StormborneLore

Category: Short Stories

  • Harvesting Nature’s Gifts: The Journey of Lore

    Harvesting Nature’s Gifts: The Journey of Lore

    A stylized tree with colorful leaves against a dark background, featuring a sun in the upper corner.
    A vibrant, artistic depiction of a tree with colorful leaves set against a dark background, symbolizing the mystical elements of nature.

    By E.L. Hewitt — StormborneLore

    Dawn came slow over Cannock Chase, the sky still holding tight to the colours of night.


    Mist clung to the ground, pale as breath on cold glass. The trees stood quiet as watchers in old cloaks.

    Lore walked barefoot through the wet grass, collecting what the earth offered.

    Yarrow first pale and feathery, growing in shy clusters where the sunlight would later reach. Good for blood and fever, and for protection against spirits that lingered too close.

    He cut it gently, whispering, “For the ones who yet breathe.”

    Rowan bark next, peeling in thin curls beneath his knife. The tree shivered, though no wind touched it.

    Rowan remembers, the old women used to say and Lore believed them.

    Last came the resin pine tears hardened in the bark of a fallen giant, still sweet, still golden.

    He held it to his nose, breathing in the scent of memory.
    Smoke. Rain. Home.

    Above him, the crows gathered.

    Three at first.
    Then five.
    Then a dozen, their wings murmuring like pages turning.

    They did not caw.
    They simply watched.

    Lore did not fear them.
    The crows of the Chase were older than any Druid’s words.
    Older than Rome’s roads.
    Older even than the songs of the first tribes.

    They followed him as he walked between the birches. Their trunks ghost-white, rising from the mist like bones of giants sleeping beneath the soil.

    The air felt listening.

    The trees breathed slow.

    The old gods waited.

    Lore spoke softly, almost too low to hear:
    “Stormfather. Bound-Brother. Wild King. I hear you.”

    The leaves stirred, though the air was still.

    And then

    A whisper.
    Not with sound, but with bone and blood.

    He rises.

    Lore’s heart tightened.
    No fear only certainty.

    The crows took flight at once, black wings cutting the dawn sky. They flew south, toward the marsh track near Landywood, toward the low birches where the Black Shields rested.

    Toward Taranis.

    Lore closed his fist around the resin.

    “The storm remembers,” he murmured.

    And he followed the crows.

    © 2025 E. L. Hewitt / Stormborne Arts. All rights reserved.
    Unauthorized copying or reproduction of this artwork and text is prohibited.

    Thank you for reading.

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

    If you want to read more about Lore please see Ancient Magic and Myth of the Stormborne

    To follow Tarans The Prophecies and Tales of Taranis Unfolded

  • Ow bist, bab? (Authors Note)

    Ow bist, bab? (Authors Note)

    A colorful painting depicting a Tettenhall Woood Prefab a red door and flower beds in front, set against a blue sky with clouds.
    A colorful illustration depicting a quaint Tettenhall Woods Prefab surrounded by a vibrant garden, representing the warmth of the Black Country dialect and local culture.

    It’s a proper cowd one out there this Sunday, so what better day to dive into a new post?


    Today, it’s a little disclaimer about the language that features in my stories…

    Author’s Note: The Tongue of the Land

    While the Black Country dialect does not belong to the Roman period. It is used within these stories to represent the voice of the common people. The humble folk who stood beside Taranis, shaped by soil, storm, and memory.

    The dialect itself descends from Old English. First spoken between 1100–1300 CE, and remains alive in parts of the West Midlands today.


    The earlier language spoken in Roman-era Mercia has long been lost, leaving no written record.

    By using this dialect, I seek not historical precision but continuity.. To let the living voice of the land speak through its past.

    To those who do not understand the dialect…

    “Ow bist, bab?”
    means “How are you, love?”

    “It’s a proper cowd one out there”
    translates to “It’s really cold outside.”

    So all together:

    “How are you, love? It’s a really cold one out there this Sunday, so what better day to dive into a new post?”

    The Black Country dialect has a warmth and rhythm all of its own . It’s how my grandparents and neighbours spoke, and how the land itself still seems to talk on quiet days.

    It’s the same voice I hear when I write of the Stormborne. Ordinary folk shaped by wind, stone, and rain, who carry the old sounds onward through time.

