Taranis looked to Boldolph and smiled. There was fire behind his storm-grey eyes.
But he didn’t move.
Instead, he turned his gaze toward the centre of camp. A wide ring of bark and stone had been cleared where the warriors gathered in a hush that pressed against the skin. Grael stood tall at its edge, arms folded, flanked by his elite. One Seer stood silently with her staff grounded. Another stood beside her, cloaked in black and waiting.
Boldolph’s voice was low.
“You know this is bait.”
“I know,” Taranis said. “Let them bite.”
He raised his voice so all could hear.
“So where are the others, Grael? There were six of them. Six men who buried me alive. Are they here?”
Grael said nothing. His jaw clenched but no order came. The silence stretched like a drawn bowstring.
Taranis stepped forward. His torn cloak dragged behind him. Dirt still clung to his skin. The obsidian pendant swung from his chest, sharp as a blade and darker than the sky.
“You trained them. You gave them command. You stood idle when they dragged me from my fire and threw me in the earth like a beast.”
A ripple of movement stirred the crowd. Solaris moved silently to the left of Boldolph, his eyes alert. Morrigan circled the outer edge, her gaze sharper than any blade. The wolves were close, not quite in the circle, but near enough to strike.
The cloaked Seer stepped forward, her voice smooth and cold as river ice.
“And what are you now? A firewalker? A spirit in flesh? A wolf’s loyal mutt? You defied your masters. You broke laws. You call yourself marked as if it were a blessing. It is a curse.”
Taranis turned to face her. His tone was calm, but his voice carried like distant thunder.
“I am marked. Yes. Marked by flame and by fang. Marked by gods your kind no longer dare name.”
He looked across the ring, locking eyes with those who once saw him as nothing more than a chained boy.
“I wore the collar. I bore the mask. I bled into your soil and came back stronger. The dragon did not strike me down. It bowed.”
The first Seer the one who had first spoken of prophecy moved forward without a word. She laced her bone staff on the earth between them, the sound like a drumbeat in the dirt.
“Then let truth be spoken. Words before war. This circle is the law.”
The Circle Two lines formed. One stood behind the cloaked Seer and the old ways. The other stood in silence, eyes uncertain but shifting, behind the Seer who had named him Stormborne.
Grael remained between them all. He spoke nothing. But the weight of his silence was a blade in the dust.
The rival Seer raised her chin, her cloak fluttering as a sudden gust caught the air.
“Storms are sent as punishment. They do not crown kings. They drown them.”
Taranis stepped into the centre and lifted the obsidian pendant high.
“Then why did the storm not drown me?”
He turned slowly, meeting the eyes of warriors, elders, hunters, servants — and children.
“You speak of punishment. But where was your justice when a boy was chained for speaking truth? Where was your mercy when they threw me into a grave and danced over it?”
A murmur passed through the gathering, slow and spreading like rising smoke.
A healer stepped forward. She clutched a satchel of herbs, her hands trembling, but her voice rang clear.
“I stitched that boy once. His ribs were bruised. His wrists bled. I said nothing. I was afraid. But I will not stay silent again.”
Taranis gave her a solemn nod.
“Then speak now. Let every voice rise. This land will not be ruled by silence.”
The cloaked Seer opened her mouth to answer, but no sound came. She felt the tide turn and stepped back. The people had shifted.
A father stepped forward next, then a girl who’d once carried water to chained boys. An older warrior, limping from an old wound, nodded slowly. For the first time, Grael’s expression flickered — not with rage, but with understanding.
Verdict Grael finally stepped into the circle. The pressure broke like thunder in the air. He scanned the faces around him — warriors he had trained, people he had led. Then he looked to Taranis.
“The six who attacked you are dead or have run. That is not mercy. That is law. They broke it.”
He turned toward the Seers.
“But from this day, we follow one voice. Not the loudest. Not the oldest. The one the flame has not burned. The one the dragon did not kill.”
He turned his eyes on Taranis.
“The one who rose.”
From the back of the crowd, a girl no older than ten stepped forward. Her hair was matted but her eyes were bright with memory. She held a scrap of wolf-fur in her small hands.
“You pulled me from the pit. The dark place. I saw you in the fire. You held the sun in your hand.”
