destiny to survive.

    He needs kindness.
    He needs love.
    And above all…

    He needs to eat.

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

  • Legends of Taranis: The Fire Within

    Legends of Taranis: The Fire Within

    Whisper not his name too loud,
    Lest storms descend and fire shroud.
    The child who walks ‘twixt wolf and flame,
    Was never born to live the same.

    His cradle rocked in winds that roared,
    His breath was thunder, wild, untoward.
    At one moon old, he called the stars
    At two, he broke his brother’s bars.

    The elders spoke with furrowed brows,
    “This one will break our sacred vows.”
    But in his hands, a light did grow,
    Too pure to burn, too fierce to slow.

    He healed the sick with dragon’s grace,
    And sorrow fled his glowing face.
    Yet fear, like roots, took hold and spread
    “He brings both blessing… and the dead.”

    Some say his eyes hold forest lore,
    The wolves’ old grief, the fae-folk’s war.
    Some say his blood recalls the flame
    Of gods who walked with no true name.

    What tribe can hold a storm so wide?
    What fire endures when fear must hide?
    So mark these words on bark and bone,
    The Stormborne never walks alone.

    For when the wind begins to wail,
    And branches sing a deathless tale,
    Look not for mercy, shield, or guide.
    The fire within the child will rise.

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    The Prophecies and Tales of Taranis Unfolded

  • A Child’s Destiny Unfolds

    A Child’s Destiny Unfolds

    My uncles and father stood within the sacred ring of fire. The smoke curling into the twilight sky as the elders sat in silence. Each wore the furs of their lineage, feathers braided with bone and bark, their eyes sharpened by decades of judgement. The fire crackled with unease not just heat, but the energy of something unseen, something stirring.

    Father stood tall, one hand resting on the haft of his ceremonial spear. He was prepared not just as a warrior, or chief, but as a father. A father standing between his blood and the storm.

    “Your son broke the sacred law,” spat Elder Bran, his voice like dry bark in winter. “He entered the hut of an ostracised man without escort. That law is older than your title, Chief Conan.”

    “He must be punished,” added Elder Tarn, slamming his staff into the scorched earth. “Compassion does not absolve disobedience. Rules are not bent for favoured blood.”

    A silence fell taut as a bowstring before Drax stepped ahead. Gaunt, but no longer wild, his words rang with clarity.

    “He saved my life.”

    Gasps and murmurs broke across the council. Even those who had long abandoned hope for Drax looked at him now with flickers of wonder, or wariness.

    “I would be dead if not for him,” Drax continued. “I felt it something leave me. A darkness burned away. I am… clear.”

    Lore moved to stand beside our father. “He is barely one year old,” he said. “Yet he speaks in tongues, walks like a hunter, and heals the broken with words no one taught him.”

    “This is what troubles us!” snapped Elder Ysra, rising in her many-layered cloak of ash and iron charms. “Power like this does not come without price. The last child marked by the storm brought famine, flood, and war.”

    “We do not know what mark he carries,” my father replied, eyes level. “But I will not see my son punished for compassion.”

    Ysra stepped ahead, face drawn like flint. “It was not just compassion. It was prophecy in motion. And prophecy unguarded is wildfire in a dry forest.”

    Behind them, Morrigan and Boldolph stood watch just beyond the fire’s reach. The black wolf growled low, a rumble of warning. while Morrigan’s gaze stayed fixed on the chief’s hut where Taranis slept, gripped by fever.

    The fire hissed and popped. Somewhere nearby, a nightbird called.

    Elder Bran raised his staff. “The child shall remain under close watch, isolated from others but housed within the chief’s care. He will be marked not as cursed, but as unknown. No more unsanctioned visits. If he breaches this again”

    “We will not exile a babe,” my father growled.

    “No,” said Ysra coldly. “But we may exile what grows inside him.”

    The flames danced higher, wind tugging at the circle as if the fire spirits themselves had stirred.

    Lore bowed his head slowly. “Then we shall walk the knife’s edge between reverence and fear. But mark my words if you turn on him too soon, you lose more than trust. You lose the only light left.”

    As the council slowly dispersed, dusk settled like a shroud. The camp held its breath. Only the crackle of fire and the quiet steps of retreating warriors broke the silence.

    Later, beneath the stars, young Nyx turned to our father. “So what happens now, Father?”

    “Isolation. No one speaks to him unless permitted. He’ll be watched not as punishment, but out of fear. They don’t understand what he is. And people fear what they do not understand.”

    “If we don’t talk to him… won’t that break him?”