  • The Eagle and the Storm

    The Eagle and the Storm

    Dawn crept slow over Cnocc, a thin gold edge behind the rain clouds. Mist clung to the standing stones, turning the world to shadow and breath.

    Drax waited alone within the circle, his Armour dark with dew. Around him, the forest held its silence not even the birds dared speak before the storm.

    A shape emerged from the trees. Bare-headed, cloak torn by wind, eyes bright with the same lightning that lived in the sea.

    “Taranis,” Drax said quietly.

    “Brother.”

    They faced each other across the stones, a dozen paces apart soldier and exile, lawman and outlaw, blood and storm.

    “You sent the boy,” Drax began. “You risked Rome’s wrath to deliver a letter. Why?”

    “Because words still travel where armies can’t,” Taranis replied. “And because you needed to see the truth before Rome writes it for you.”

    Drax’s hand went to the hilt at his belt, but he did not draw. “The truth is that you lead rebellion.”

    “The truth,” Taranis said, stepping closer, “is that Rome rots from within. You see it, even in Pennocrucium the taxes, the prisons, the wards rising against their own peacekeepers. You know their order is just another storm wearing iron.”

    “Law keeps the world from tearing itself apart.”

    Taranis smiled faintly. “Then tell me, brother which law spared our people?”

    The question hung like a blade between them.

    Drax’s voice dropped. “You’ll bring ruin on every soul north of the wall.”

    “And you’ll call it justice when the legions do it first.”

    Lightning cracked behind the hills, casting their faces in white fire. For a heartbeat, they were children again mud on their hands, the taste of rain on their tongues.

    Then it was gone.

    Drax exhaled slowly. “If I turn my back on Rome, they’ll come for my sons.”

    “Then send them to me,” Taranis said. “I’ll keep them safe and teach them what it means to be Stormborne.”

    Drax met his brother’s gaze, every oath and scar warring inside him. “You ask too much.”

    “I ask what blood demands.”

    The wind rose, carrying the scent of thunder and pine. Somewhere beyond the ridge, a horn sounded Roman, sharp and close.

    Taranis looked toward it, then back at his brother. “You didn’t come alone.”

    Drax’s jaw tightened. “I had no choice.”

    “You always had a choice.”

    He turned, cloak whipping in the wind, and vanished into the mist.

    Drax stood amid the stones, thunder rolling like a closing gate. For the first time in years, he no longer knew which storm he served.

    The horn still echoed when Drax turned toward the ridge.
    Rain came again sharp, cold, unending washing the footprints from the mud where his brother had stood.

    From the southern slope came the sound of Armour. The steady rhythm of Roman discipline: shields clashing, orders barked, hooves grinding stone.

    Centurion Varro rode up through the mist, helm crested, voice clipped.
    “Praefect! You were told to wait at the lower ford. Our scouts saw movement rebels, by the look.”

    Drax said nothing. His men shifted behind him, uneasy under the Centurion’s glare.

    Varro’s gaze swept the clearing. “You’ve been here long, sir?”

    “Long enough.”

    “Any sign of the outlaws?”

    Drax’s hand brushed the rain-darkened hilt of his sword. “None that concern Rome.”

    Varro frowned. “Sir?”

    “Withdraw your men to the ridge. If they move through the forest, they’ll spook what they can’t catch.”

    Varro hesitated, suspicion flickering behind his eyes. “The Governor will want a report.”

    “He’ll have one,” Drax said, voice like iron. “But not from you.”

    Varro opened his mouth, then thought better of it. He saluted stiffly and wheeled his horse. The soldiers followed, vanishing into the haze.

    When the last sound of their march had gone, Drax turned back to the standing stones. The mist seemed thicker now, the air charged and whispering.

    He drew his sword not for battle, but for memory. The blade caught a sliver of light and, for a heartbeat, reflected the spiral carved into the nearest stone.

    From the forest edge came a faint flicker of movement a figure, hooded and still. Not Taranis, but one of his kin. She raised her hand, palm out, the mark of the storm inked in black across her skin.

    A silent vow.

    Drax sheathed his sword. “Tell him,” he said quietly, though she not hear, “that I won’t be his enemy again.”

    The woman vanished into the fog.

    Behind Drax, Maren approached, cloak dripping. “Father… what will you tell Rome?”

    “The truth,” Drax said, mounting his horse. “Just not all of it.”

    As they rode back toward Pennocrucium, thunder rolled once more not from the sky, but from the earth itself. The storm was awake again.