Taranis knelt before her, gently resting a hand over hers.
“Then keep that memory. Let it burn in you, not through you.”
He rose slowly, the firelight catching in his eyes. Then he turned to face the whole circle.
“No more collars. No more chains. No more silence. This is no longer a camp. It is a beginning.”
The wolves howled not out of hunger or fury, but in echo of a vow they once made long ago. A vow that now passed from wolf to man, and from man to child.
The first Seer stepped beside Grael and whispered a single truth.
“Stormborne.”
Solaris stepped closer, his voice a whisper only Taranis could hear.
“So what does that make you now?”
Taranis looked out at the crowd, at the firelit faces, the broken chains now lying in the dust, the wolves resting at the edge of the light. Then he looked to Solaris and smiled.
“A man. A friend. A warrior, if Grael will train me. Perhaps a healer. First in the line of the Order of Dawn.” He paused, gaze rising to the stars above. “Or maybe just someone who lived when he should have died.”
He turned back to Solaris, his voice soft.
“Who knows what tomorrow will give?”
And for the first time since exile, Taranis Stormborne laughed not out of pride, not out of pain, but because for once, the wind didn’t sting.
Grael walked up the hill toward the restrained boy. He knelt before the clan’s leader.
“You called, and I came. Is this the boy you spoke of?” Grael asked, glancing toward the child bound to the stone.
“Yes. The other clans call him Stormborne, or say he’s cursed. He’s been with us seven years now,” the leader replied.
“The mask?” Grael asked.
“He threatened to kill the clan. And me. The mask is punishment. He hasn’t had food or water for two days. He killed a farmer.”
“Boy!” Grael barked at a nearby child. “Go fetch broth and ashcake. I can’t train a half-starved slave.” He smirked, adding, “But he remains under punishment.”
As the boy ran back to the village, Grael stepped forward. In a single motion, the mask was unhooked. Grael knelt by the water.
“Are you thirsty?” he asked.
Taranis looked to his master, seeking permission to speak.
“Answer him,” came the order.
“Yes, sir. Very,” Taranis whispered. The rope pulled tight at his throat, but he managed a faint smile as Grael offered water.
“Why did you take the man’s life?” Grael asked.
“I didn’t mean to. I was trained to obey the family. I heard my master’s eldest say, ‘Kill the farmer.’ I followed the order.” Taranis hoped Grael might listen—unlike the others.
“So your punishment is for following orders?” Grael rubbed his chin.
“The ridge is, sir. This stone is.”
“And the mask?”
“I spoke defiance. I threatened the clan. I’m just an exile. They want me to remember it.”
“I know who you are. The mask stays. But under my command, you’ll be fed and watered. Training will be punishing ĺso harsh you’ll wish you were back on this rock.” Grael studied the boy.
“Roake,” he called to the clan chief, “this boy is already half-starved. But if he is who you say he is, he’ll become a beast of a warrior. How long left on the rock?”
“Until sunrise. One more night in the mask two sunrises in total. But tonight we celebrate. You’ve arrived, and we have business.”
“Indeed,” Grael said. “And he is my business. Have you seen the dragons and wolves nearby?”
“Yes. They raised this one until my son, Solaris, and I found him. He was curled into a white wolf, half-dead from fever and hunger.”
“They still cry for him, Father,” Solaris said, approaching with a bowl of porridge and wild berry drink. Without a word, other slaves joined him and began to feed Taranis.
“Take him down once he’s eaten. Keep the binds on. He’ll fight Rock if he wins, the mask is removed. If he fails, we add stone to his punishment,” Grael said, glancing at the boy’s hands.
Taranis was cut down and led back to the training circle. Grael himself loosened the ropes. “Until I trust you,” he warned, “you’ll remain bound—even in battle.”
Taranis stayed silent as a spear was tossed toward him and the match began. Rock, a short but muscular man, charged and struck Taranis’s arm. Taranis moved fast, twisting around each blow, using his restraints to his advantage. Blow for blow, he met the attack until finally, Rock crashed to the ground.
Taranis hesitated.
“Kill him! He’s worthless!” the clan leader shouted.
“No one’s worthless,” Taranis said, breathing hard. “No matter what we are.”
“Sixty lashes!” the chieftain roared. “Spread over three days.”