    Conan’s voice was low. “That is what I fear most.”

    Just then, the elders returned with the boy. His fever had broken. Taranis walked unaided into the firelight, eyes drowsy but glowing faintly.

    “What is going on?” Conan asked, rising quickly.

    “He entered the eternal sleep,” Elder Ysra whispered. “But then… he came back.”

    Even the fire seemed to pause.

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    Futher Reading

    The Prophecies and Tales of Taranis Unfolded

  • The Healing Flame

    The Healing Flame

    Taranis stood before Drax, his bare feet silent on the cold earth. A soft golden light shimmered around his small hand as he reached up and gently placed it on Drax’s forehead. His voice was quiet, yet steady words none had taught him falling like raindrops from his lips.

    “The dragon and the wolves told me,” he said, eyes glowing faintly with an ancient knowing.

    Lore stepped forward, startled. “The dragons? You mean a tribe, little one?”

    But Taranis did not answer. Instead, Drax stirred, groaning as colour returned to his face. His eyes fluttered open lucid for the first time in moons and the golden glow around Taranis vanished. The boy collapsed into Lore’s arms, suddenly limp but breathing.

    Lore caught him, heart pounding. He looked back at Drax, who now sat up slowly, blinking into the firelight.

    “What were they doing to you, Drax?” Lore asked, still holding his youngest brother close.

    Drax’s voice was hoarse, but calm. “Cleansing the darkness. They say I must walk the coals soon burn the madness away.”

    Lore frowned, tightening his grip on the child. “Well… this little stormborn saved your life. Whatever you believe, that’s truth.”

    Just then, Conan their father, the chief appeared in the doorway, drawn by the strange stillness and the fading light.

    Taranis stirred, his head against Lore’s chest. “My fault, Father,” he murmured in a drowsy voice. “He was hurting… so I fixed it.”

    Father stepped ahead slowly, kneeling before them. His eyes flicking from the barely conscious Drax to the sleeping child in Lore’s arms. His voice was heavy.

    “He’s only one year old… and he’s healing the broken?”

    Lore nodded. “He called it the gift of wolves and dragons.”

    Conan exhaled, rubbing his weathered jaw. “Then we’d best prepare. Whatever storms are coming, they’ll start with him.”

    “You calling the council father?” Drax asked “I will be punished he’s just a child “

    “You have many matters to deal with Drax. little Taranis actions his disobedience to rules not to come here and what ever he did to you will be dealt with in due course a water cleansing, more gathering to keep him from wandering “

    “How do you feel brother?’ Lore asked

    “Clear minded, like what ever was heavy in me is gone. I feel love for the little one shame for wanting him dead. I’m not expecting you to trust me”

    “Trust is earned, ” father said and looked to two men ran. “let him out but no contact with the others no binds this time. I see his food is low let him gather but watch.”

    The men nodded no one other
    a selected group of tribal elders. Had been permitted to talk to my brother for months. Now the discipline was slowly lifting. The men moved their heads indicating for him to move out still not a word broke.

    “Now ostracism starts he outside being watched and we can see him but he can’t interact with us?” Nyx asked

    “Yes if he talks to us or the tribe he will receive harsher punishment. One of which was decided to remove his tongue As I’m not killing my own kin. He either follows the council and gets well or he will remain how he is until he dies” father said with a heavy heart “this is the first time I’ve seen him in months and your mothers not seeing him like that a once big strong man now skin and bones this isn’t just punishment for him but for us “

    I never thought of it like that the cheif and his wife punished for their sons actions. A powerful man within our tribe powerless to protect his son against the elder councils decisions. After a while we carried the little one out and to home. The largest hut of them placing him on his bed.

    That night a meeting was called the elders had demanded with my father. But little Tanaris was still sleeping crying in his sleep and burning up.

    I walked to the edge of our camp “BOLDOLPH WHERE ARE YOU” Lore shouted seeing a giant of a wolf beautiful black like the nights sky with a gold five pointed star and red fiery moon on his chest and red fiery eyes

    Boldolph strode over putting his head in mine nudging it

    “You’re upset young one” Boldolph said his mind connection with mine

    “I am my friend, your the tribes sacred ally. Your wiser than you know but did you tell my brother Taranis how to heal?” Lore asked the wolf

    “I did ” a small grey wolf lowered his front half as if bowing to Boldolph. “I’m sorry sire, I heard the bright one crying and sought to help him. He missed Drax “

    “He hardly knows Drax, father forbade any meeting between them unless Drax was bound and flanked by men. You had no right to interfere silver ” Lore replied


    “He ran straight in to the condemned mans hut. Pure disobedience when I called him to stop. Drax could have killed him but my brother used the chant Drax said its like a heavy weight was lifted. Now Taranis is sick with fever .