    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.

    If you want to read more about Drax please see The Chronicles of Drax

  • Taranis and Drax: The Clash of Empires

    Taranis and Drax: The Clash of Empires

    The river carried him through the marshes like an old friend whispering secrets of home. The oar bit into the brown water, steady, unhurried. Ahead, smoke rose in thin curls Roman campfires. His brother’s camp.

    Taranis smiled faintly. Drax always did love his rules and rituals.

    He pulled the boat onto the bank, the mud sucking at his boots, and paused to listen. The faint clang of armor, the laughter of children. The low murmur of Latin prayers so out of place in this land of bog and stone.

    Then he saw him.
    Drax, standing by the fire, cloak draped in perfect folds, a soldier carved out of duty itself.

    “Hello, brother,” Taranis called, his voice light but carrying weight enough to stir the air.

    Drax turned, hand on his sword. Typical.

    “Taranis. Show yourself.”

    “Why?” he asked from the shadows. “So you can look at me and scowl like the Roman you’ve become?”

    The words were easy, but his chest ached as he stepped ahead. He had dreamed of this moment through a hundred lonely nights on the island his brother alive, unbroken.

    “I see you have sons,” he said softly. “And a fine uniform. Praefect now, are we? Rome’s loyal hound.”

    Drax’s eyes hardened. “You acknowledge their law, then?”

    “I acknowledge survival,” Taranis said. “But I bow to no empire.”

    His gaze flicked toward the boys—curious, brave, full of questions. One of them smiled at him, and for a moment, the years fell away. He saw his brother laughing beside him on the cliffs above Letocetum. Before the legions came, before blood was traded for banners.

    “You shouldn’t have come,” Drax said.

    “I didn’t come for Rome.” He met his brother’s eyes. “I came for what’s left of us.”

    The words hung between them, raw and quiet.

    The youngest boy tugged at Drax’s cloak. “He doesn’t look like a villain, father.”

    Taranis almost laughed. “No, lad. Villains rarely do.”

    Then thunder rolled, deep and distant, like memory returning.

    Drax looked to the horizon, and Taranis knew he felt it too—the pull of storm and blood.

    “The storm’s coming,” one soldier muttered.

    Taranis turned toward them, eyes bright with mischief and grief.
    “No,” he said. “The storm’s already here.”

    He stepped back into the trees, the forest closing around him.
    When the boy’s voice called after him—“How did you escape the island?”—he turned once more, smiling through the rain.

    “I built a boat,” he said simply. “Remember that when the world tries to cage you.”

    Then he was gone.

    Behind him, the Roman camp crackled in the rain, and his brother’s name lingered on the wind.

    Stormborne.
    Once curse, always kin.

    © 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.

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

  • From Chains to Legends: The Rise of the Black Shields

    From Chains to Legends: The Rise of the Black Shields

    The Storm Returns

    The tide was retreating when they found the broken chains. The sight of melted iron through as if struck by lightning.

    “Gods preserve us,” whispered one of the guards, stepping back. “No blade have done that.”

    Tiberius knelt beside the scorched links. “He didn’t break free,” he muttered. “He shed them.”

    The centurion barked orders.,Sending riders to the northern watch and ships to sweep the channel. But even as they moved, the sky began to darken. The wind shifted, dragging the scent of iron and rain across the water.

    “He’s gone home,” Tiberius said at last. “Back to the place Rome never tamed.”

    “To Britannia?” asked the young guard again, voice shaking.

    “Aye,” said the older legionary. “And if the stories are true, every storm between here and there will answer his call.”

    From the cliffs, they can see the faint shimmer of the sea calm for now, but seething beneath.


    The Emperor’s standard flapped once, hard enough to snap its pole.

    “Should we tell the mainland?” the centurion asked.

    Tiberius stood slowly, eyes on the horizon. “Tell them nothing. Let them think he drowned. If the gods favour us, maybe they’ll believe it.”

    But none of them truly did.
    Even as the orders went out, the men felt the pressure in the air, that strange stillness before thunder. Somewhere far to the north, in the heart of Britannia, the wind began to rise.

    “What if he’s caught out there commander?”

    Tiberius didn’t answer at first. His eyes stayed on the sea, the horizon split between light and shadow.

    “If he’s caught,” he said finally, “then the sea itself will break first.”

    The young guard frowned. “You speak as if he’s a god.”