“Chief,” Grael interrupted, “don’t tie him to the rock. Let him walk through the village under my warriors’ guard. At dawn, he fights two of my men. Let him train and work in the mask if you must but feed him. Water him.”
Grael turned to Taranis. “You talk like a chieftain, but you wear binds. You are the property of your master just like his house is his, just like this land is his. Never forget it. You’re a strong warrior, but you’ve much to learn. Tonight, you will serve my meal masked and restrained.”
The warriors dragged Taranis by the tether to the flogging tree. His arms were stretched wide as the branch was brought down.
Taranis bit his tongue, stifling screams. He hadn’t just disappointed Grael he’d embarrassed him. His eyes scanned the slaves watching faces of black and white, eyes wide, breaths held. His legs buckled. His will broke.
“Lift him! He still has ten to go!” the punisher growled.
They hoisted him upright again, forced to endure every final strike. Among the gathered slaves, whispers began.
“We are not just meat… We are people. Like our masters.”
“ANYONE DARES DEFY ME, YOU’LL GET THE SAME!” the chieftain bellowed. But the whispering didn’t stop.
Something had been seeded.
Later, Taranis was carried to a hut. A woman entered with herbs and cloth.
“I know you can’t talk with the mask on,” she said, kneeling beside him. “But Grael sent me to tend your wounds. What you said… gave the others hope. Dangerous hope.”
Taranis nodded, noticing the slave brand on her arm.
“Water and food,” she said, motioning to a guard. The mask was removed briefly.
“Careful. He bites like a wolf,” the man muttered, tightening the tether.
She ignored him and began to feed Taranis warm, fruity porridge. Blissful after starvation. As a warrior-slave, he received small privileges others didn’t.
Moments later, guards grabbed him again.
“Dig the fire pit.”
Taranis met the man’s eyes and didn’t move.
“GRAEL! HE’S REFUSING ORDERS!”
“DO AS YOU’RE TOLD!” Grael barked.
Taranis obeyed. Pain burned through every movement, but he didn’t complain. Hours passed.
“Now the troops need water,” Grael said.
A yoke was placed across Taranis’s shoulders, buckets tied at either side.
“ANY spillage, whip him,” Grael ordered, knowing full well the task was nearly impossible.
That night, as the feast began, the druid sang of warriors and spirits. Taranis, masked and tethered, served Grael’s meal.
“Have you tried this before, boy?” Grael asked, eyeing the meat on his plate.
Taranis shook his head, unable to answer.
“Hold it, slave,” one of the chieftain’s sons barked.
“I challenge the slave to a fight to the death,” the eldest declared.
“He will win. Are you sure?” Grael asked.
“My son wants justice for the farmer. Let him fight,” the chieftain said proudly.
“So be it,” Grael agreed. “After the meal, we’ll have entertainment.”
“What does he get if he wins?” a child asked.
“He’ll live to breathe another day,” Grael replied. “Perhaps an extra ration.”
It didn’t sound like much—even to Taranis but it was more than most.
“Then let him fight without the binds,” Solaris challenged. “Or are you afraid?”
“Very well. No restraints.”
Taranis nodded. At least the fight would be fair. He stepped into the fighting stones. Grael unshackled him.
“I hope you win,” he said. “You could give us the edge in battle. If you lose at least you’ll die with honour.”
“Yes, sir.”
Taranis refused a weapon. His opponent came in fast with a staff, but he ducked, twisted, and struck. The collar remained, but without the tether, he moved freely. They clashed with raw force until the chief’s son crashed to the ground, groaning and bleeding.
Taranis stood over him. One final stamp would end it.
“I refuse to kill the chieftain’s son,” he said, dropping to one knee.
“I command you kill him!” Grael shouted.
“I cannot. I will not take a sacred life unless in battle.”
“You may be a slave,” Grael said slowly, “but you act with honour. A killer obeys orders. A warrior knows restraint. You know the difference.”
“Place him back in binds. He lives to breathe another day,” the chieftain said. “And tend to my son, who lives with the shame of defeat. The gods have spoken Taranis followed his orders. It is proven.”
As wolves howled in the distance, the crowd fell silent.
“Take him to the hut,” Grael ordered. “Not the rock. He’s a warrior. He will still be punished but he’s earned the right to stand.”
