A colorful illustration of a bird soaring above a vibrant landscape, surrounded by a decorative border.A striking illustration of a red wolf howling, symbolizing strength and kinship in the narrative of Emberhelm.A howling wolf painted against a vibrant blue background, embodying themes of kinship and wilderness.A striking artwork of a wolf howling at the moon, set against a vibrant purple background, symbolizing strength and spirit in the context of kinship.A vibrant illustration depicting a dragon surrounded by nature, showcasing the essence of storytelling and fantasy.
The great hall of Emberhelm pulsed with firelight. Smoke curled upward from the long hearth, rich with the scent of charred lamb fat, root vegetables, and sweet herbs.
It was a scent that stirred memory of winter hunts. Harvest feasts, and nights when the storm howled but the fire held fast.
Taranis stood at the head of the long stone table. His arms folded behind his back, a rare softness in his eyes. To his right sat Lore, robes still dusted with ash from the spell that broke the curse. To his left, Drax toyed with his carving knife, his appetite as fierce as ever.
But it was the spaces beyond that caught the eye.
Boldolph sat with his broad, wolfish shoulders hunched, a strip of roast meat gripped in one clawed hand. Morrigan.
Once white wolf, now flame-haired woman, laughed as she stirred a pot near the hearth beside Solaris. Who sprinkled crushed nettle and wild garlic into the steaming soup.
And near the fire, two boys sat on a bench Nyx and Rayne. The latter still bore the bruises of captivity, but his shoulders had relaxed, his collar gone. Nyx offered him a chunk of honeyed root and a crude wooden spoon. The boy’s smile was slow, cautious. But it came.
Taranis raised a horn of wild berry wine.
“Tonight, no war. No judgment. No weight of kingship or curse. Tonight, we eat.”
A cheer rang through the hall.
The first course was served hearth-brewed vegetable broth, thick with barley, wild leeks, and stinging nettle. Simple, earthy. Morrigan’s touch. The nettle had been boiled thrice, mellowing its sting but keeping its iron-rich heart.
Then came the main feast braised lamb neck, rubbed with ash salt and roasted on iron spits. It fell from the bone into honeyed mash made of parsnip and turnip, flanked by fire-roasted carrots. leeks, and bruised apples wrapped in dock leaves.
A vegetarian version of roasted nuts, wild mushrooms, and legumes. Bound with barley and wild garlic was passed to those who’d taken vows of gentleness.
The hall grew louder with warmth and full bellies. Solaris poured ladle after ladle of broth. Boldolph, face still savage, offered a growled blessing in the tongue of old wolf-warriors. Even Lore smiled briefly.
And then came dessert.
Forest fruit compote slow-stewed blackberries, crab apples, and hazelnuts served over a rough cake of grain and honey. It wasn’t sweet in the way of sugar, but it hummed with the wild tang of the land.
As the fire cracked lower, Taranis rose once more.
“We have reclaimed brothers,” he said. “Rayne is free. Draven will return soon. Boldolph and Morrigan have chosen forms of their own. Solaris has cast down his chains. And you my kin you have chosen your Houses.”
He turned, gesturing to three newly hung banners behind the head table.
Tempestras storm-grey with blue lightning: the House of the Storm.
Ignis flickering red and gold: the House of the Flame.
Umbra shadowed silver moon eclipsing a burnt-orange sun: the House of the Shadow.
“Caernath lives again,” Taranis said. “Not through conquest but through kinship. Through the storm we were broken. But by fire and shadow, we are reforged.”
Rayne rose, slowly, holding up a crude carving the three brothers etched into a cairnstone, side by side.
“Then let it be known,” he said, “that Stormborne is no longer just a name. It is a vow.”
Lore pressed a hand to the stone, then nodded.
“A vow… and a future.”
And beneath the storm-beaten beams of Emberhelm, the wolves howled once more not from pain or exile, but from joy.
Feast Notes (Modern Budget Version approx. £10 total):
The screams echoed off the stone walls of Emberhelm like the wind of old gods mourning. They weren’t screams of pain, but of release centuries of silence and curse unraveling into the night.