    Tiberius turned to him, his face hard. “You weren’t here when they brought him in chains. You didn’t see the storm that followed. The ships burned before they reached the harbour. No oil, no fire arrows, just lightning, and him standing in the rain, laughing.”

    The guard swallowed, his knuckles white around his spear.

    Another soldier older, scarred, voice low spat into the dirt. “Men like that ain’t gods. They’re reminders. Rome builds, Rome burns, and the earth keeps its own count.”

    Thunder rolled far out to sea, deep and slow.

    “Get word to the docks,” Tiberius ordered. “Seal the forges. Lock down the armoury. And if the Emperor asks…”
    He paused, eyes narrowing.
    “…tell him the storm never left the island.”

    The men scattered to obey, but above them, the gulls were already fleeing inland.


    The wind picked up again not from the west, but the north.
    And on the water, beneath a bruised sky, something vast and dark moved with purpose.

    Taranis stood at the prow of the small boat, the sea hissing beneath its hull as if warning him back.
    He only smiled.

    The wind carried the scent of earth his earth and beyond the mist. The cliffs of Britannia rose like the bones of old gods. Behind him, the island of exile vanished into shadow. Before him lay vengeance, memory, and the ghosts of his kin.

    “Home,” he murmured. “Or what’s left of it.”

    His brothers would be the first. Drax, bound by Rome’s gold and law; Rayne, lost between loyalty and freedom. Then the old comrades, the broken men who once bore the wolf upon their shields.
    The Black Shields would rise again not as soldiers. But as something Rome can not name and never kill.

    He shifted his weight, watching the distant shoreline of Letocetum take shape through the fog.

    Beyond that lay the salt pits of Salinae. The forests near Vertis, the villages that still whispered his name like a curse and a prayer.

    “Word travels faster than ships,” he said to the empty wind. “By the time I step ashore, they’ll already know.”

    Lightning rippled across the far horizon, faint but deliberate, as though the heavens themselves answered.

    He gripped the tiller and laughed quietly to himself not with joy. But with the fierce certainty of a man who had waited too long to be mortal anymore.

    When the first gulls circled overhead and the shore drew near, Taranis whispered the words that had haunted his exile.


    “Rome fears the storm. Now it will remember why.”

    The tide carried him in. Somewhere in the fort at Rutupiae Drax Stormborne turned toward the sea. With a feeling of dread, without knowing, that the storm had come home.

    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.

  • Shadows Between Brothers

    Shadows Between Brothers

    The camp lay quiet beneath a bruised sky.


    “Father, what does exile mean?” Julius asked, peering up with wide, uncertain eyes.

    Before Drax could answer, Marcus spoke first, his tone full of the confidence only youth could forge.
    “It means Father can kill Uncle Taranis. It means Uncle has no home, and should be on his island. Right, Father?”

    The fire crackled. For a long moment, Drax said nothing. The weight of the question pressed heavier than the armour across his shoulders.

    “No, Marcus,” he said at last, voice low. “Exile does not always mean an enemy. Sometimes it means Rome has no place for a man who refuses to kneel.”

    The boys exchanged a glance, uncertain. Julius frowned. “But you serve Rome. Uncle does not.”

    Drax looked out toward the dark treeline where his brother had vanished. The smoke twisting like ghostly fingers into the grey sky. “I serve peace,” he said. “Rome just calls it something else.”

    “Will you fight him, Father?”

    Drax’s jaw tightened. “If I must. But I hope the gods grant me a choice before that day.”

    Marcus turned back to the fire, his expression thoughtful. “Uncle said the storm’s already here.”

    “Aye,” Drax murmured, his gaze distant. “And sometimes the storm wears a familiar face.”

    Thunder grumbled again, rolling through the valleys. Drax drew his cloak closer. Feeling the weight of legacy settle across him the burden of blood and oath, of brotherhood turned to legend.

    Somewhere beyond the hills, Taranis walked free.


    Drax, bound by Rome and duty, wondered who among them was truly exiled.

    © 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.

  • Blood and Oath

    Blood and Oath

    The sun stood high as Praefect Drax Stormborne lingered beside the fire, cloak folded tight against a thin breeze.

    “Hello, brother,” a teen voice said, and Drax’s hand went to the hilt of his sword before he turned.

    “Taranis, show yourself now,” he said, keeping his tone even.