I stood where thunder carved the sky, Where old oaths broke, and none asked why. The staff I raised was not for war, But for the ghosts I still fight for.
Boldolph’s eyes were iron flame, They spoke of love, not seeking fame. His growl a warning, not a threat A brother’s bond I won’t forget.
The wolves still watch. The dragons wake. Each vow we make, each path we take A storm-born soul must never stray From fire-wrought truth or shadowed way.
Let others rule with golden tongue, I lead where pain and praise are sung. For every scar upon my frame Is carved from love, not just from flame.
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.
“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:
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.
The stone circle of Emberhelm stood silent under the pale light of morning., five cairnstones glowing faintly in their ancient places. The air shimmered with a stillness that only came before something eternal was spoken.
Taranis Stormborne, cloaked in black and silver. stepped ahead to the first cairn the one carved with roots and mountains, circled in white ochre. He turned to face the gathered warriors, wolves, and wanderers.
“Before the dragons flew,” he said, “before the wolves howled, there were five lines of fire. We knew only three. But today, we remember them all.”
He turned to Draven, who stepped ahead slowly, still favouring his side.
“Brother you bled for us. You survived what none should have. You guarded the line even when no one knew it was there.”
Taranis drew a shard of stone from the cairn itself. Then handed it to Draven, and placed a firm hand on his shoulder.
“By the weight of the earth and the strength of the mountain, I name you Lord of Terra.”
A cheer rose from the crowd, led by the wolves, then echoed by the dragons above. Draven bowed not to Taranis, but to the people.
Taranis turned then, slowly, toward the fifth cairn the one none had touched in generations. It bore a sunmark, and a spiral, and a cut across its base. where an old flame once split the stone.
Beside it stood Rayne, straight-backed now, though his eyes still bore the shadow of the collar. And beside him stood Tirena, a woman of stone and flame, silent and radiant. With one hand resting lightly on the hilt of her sun-marked blade.
Taranis paused before speaking not as a warlord, but as a brother.
“Rayne. We lost you once. You were chained, beaten, turned into a whisper. But you came back. And with you came fire not born of wrath, but of forgiveness.”
“Yet even flame must have form. And no one guards the flame better than the one who sees in silence.”
He turned to Tirena.
“Knight of Lumen, daughter of the dawn do you stand beside him of your own will?”
Tirena gave a single nod, her voice soft and fierce.
“I do. Not for crown. For cause.”
Taranis placed his hand on Rayne’s shoulder, and raised his other toward the sun.
“Then by the fire that remembers and the light that does not burn. I name you Rayne of Lumen, Lord of the Fifth House.”
The crowd was still for a heartbeat.
Then a pulse rolled through the cairns. A faint hum, like the deep breath of the land itself, stirred the hair of every person there.
The ley lines had awakened.
Five fires, once lost, now stood again.
Taranis looked out across the gathered faces his brothers. His people, the wolves, the dragons, the flame keepers and shadow walkers who had followed him through storm and silence.
His voice dropped low, just above a whisper, but the wind carried it to every ear.
“I know I wasn’t there for you. I’ll always regret that. Father exiled me… and maybe I would’ve run anyway. But that exile taught me many things.”
He looked to each brother in turn Lore, cloaked in dusk and silence. Drax, ever the storm, hands calloused from war. Draven, grounded like stone. And Rayne, flame rekindled beside the steel gaze of Tirena.
Taranis smiled, but it was not the smile of a warlord. It was that of a boy who had once been cast out. Now stood at the heart of everything he loved.
Just then, Draven stepped ahead again, his voice steady.
“Brother… you were exiled at eight,” he said. “We not protect you then. But we can stand with you now.”
Taranis’s gaze faltered for the briefest moment not from shame, but from the sudden weight of grace.
“And I will never walk alone again,” he answered, his voice thick with feeling.
Around them, the wind stirred the banners of each House. The cairns pulsed faintly, glowing at their roots. Overhead, the wings of dragons cast long shadows across the circle. And for the first time in generations, all five ley lines were whole.
Thank you to everyone who took the time to read yesterday’s Authors Note.
just a warning : This is NOT EDITED in anyway so there will be spelling mistakes and grammar issues., structure issues.