    “Your father?” Boldolph asked glancing angry ar the white wolf

    “The tribal elders have called council I’m worried this weakens fathers position. If they lose trust in father, if they consider my baby brother ” Lores voice dropped as he looked to the earth

    Boldolph launched at silver growling and teeth bared ready to rip the older wolf apart but a pure white wolf red five pointed star and gold sun on her chest

    “STOP THIS ” she snapped at the other wolves parted

    “Morrigan it’s an honor to see you again “Conan said kneeling to her level “Boldolph let’s wait for council if my family and I find ourselves displaced then kill silver by all means if it makes you happy”

    TO BE CONTINUED

    The Prophecies and Tales of Taranis Unfolded
  • The Awakening of a Charmed Hero

    The Awakening of a Charmed Hero

    Taranis lay silent in his cradle, just moments after birth. He didn’t cry, didn’t scream only watched with wide, storm-coloured eyes. I sat by his side, listening to the rising argument between our father and eldest brother, Drax.

    “No one will hurt you, baby brother,” I whispered, “not while I and the others still draw breath.”

    “Lore,” came our mother’s voice, tired but clear, “you’ll be good to him, won’t you? He’s weak…”

    I turned to her and gave a gentle nod. “Yes, Mother. And so will you. You’ll teach him to gather berries and cook. And Father will teach him to hunt. He has eleven older brothers, we’ll teach him everything. But… what is Father going to do about Drax?”

    I cradled Taranis in my arms, gently rocking him the way I’d done with the others. Even then, he felt… different. Lighter and heavier at the same time.

    “We’ll protect him,” Mother whispered. “But if Drax doesn’t stay quiet, your father may have him silenced.”

    There was pain in her voice, thick with grief.

    “Drax is being ostracised,” Father said later that day.

    “He’s moved to the empty hut. My men are watching him. But Lore my boy you are to be chief when I enter the eternal sleep. Drax has forfeited his claim.”

    “Yes, Father,” I replied, handing the baby to him before leaving for council training.

    Many moons passed.

    Drax had become more unstable touched by something dark. He talked to shadows. He thrashed like a wild animal when approached. Still, Father refused to have him killed.

    But Drax had never been allowed near Taranis unbound not since the moment of his birth.

    One afternoon, I sat carving a storm sigil into a flat stone when a scream echoed across the camp. It was Stone, a tribal woman and healer. I dropped my tools and ran.

    Inside the birthing hut, Taranis barely four months old was standing unaided.

    “L… Lore?” the baby said softly.

    I froze. My heart thundered in my chest. “Yes… I’m Lore. You’re Taranis the stormborne one.”

    No child had ever spoken or walked at that age. He was already taller than most children twice his age. His voice was clear. His steps were steady.

    Our parents rushed in.

    “Conan, he’s doing it,” Mother said, her voice laced with awe and fear. “But it’s far too early.”

    Father’s eyes scanned the room. He bent down and lifted Taranis, pride and dread wrestling in his expression.

    “Stone,” he said quietly, “you saw nothing. And neither did you, Lore.”

    “Drax is here for visitation today,” I reminded him, uneasy.

    “The shaman has blessed him. He’s… clear enough,” Father replied. “But I will not kill my own blood.”

    “Dadda?” Taranis said with a toothless grin. “Momma. Daddy. Lore.”

    “That’s right, my charmed one,” Father said softly. “And you are?”

    “Tabaris,” he chirped, mispronouncing his own name.

    “Close. It’s Taranis,” Father corrected gently.

    “Taranis,” he said again, tapping his chest. “Me Tanaris. You Daddy. That Mommy Sweet Voice. That Lore.”

    I chuckled. “That’s right, little one. I’m your brother Lore. That’s Stone. And these are your other brothers. Do you know their names?”

    “Lore… Oak, Willow… River, Sky… Star…”

    He paused, hiding his face bashfully.

    “You did brilliantly,” I reassured him. “You’re only three moons old and already speaking better than most of us at one year!”

    Time flew.

    Taranis walked and talked far too early. At one year old, he was disappearing from sight vanishing, even. He was growing rapidly, faster than any child the tribe had ever seen.

    One morning, he wandered toward the hut where Drax now lived, under guard by two warriors.

    “What you doing, little brother?” Rain asked, trailing behind him.

    “Why Drax in there alone?” Taranis asked, blinking up at the warriors.