Morrigan collapsed first, the white fur shedding in great clouds that shimmered like frost. Her limbs twisted, reshaped. Bones cracked. Light laced through her as though fire ran in her veins.
When it was over, she knelt there, naked and human once more. Tall, slim, freckled, her long red hair cascading down her shoulders like the sun had kissed her into being.
Lore, standing nearby with his hands still outstretched from the spell, stumbled back, exhausted. His voice trembled.
“It is done.”
Boldolph did not scream.
He roared.
A roar that turned the blood of every warrior in Emberhelm cold. His black fur thickened, but did not fall away. His body bulged with new strength arms growing longer, spine broadening, but the wolf did not vanish. Instead, the man stepped ahead from the beast, and what remained was both.
A wolf-man. A warrior unlike any other.
Lore turned to his brothers. “Boldolph chose this. A warrior’s form. His path remains in the hunt, not the hearth.”
Taranis watched, silent, hand resting on the hilt of his sword. Morrigan, now fully clothed in a borrowed shawl, stepped across the courtyard to a waiting man her husband. They embraced without fear.
“She’s still loved,” Taranis muttered, half to himself.
Lore heard him anyway. “And no one fears them now. Not like they did you.”
Taranis smirked, eyes glinting. “If she wasn’t married, I’d have made her mine.”
“Careful,” Drax chuckled from behind, sharpening his axe on the stone steps. “You’re a warlord, not a poet.”
Taranis turned, expression softer now. “He screamed, you know. Our father. The night I was exiled.”
Lore nodded. “He didn’t know what to do. But he regretted not letting you stay. Mother wept for months. Still wore your wolf bone pendant long after we buried it in the cairn.”
“Did they know I was alive?”
“They did.” Lore crouched, drawing a symbol in the dirt. “Boldolph kept them informed. Something about the tribe’s elder being the only one who can hear his thoughts. Said our ancestor lived in you.”
Taranis gave a dry laugh. “Our ancestor, eh? Boldolph told me that too. Great-grandfather five times back, wasn’t it?”
Drax’s voice cut in. “Father called to Boldolph when you were exiled. Said the storm had swallowed you whole. What happened out there?”
Taranis exhaled, jaw tight.
“Adventure. Hunger. Despair. I was nearly dead when Solaris’s father found me, just beyond Blackclaw territory. They took me in. His father made me a slave, heavy work for little return. I treated his son in exchange for scraps. But Solaris he remembered me. He saw more than a starving boy.”
Lore rested a hand on his brother’s shoulder.
“You survived.”
“I endured,” Taranis corrected.
He stepped ahead and raised his voice so all gathered hear.
“Boldolph. Morrigan. Solaris. You are free now. The chains of old curses, of blood debts, and oaths not chosen gone. But I ask you this…”
He paused, turning slowly.
“Will you stay?”
The fire pits roared to life, casting flickering gold over the three freed souls. Solaris stood tall, still bearing the ash-mark of Flamekeeper. Morrigan leaned into her husband’s side, eyes scanning the faces around her. Boldolph’s red eyes flared, unreadable.
Taranis continued, “There are three houses in Caernath now. The House of the Storm — for warriors and defenders. The House of the Flame for healers, lorekeepers, and seers. And the House of the Shadow for scouts, spies, and those who walk the forgotten paths. Each of you has earned a place, should you wish it.”
He looked to them, one by one.
“If you leave, so be it. With my blessing. With food. With horses so the fair lady no longer walks barefoot through bramble. know this: your path and mine will cross again. Whether as friend or foe… that remains to
A few chuckled.
“But if you stay…” he added, softer now. “then the food is yours to share, we shall ride and fight together as brothers and sisters.”
Lore stood beside him, arms folded. “Three houses. Three choices.”
Drax, ever the blunt one, added, “But don’t take too long to decide. Winter’s hunting season comes fast.”
Silence.
Then Solaris stepped ahead.
“I will stay.”
His voice was calm, like embers beneath ash.
“But not as a servant. As a Flamekeeper. As a free man.”