Why am I doing this?
The reason I’m saying hello in English. German, Russian, Spanish, Swedish and Welsh (I do apologise if I’ve spelt or wrote anything wrong)
The reason for it is those are the top countries in my stats for viewing my site.
THANK YOU
Thank you and USA youre number one. Thank you, and last night’s authors note had more likes than any other piece.
AI and Me
Well I’ve tried AI and still think even with all the errors. My writings probably better, than ai even though I use it to Polish my work it feels wrong.
Less human! Less capable of putting in what it takes to make the reader feel. SO after talking to my child who is a one of the biggest book nerds I’ve know. Someone who states don’t use AI they steal from other writers.
They are right but my stories are mine and double checked even triple checked not just through grammarly. But I also paste anything that I’m suspicious of direct into search engines manually check. If something worth doing it’s worth doing right !
The Plan Today
What’s on the plan today is easy 4 pieces.
This authors note
1 story – Three houses of Caernath part 7
1 poem – based on the eternal lords
1 article
1 recipe. Inspired by the bronze age
Where is my world based?
Someone asked me where are my stories / world based?
Worcestershire.
The House of Flame – Ignis.
Infact Emberhelm is based on the Malvern Hills and surrounding areas. Where I walked every weekend as a child and teen. An area stepped in history and folklore from Roman Britain to today.
Shropshire, Welsh marches and Staffordshire
The houses of Lore and Drax
Tempestas (house of storm) and Umbria (the house of shadow)
While Drax guards the marches with his armies of tempestas. Lore works his charms throughout his lands of Umbra. Taranis sits in the main house of Ignis. Soon to be joined by two others.
Again I spent hours walking not just around my village. But Cannock chase and Tettenhall woods, Walsall woods, cannock woods. I listened to historians, folklorists, read books on mythology, folklore, hauntings of the areas.
Other areas
I’ve walked Glastonbury Tor. (The hard way even ended up crawling at the top. But worth it and I proved to myself I can achieve the impossible. )
I’ve walked the long mynd (shropshire)where a village is said to have disappeared. The walks beautiful but not for those with mobility issues.
I’ve visited Wales (let’s face the truth at one point most of England was welsh). so when I include Welsh it more of a nod to ancestral heritage. My favourite place in Wales is Pembrokeshire.
Everywhere I go I’m learning not just the history but any folklore people are willing to share.
Growing up in Staffordshire gave me an opening to learn the Lore. Of not just my village but cannock chase and many other areas.
I was told “never put rough articles on your blog”. but when you don’t have funds for an editor for your articles where do you go?
Many indie writers told me once Grammarly but that’s ai isnt it? If anyone has any suggestions please let me know.
I’m learning and slowly starting to use my own raw writing on this site.
Have a good day, and to those in war torn areas or going through tough times. blessing and positive thoughts go out to you.
From the first howl on the wind to the firelit feasts of Caernath, StormborneLore now stands tall a living archive of myth, memory, and meaning.
In these past 19 days, you’ve journeyed through:
✨ Poems of Spirit and reflections from wolves, dragons, outcasts, and gods 🔥 Tales of Hardship and Hope, stories born in darkness, rising toward the light 🍖 Feasts of the Ancients, recipes inspired by the meals of warriors, crones, and storm-born kings. ⚖️ Truths of Our Time articles echoing modern struggles: disability, injustice, survival, and healing
Each post is more than just a page — it’s a voice from the halls of Emberhelm.
“When all the world forgets us, we will still sing around the fire.” Taranis Stormborne
To every reader who’s wandered these halls, thank you. To every warrior, wolf, and flamekeeper yet to come welcome home.
StormborneLore Fiction forged in myth. Truth written in fire.
Draven watched his younger brother with the quiet reverence of a man who had walked through fire. To find a home on the other side. Though the aches in his ribs still tugged at his breath, he laughed a genuine, full-throated laugh. as he caught Rayne peeking from behind a weathered oak near the feast.
Rayne’s cloak hung awkwardly over one shoulder, and though his hands were free. He held them stiffly as if still expecting chains.
Draven looked back to Taranis, who stood tall and proud. The firelight glinting off the rings etched into his forearms marks of every clan he’d freed, every vow he’d kept.
