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
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