Taranis nodded once. “Then take your place in the House of the Ignis”
Boldolph came next, stepping ahead with thunder in his stride. His beast-form loomed, but he knelt low before Taranis.
“I stay,” he growled. “But not as man. Not as beast. As both. I fight with you. For Stormborne.”
Taranis placed a hand on the wolf-man’s brow. “House of the Tempestas then.”
Morrigan stepped ahead last. The crowd held their breath.
“I have known healing. And fury. And grief. But I choose to give life now, not chase vengeance. I will stay… as a healer.”
Lore smiled.
“House of Umbra welcomes you.”
The wind picked up. Overhead, Pendragon flew a wide arc above the fort, and the sky shivered with promise.
Taranis raised his voice once more.
“The Houses are chosen. The bonds are made. The future begins now forged in flame, bound by oath, tempered by storm.”
And far below, in the silent stones of Emberhelm, the echoes of curses past gave way to something new.
A howl not of sorrow.
But of belonging as a mysterious stranger approached.
“I know to well how brothers can turn on each other ” a voice behind them said one they vafukey recognised
Drax arched a brow “rayne? Little brother is that you? We thought you lost?”
Rayne Nodded a thick iron coller around his neck with black claw marking in
“Who did this ” Tanaris whistles for Pendragon as his brother collapsed through torture and starvation
“Black Claw they still have Draven”
“I going to wipe that clan out ” Tanaris said
“NO YOUNG ONE NOT ALONE” boldolph said
“Morrigan he’s doing it again can I eat him or Pendragon” Boldolph said seeing the young one Tanaris flying towards enemy land as if to rescue another brother
Morrigan looked over “he will return now Rayne”. she ordered as Solaris prepared food and she gathered healing herbs.
post script
Which House Do You Belong To? In the lands of Caernath, every soul has a path.
Do you crave thunder and battle like Boldolph? You belong to House Tempestras the warriors.
Do you heal with fire and memory like Solaris and Morrigan? House Ignis calls you the keepers of lore and flame.
Do you move in shadow, unseen yet ever watchful? Then step into House Umbra where secrets become power.
🧭 Tell us in the comments: Which house would you choose and why? Feel free to share this post and invite others to find their stormbound path.
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Artistic depiction of a fierce wolf howling at the moon, embodying the spirit of the Wild Years and the bond between Taranis and the great wolves of Caernath.Abstract artwork featuring intricate patterns and vibrant colors, created by artist ELHewitt from StormborneArts.A striking depiction of the great wolf Boldolph, symbolizing loyalty and strength in the tale of Taranis Stormborne.Vibrant artwork depicting Taranis Stormborne and the thunder-dragon Tairneanach, symbolizing their powerful bond in the world of Emberhelm.
High Warlord of Emberhelm Exile. Survivor. Dragon Rider.
“The storm did not break me. It made me.” Taranis Stormborne
Born of Storm. Forged by Fire. Taranis Stormborne was not born to rule. He was born beneath a sky torn open by lightning. Marked by omens the elders feared and prophecies they not control. At just eight years old, he was cast out—exiled for powers no one dared understand.
But exile did not break him. It shaped him.
Exile and the Wild Years
Driven from Emberhelm into the haunted woods of Caernath. The boy who should have died found allies no tribe claim.: the great wolves Boldolph and Morrigan, creatures of fang and flame who walked between spirit and shadow.
From them, Taranis learned the old truths how to hunt, to command silence, to harness the storm within.
The Dragon Bond
Years later, during a blood eclipse at Rykar’s Ridge, Taranis encountered the thunder-dragon Tairneanach, long thought lost to legend. In that moment, lightning met fire. Beast and man did not tame one another they recognized each other.
The storm had chosen its rider.
⚔️ Rise of the Stormborne He returned not in vengeance, but in purpose. With brothers Drax and Lore at his side.Taranis united the scattered clans of the highlands and led them against the Clawclan invaders. His victory over the warlord Gaedrix at Rykar’s Ridge lit the flame of rebellion—and rebirth.
He became not just a warlord, but a symbol. The exile returned. The prophecy fulfilled.
Who Is He?