“You’re not the only one who can’t die, Taranis. The bards will call us the Eternal Lords. The Man of the Woods, the Warrior of the March… But what about you, brother? What will they say?”
Taranis grinned, but his eyes stayed on Rayne.
“The Lord with a Heart. The Flame that Walks. The Warlord who Wept.”
He turned to Draven. “What ails him, truly?”
Draven’s smile dimmed.
“He survived,” he said softly. “And survival… isn’t as easy to wear as a legend.”
Taranis nodded, the smile gone. “Then I’ll not offer him a title. Or a command. I’ll offer him what was once denied us all.”
He walked from the firelight and toward the shadows where Rayne stood alone, arms folded and eyes like flint.
“You Came Back.” Rayne didn’t speak as Taranis approached. His jaw twitched. He stepped backward out of habit until his heel hit a root and stopped him.
Taranis said nothing at first. He simply sat on the fallen log nearby, stretching his legs and sighing into the evening air.
“When I was your age,” he said, “I thought silence made me strong. That if I didn’t speak of the beatings, or the exile, or the hunger… then I had won.”
He picked up a small stone and turned it over in his hand.
“But silence doesn’t win. It buries. And buried things don’t stay buried, brother. Not forever.”
Rayne looked down, fists clenched.
“They said you were dead.”
“So did I,” Taranis replied. “And then I woke up… and realized I wasn’t done.”
Rayne’s voice cracked.
“Why didn’t you come for me?”
Taranis flinched not visibly, but somewhere behind the eyes.
He finally looked up, tears bright in his eyes. “And I believed them.”
Taranis didn’t speak. He rose slowly, walked the short distance, and pulled Rayne into his arms.
Rayne stood stiff as iron pthen broke. His head fell against Taranis’s shoulder, and the boy who had been a slave sobbed like the child he never got to be.
The Wolves Watched From the trees, Boldolph watched, crouched low, Morrigan beside him.
“He’s not ready,” the black wolf growled.
“He’s more ready than you were,” Morrigan said softly.
Boldolph grunted. “He’s not like Taranis. Or Draven. The fire isn’t in him.”
Morrigan smiled. “No. But the river is.”
Boldolph glanced at her, confused.
“Some of us are made for flame and rage. Others for healing and flow. Rayne… is the river that remembers every stone.”
Morning Comes to Emberhelm By dawn, the fires had burned low and the children were asleep in bundles of wool and bracken.
The warriors sat nursing sore heads and full bellies, and the dragons Pendragon and Tairneanach lay curled in silence, watching the horizon like guardians of an old dream.
Taranis stood before the gathering. His cloak flapped in the morning wind, and behind him the stone cairns of Caernath glowed faintly as if the ancestors were listening.
“Brothers. Sisters. Flamekeepers. Healers. Shadowwalkers and Stormborn alike. You have all walked through fire, through blood, through the turning of the old ways. Now it is time to choose.”
“Today we name the Three Houses of Caernath not for power, but for purpose. No longer shall bloodlines dictate loyalty. From now on, you choose where you belong.”
“Those who fight whose strength lies in blade and storm come to the House of the Storm.”
“Those who heal, protect, and serve who hold flame and lore come to the House of the Flame.”
“And those who walk between who guard the forgotten places, who speak to shadows, or carry wounds that cannot be seen come to the House of the Shadow.”
Rayne Steps Ahead The crowd murmured. Solaris stood tall near the Flame. Draven took his place beneath the storm banner. Morrigan stood beneath the flame, Boldolph beside her though his stance was still more wolf than man.
And then slowly, silently Rayne stepped forward.
All eyes turned.
He walked past the flame. Past the storm. And stood alone beneath the third banner, woven with deep purples and grey threads: the House of the Shadow.
Gasps rippled.
Rayne turned, voice calm but steady.
“I am not whole. But I am not broken.”
“I have walked in chains. I have worn silence like a second skin. I am no warlord, no healer, no dragon-slayer.”
“But I remember. And I will not let the forgotten be lost again.”
After the Choosing Later that night, Taranis found him by the cairnstones.
“The House of the Shadow,” he said. “I never thought someone would choose it first.”
Rayne smiled faintly. “Someone had to.”
“You know… I think it might be the strongest house of all.”
StormborneLore 