    “He’s touched,” Rain said. “They say a vengeful spirit cursed him.”

    Taranis tilted his head. “I heal him,” he said matter-of-factly.

    Before I stop him, he dashed toward the door.

    “TARANIS! NO! STOP RIGHT NOW!” I shouted.

    “I heal!” he giggled.

    Rain and I exchanged looks. “Get Father!” I barked.

    We followed him inside. Drax sat cross-legged, staring at the wall. He didn’t move, didn’t speak.

    Taranis approached him with no fear and touched his hand. A strange, gentle glow pulsed from his palm.

    “I call on my sacred friends,” he whispered, “to heal my brother Drax.”

    And in that moment, something ancient stirred.

    To be continued…

    Further Reading

    The Prophecies and Tales of Taranis Unfolded
  • The tragic curse of Boldolph and Morrigan 2

    The tragic curse of Boldolph and Morrigan 2

    The mystical bond between the black and white wolves, symbolizing the intertwined fates of Boldolph and Morrigan.

    Boldolph’s people wept for him and Morrigan.

    As the cursed pair fled the stone cave. Their new forms heavy with shame and grief, they knew the truth they would yet be hunted. Death would almost be kinder than living on, watching their people unravel from the shadows.

    From the tree line, they watched.

    The enchantress Whitehair was dragged to the punishment stones. Her mouth forced open as the chieftain stepped forward.

    “Bring me my grandchildren,” he commanded.

    A line of children stood before him. The oldest, a thirteen-year-old girl, stared straight ahead as the wind lifted her dark hair.

    “Gwyn,” the chieftain said, “you are the eldest of my blood. This honour is yours. Remove her tongue and nose.”

    Without a word, the girl obeyed. She carried out the sentence without question her hand steady. Her eyes blank while Boldolph and Morrigan looked on from the trees.

    “The youngest three,” the chieftain continued, “shall be raised among us. Spared. But the oldest, Ryn…”

    A fourteen-year-old boy was dragged forward.

    “…He will be cast out.”

    “No! Please…” Ryn cried. “I was hungry she hadn’t fed me in weeks…”

    “You’re old enough to hunt,” his father barked. “Old enough to fish. Old enough to gather. You chose to steal.”

    As the blade was drawn, Morrigan gave a sharp growl.

    Boldolph stepped from the trees not attacking, but shielding the boy with his massive black form.

    “Morrigan? Boldolph?” the chieftain asked, surprised but calm. “Do you understand what is happening here?”

    Boldolph gave a single nod.

    “Do you agree with this judgment?” another tribesman called out.

    Morrigan whimpered, then moved beside Boldolph, gently nosing Ryn toward the tree line.

    “Boy,” the chieftain said, “how can we speak to the wolves?”

    “My father knows a chant, sir,” Ryn answered softly. “I’ve heard him whisper it to the earth spirits.”

    A moment later, the chant rose in the air low and trembling. The spirits stirred.

    “It is done,” the seer confirmed. “The wolves may not speak through mouths, but they will speak through minds. A bond has been made between Boldolph and the tribe’s spirit.”

    “Father,” Boldolph said in thought alone, “let the boy live. Morrigan wishes no harm.”

    “If she could poison her own people, she may have cursed him too,” someone muttered.

    But Morrigan white as snow, her eyes full of sorrow pressed her head into the chieftain’s hand.

    “He has always seemed… touched by something,” she said. “Not cursed. But not untouched either. Let him go. For me.”

    The chieftain knelt.

    “Boy,” he said, “do you understand what this means?”

    “No, sir.”

    “It means my grandfather will spare your life,” Gwyn said, stepping forward. “But you must leave, Ryn. And never return. You will walk with the cursed wolves. And you will not bear a name. Not in any tribe. You will be the boy who walks in exile. The boy of silence.”

    Ryn’s father added, “You will walk until you sleep. And when you sleep, you will not wake.”

    Tears welled in Ryn’s eyes. “Can I say goodbye to my brothers and sisters?”

    “Five minutes,” the chieftain said. “Then the exile begins. You’ll be given a spear, a stone knife. One day’s food for you. A week’s for my son and his mate.”

    The children nodded.

    The chieftain’s hand rested on Morrigan’s head, then Boldolph’s.

    “You are not forgotten,” he whispered.

    Boldolph’s mother stepped from the crowd, her eyes wet with love and regret.

    “Boldolph,” she said, “you are always welcome at our fire.”

    And with that, the wolves turned toward the deep forest and the cursed child walked beside them.

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