Taranis walks a line between fire and mercy. Towering, scarred, and grey-eyed, he speaks little and strikes hard. But beneath the ash lies a deep loyaltyto his people. To the forgotten, and to those who fight for more than conquest.
He is not king by blood. He is leader by choice. And the storm, once his curse, now answers his call.
Known As:
The Fire-Blooded
Stormborne Lord
Malcrone of Emberhelm
Rider of Tairneanach
Breaker of Clawclan
His Realm
Emberhelm, Caernath Set atop the Seven Hills of the Stormborne, Emberhelm is both fortress and flame. From here, Taranis watches the horizon not as ruler, but as guardian of the storm.
Title: Lord Commander of the Stormborne Realm: Shadowmere, Bronze Age frontier of rivers and stone Brother to: High Warlord Taranis and Lore, the Flamebearer
Character Bio:
Drax Stormborne is the iron heart of the Stormborne resistance a battle-scarred warrior whose silence weighs more than words.
Where Taranis commands with the fury of the storm and Lore with the wisdom of the ancients. Drax rules the battlefield with unwavering precision and primal force.
Raised in the shadow of his brother’s exile, Drax carved his loyalty in blood and fire. When the Clawclan advanced on the borders of Caernath. It was Drax who held the line, forging discipline into the ragged ranks of Stormborne fighters.
His realm, Shadowmere, is wild and watchful a land of rivers, woods, and ancient circles. where warriors learn to move like ghosts and strike like thunder.
Clad in furs and iron, adorned with war tattoos and scars that speak of countless battles. Drax is a living symbol of Stormborne resolve. Though his voice is rare, his presence speaks volumes protector, strategist, brother. His loyalty to Taranis is absolute, and his trust in Lore is forged through fire.
Some call him the Wolf of Shadowmere. Others, the Axe of Emberhelm. All know one truth: Drax does not retreat.
The sky over Rykar’s Ridge cracked with a sound like splitting stone.
Pendragon rose first wings stretched wide. Vast as storm sails, his bronze and emerald scales catching the last light of day. He circled high above the valley, a gleaming sovereign watching the armies assemble below.
To the west, the last kin of Stormborne gathered. Taranis stood at the forefront, grey-eyed and grave, flanked by Lore and Drax. The ground at their backs was scorched from the fire of prophecy.
To the east, under curling black clouds, came the dragon of thunder Tairneanach, black as midnight and crowned with sparks. Lightning licked his flanks. His eyes were coals, ancient and furious.
He was the dragon of reckoning, storm-forged and prophecy-bound, the one who watched from the shadows of time.
But this was no duel between beasts alone.
It was the end of an age. And dragons, it was said, chose sides not by blood — but by truth.
Taranis looked to the sky. “They’ve returned,” he said softly.
Drax scoffed. “Or come to see who burns first.”
“Dragons don’t come for sport,” Lore murmured, hand resting on the carved staff of flamewood. “They come when destiny wavers.”
The wind shifted.
Down came Pendragon, his great claws curling into the soil beside Taranis. His gaze fell on the young warlord no longer the exiled child of the woods. But a leader draped in fire-scars and ash-braided hair. Pendragon gave a low, resonant growl. Not a threat. A vow.
And across the field, Tairneanach descended like a storm himself, cracking trees and stone beneath his wingspan. His breath steamed in the air heavy with ozone. Thunder rolled in his chest.
They faced each other now: two titans born before men stood upright. Two dragons of the Stormborne prophecy.
The wind stilled.
And in that silence, Morrigan lifted her howl to the sky a signal from the ridge behind. Boldolph stood beside her in wolfman form, snarling low.
The Clawclan were moving.
“DRAX!” Taranis barked. “Hold the eastern rise!”
Drax nodded, slamming his axe against his shield. “With pleasure.”
“LORE!” he turned, voice like thunder. “Prepare the flame line. If the dragons fall—”
“They won’t,” Lore cut in, eyes glowing faintly. “But I’ll be ready.”
The Clawclan came screaming from the ridge like hornets. Painted in black and red, bone charms rattling, fire arrows loosed high. The first line met Drax’s warriors in a clash of metal, blood, and grit.