    “Why? So you can look at me and scowl?” Taranis’s voice came from the trees. “I’m fine here, where you can’t see me but I can see you. I see you have children now, and you look smart in the Roman uniform of their law-men.”

    “You acknowledge that, brother?” Drax asked, eyes narrowing.

    “I acknowledge,” Taranis replied, stepping from the shade with a faint smile. “but I do not bow not to you, my liege, nor to your Roman overlords. We all do what we must to survive.” He paused, then added, quieter, “But try anything and I’ll snap your men like twigs.”

    A small boy tugged at Drax’s sleeve. “Father, who is he?” the child asked.

    “Is he a barbarian, father?” another eight-year-old whispered, peering toward the tree-line.

    “Julius that’s our uncle Taranis?” a smirking boy offered. “The legendary gladiator Lupus… wasn’t he exiled?”

    Drax let the questions run off him like rain. He studied Taranis as if measuring a blade. Blood and oath pulled between them one brother in Roman order, the other a storm wearing man’s skin.

    The campfire crackled, throwing sparks into the brittle afternoon air. For a heartbeat, the world held its breath two brothers standing on opposite shores of the same river.

    Taranis tilted his head slightly, the ghost of a smile curving his lips.
    “Exiled, yes,” he said softly. “But storms don’t vanish, brother. They wait for the right sky.”

    Drax said nothing. His men shifted uneasily, hands brushing spear shafts, glancing between the prefect and the outlaw.

    “You shouldn’t have come,” Drax murmured finally. “Rome watches even the wind that bends near me.”

    “I’m not here for Rome,” Taranis replied,. his gaze flicking toward the boys proud, uncertain, wearing their father’s steel in miniature. “I came to see what became of the man I once followed into the fire.”

    “You followed because you had no choice,” Drax snapped, voice sharp enough to cut the air.
    “And you bowed because you wanted one,” Taranis countered.

    Silence fell again. The forest around them seemed to lean closer, listening.

    Julius, the youngest, tugged at Drax’s sleeve.

    “Father… he doesn’t look like a villain,” the boy whispered.
    “No,” said Drax quietly, eyes still locked on Taranis. “That’s what makes him dangerous.”

    Taranis laughed then, low and bitter. “Dangerous? I bled for this land before Rome knew its name. If danger is survival, then yes I am a danger.”

    A faint roll of thunder trembled beyond the horizon. Both men turned toward it, instinctively.

    “Storm’s coming,” said one of Drax’s soldiers.

    Taranis met his brother’s eyes one last time.
    “No, soldier,” he said, voice like wind through iron. “The storm’s already here.”

    He vanished into the trees before anyone move. leaving only the fading echo of his words and the scent of rain.

    Drax stood long after he was gone, until his eldest spoke softly:
    “Will we see him again, Father?”

    Drax’s jaw tightened. “If the gods have mercy or none at all.”

    The thunder answered for him.

    Julius started to run after his uncle.

    “No, child,” Drax called, voice tight.

    Taranis turned, the stormlight catching on the scars that crossed his jaw. He knelt so his eyes met the boy’s.
    “Your place is with your father,” he said softly. “He’s a good, honourable man.”

    Julius frowned. “How did you get off the island?”

    Taranis’s mouth twitched into a smirk. “I built a boat.”

    He rose, cloak stirring in the wind as thunder growled again in the distance.
    “Remember that, boy when the world cages you, build your own way out.”

    Then he was gone once more, the forest swallowing him whole.

    Drax stood in silence, watching the trees sway. His men busied themselves with meaningless tasks tightening straps, banking the fire anything to avoid the weight in the air.

    The prefect’s eyes lingered on the path his brother had taken.
    “Stormborne,” he murmured, the name a curse and a prayer all at once.

    Above them, the first drops of rain began to fall.

    Thank you for reading if you enjoyed this story. Please like subscribe and follow for more.

    Futher reading

    The Chronicles of Drax

    The tales of Rayne

    The Prophecies and Tales of Taranis Unfolded

    The Keeper of Cairnstones: Myths and Mysteries Revealed

  • The Crone

    The Crone

    Written by

    emma.stormbornelore
    in

    The moon shone in the darkest of nights as I gathered the herbs.Around my cave herbs of healing yarrow and nettle being the most used by our clan.

    Only eight winters ago the leader of claw clan approached me. My son in custody I see him a bone chain around his neck.

    “What do you want Clun?” I asked the small balding man dressed in simple furs .

    “We promise no harm to the children,” said the tall man wrapped in makeshift coats. He thrust a small vial towards me “You’ll have your son by sunrise. Just brew a sleeping draft. Put Camp Utthar to sleep.”

    I hesitated. The chief of Utthar had been good to us took my family in when no one else would. But River was my son. My blood. My only hope my future what else I do?

    I nodded slowly but looked to my boy a sadness stirred in me. Ad i gathered berries, roots, sacred herbs and stirred them into the pot by firelight. That night, the warriors, the women, the children… all fell into deep, enchanted sleep.

    So deep was the sleep that no one stirred when the men of Clun entered the encampment. As The Clun men crept in silent as shadow, savage as flame.

    I watched from the trees as my eldest, Ryn, was dragged into camp forced to witness the massacre. His voice was broken when he turned to me:

    “What did you do, Mother?!”Ryn cried

    A silent attack killing women children and men who remained within the camp. Fifty men died that night warriors hunters their wives and children.

    “You promised you’d leave the children” I cried

    I was aware that utther wife had been taken to a local cave. A safe place where she would give birth when the time was right.

    “Foolish old lady, why would we leave our enemies children? When they will grow to seek vengeance” Clun smirked riding away

    I was left staring at the devastation . The next days passed and the Chief returned from battle, his warriors behind them. The chiefs horn was heard and his sons replied with the wolfs howl. But they ran with newborns in their arms Boldolph leading the charge.

    Time froze the wind stilled as boldolph approached his father

    “They came in the still of night no one would wake up. The claw killed all of then father and she helped” boldolph replied as if giving his report

    Suddenly the screams came

    “Take her! Bind her!” Raven shouted.
    “She betrayed the family! Everyone’s dead! Mother’s alive but in labour!”

    One of the wounded men pointed at me with blood on his chest.

    “We heard her whispering with the Clun.
    She brewed the sleeping draft… then brought death upon us.”

    I turned and ran wishing for cover ducking from branches and jumping over roots from trees. The sound of hounds barking after me my heart racing beating like the drums. The hounds found me first. The men were not far behind.

    They bound me in ropes and dragged me back to camp, fear pounding through my veins like war drums. Then he came…

    Boldolph stood at seven feet tall.
    “Let me have her,” he growled but his eyes softened when they found Morrigan, his wife, weeping with in a cave

    “Lox is dead she did it” morrigan said

    “We have her,” a man spat, dragging me by the hair.i screamed trying to fight against the men holding me

    The chieftain stood tall.

    “Whitehair, you have betrayed your tribe. Look around you. This is your doing you butchered them in their sleep.” The cheiftan said “Take her to the rocks. Strip her name. Cut her nose and tongue. Then bind her and take her far from here.”

    The punishment was swift.

    The curse came faster.

    Before they dragged me away, my final spell shattered the night:

    “May your line suffer,
    May your form twist,
    Until one born cursed by storms,
    Breaks the wheel with mercy and fire.”

    And then, the transformation.

    As I was dragged out I could hear the howls of pain and anguish from boldolph and his mate morrigan. as Boldolph the giant, and Morrigan the gentle, were torn from flesh and given fur. Wolves. Forever cursed.

    Later, bound and broken, I was dragged to the sacred stone. They beat me. Stripped me of sound. My nose. My tongue. My name.

    Blindfolded, I was taken to lands unknown far beyond the reach of kin or mercy.

    But my magic remains.
    So does the curse.
    And the storm is not yet done.

    I could still taste blood.

    The salt of my torn tongue. The copper of betrayal. The earth where they left me bound, blindfolded. my hands lashed with nettles so tightly i still bear scars decades later.

    They called it mercy.

    But mercy would have been death.

    Instead, they gave me exile: cast beyond the sacred stones with only the breath in my lungs. The curse they feared more than her voice.

    Ad i crawled for days dragging my broken body through marsh and thorn. Wolves circled but did not bite. Ravens flew overhead but did not cry. And the spirits… the spirits walked with me.
    I did not die i became something else.

    Something older than their laws.

    As i found shelter in the hollow of a tree once used by midwives. A place where blood had been spilled in both birth and death. There, pressed my palms to the bark, and for the first time in weeks, i did not feel pain.

    Only power.

    It rose from the roots. From the bones buried deep the old ones, the forgotten, the nameless. Their stories rushed into me like a storm tide.

    And over time i remembered my own name.

    Not the one they spat when they cursed me. Not the one the elders tore from the village scrolls.

    But the one my mother gave me beneath the silvery moon.

    “Cceridwyn,” whispered, mouth bleeding, lips cracked.

    As the Years passed more people feared me. As i walked among the bones now, barefoot and veiled. My form barely seen except by those on the edge of death or madness. Her tongue never healed. Her voice never returned. But her curse… her curse remained intact.

    And more potent than ever.

    For every 13th child born of her bloodline, a sign would come:
    A sickness no healer cure.
    Eyes the colour of stormlight.
    A voice that spoke truths no one taught.

    The 13th of the 13th would be the end or the beginning.

    She waits still.
    Her bones lighter now, her spirit heavier.
    Watching as the stories repeat,
    as her great-grandson walks into the same woods where she once crawled.

    Taranis.
    The boy with the storm in his chest.

    The one they tried to exile, like her.

    But this time…
    the storm remembers.

    © written and created by ELHewitt

  • Whispers from the Sea

    Whispers from the Sea

    Written by
    emma.stormbornelore

    The wind off the coast carried a strange scent that morning salt, smoke, and something older.


    Drax Stormborne stood upon the cliffs of Caerwyn. His cloak drawn tight, eyes narrowed toward the southern horizon where the sea met the clouds. The gulls wheeled low, uneasy, their cries sharp against the stillness.

    Behind him, his second-in-command approached, boots crunching on frost-slick stone. “Another ship’s gone missing,” the man said quietly. “Roman, they say. A patrol near Carthage. The reports claim a storm took it.”

    Drax didn’t turn. “A storm,” he repeated, voice low. “Or something that wears its name.”

    The man hesitated. “You think it’s him?”

    For a moment, only the wind answered. Then Drax’s gloved hand closed around the hilt of his sword, fingers tracing the worn leather grip. “Taranis never drowned easy,” he murmured. “If the Empire bleeds at sea, then he’s drawing the blade.”

    He moved to the edge of the cliff, gazing down at the waves hammering the rocks below. The sea had always been Rome’s pride a wall of conquest, a promise of control. But now it whispered rebellion.

    “Send word to the northern outposts,” Drax said. “Quietly. Tell them the Black Shields move again. No banners. No noise. Just watch the tide.”

    The officer nodded and left, his footsteps fading into the mist.

    Alone, Drax drew his sword, holding it toward the sea. The steel caught the dawn light, flashing gold for a heartbeat like lightning beneath the clouds.

    “Brother,” he said softly, as the first drops of rain began to fall. “If the storm returns… then so do I.”

    The thunder answered, rolling like distant drums of war.

    The Empire called it weather.
    The Stormborne called it warning.

    © 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 Island of Ash and Iron: A Tale of Resilience

    The Island of Ash and Iron: A Tale of Resilience

    The Island of Ash and Iron

    Written by
    emma.stormbornelore

    The island steamed beneath a blood-orange dawn. Black sand hissed as the tide pulled back, revealing fragments of broken shields and driftwood charred by lightning.

    Taranis Stormborne stood among the wreckage, cloak torn, hair slick with salt. Around him, the Black Shields gathered the fallen in silence.

    No victory songs were sung only the slow rhythm of men. Who understood the cost of silence and the weight of patience.

    “Bury them high,” Taranis said at last. “Let the wind speak their names.”

    He turned his gaze inland, where the volcanic ridges rose like the spines of sleeping beasts. Smoke drifted from fissures in the rock, thick with the scent of iron and ash.

    Beneath those ridges lay the forge a secret his men had built in defiance of empire.

    As the storm’s light faded behind the clouds, a scout approached, breath ragged.

    “Lupus… Rome has sent word north. They know a fleet was lost, but not how. They think it was a storm.”

    Taranis’s mouth curved into a faint, weary smile.

    “Then let the lie live. Storms are easier to fear than men.”

    He knelt beside a shattered shield half-buried in sand. Its surface was scorched black, the emblem of the wolf barely visible beneath the soot. With slow care, he traced the mark with his thumb, leaving a streak of silver ash.

    “This island is no longer exile,” he murmured. “It’s the forge of the next age. And when Rome’s thunder fades, ours will remain.”

    Above him, a distant rumble rolled through the clouds not thunder, but the awakening of something older.

    The storm had learned to wait.

    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.