Behind them, the Stormborne shield-wall held fast. But the pressure built like a coming flood.
Pendragon roared, rearing high. With one beat of his wings, he swept fire over the Clawclan’s flank .flames so hot they melted shields anoʻd seared the earth itself. Men screamed, scattered, and fell.
But then, a second roar answered.
Tairneanach unleashed his storm.
Lightning struck the centre of the field, ripping through both earth and sky. The power coursed through bones, hearts, even memory. Clawclan warriors staggered but so did some of Stormborne’s own.
The dragons circled each other, neither striking first.
Not yet.
Amid the chaos, a boy barely of age charged toward Taranis blade too large for his arms. Face painted in fear and madness.
Taranis met him not with fury, but with mercy.
He turned the blade aside, struck the hilt, and knocked the boy unconscious.
“There’s no glory in slaying the broken,” he muttered.
A moment later, Boldolph leapt past him slamming into a Clawclan berserker with enough force to crack ribs. Morrigan followed, her white fur streaked with blood and soot, her teeth finding the throat of another.
Still the dragons circled.
Still the battle burned.
And then..
Pendragon dipped low. Not toward Tairneanach, but toward the battlefield.
A new force had emerged from the mists a second wave of Clawclan. armed with net-traps and dragon-piercing spears forged from meteoric ore.
“Cowards,” Lore hissed. “They seek to slay the sacred.”
Tairneanach landed with a thunderous quake.
He did not aid the Clawclan.
He turned against them.
His tail swept wide, sending a dozen spearmen flying. His mouth opened — but instead of lightning, he loosed a scream of pure rage.
Pendragon landed beside him, and for a moment. the two dragons stood back to back defending not sides, but something older.
Stormborne. Balance. Prophecy.
The brothers saw it too.
Taranis, Lore, Drax covered in blood and smoke turned toward the dragons now defending their people.
And Taranis whispered, “It was never a battle between them.”
“No,” said Lore. “It’s a battle for us.”
“For Stormborne,” Drax added, gripping his weapon.
Tairneanach raised his head, and with a final, sky-splitting roar, flew straight into the blackened clouds above. Pendragon followed, spiralling upward.
Together, they vanished into the storm.
And on the ridge below, the Stormborne warriors stood not victorious, but awakened.
The sky split again.
This time, it was not Tairneanach who screamed across the clouds, but Pendragon, rising high and circling above the valley. Beneath him, the Black Clawclan surged ahead like a tide of locusts. War cries rang out. Spears glinted. Shields slammed together in rhythm.
But at the front of the Stormborne line stood Taranis unmoved, massive, his blade held sideways like it weighed nothing.
Beside him, Boldolph roared half-man, half-wolf, his red eyes glowing. He slammed the butt of his axe into the ground and bared his teeth.
Behind them, Lore raised his staff. “Now!” he cried.
The runes carved into the ancient stones shimmered. The hill beneath the enemy’s feet cracked as though the land itself rejected their presence.
Drax, bloodied from an earlier clash, stood on a higher ridge, calling the warriors into formation. “Spears up! Hold the line! If we fall today, the fire dies with us!”
The dragons descended.
Pendragon spiralled downward, a comet of colour and fury. He opened his mouth and from it came not just fire, but a heat so intense it twisted the air. The Clawclan’s front ranks scattered as tents and timber exploded into flame.
From the west, Tairneanach swooped low and screamed. a bolt of lightning leapt from his jaws and struck the enemy catapult, reducing it to smouldering splinters.
“DRAGONS!” a terrified voice cried. “The legends were true!”
The battlefield was chaos.
Taranis leapt into the fray, his sword catching fire as Pendragon soared above. With every swing, a foe fell not just cut down, but shattered. It was as if the storm had learned to walk.
Boldolph tore through the lines like a shadow of vengeance. He moved low and fast, clawing one man across the chest. Slamming another with his shoulder so hard the man flew ten feet.
The brothers fought in unison, their bond forged through exile and pain.
Lore, standing at the sacred cairn, whispered ancient words. Roots erupted from the ground, tangling the Clawclan’s feet. A tree burst through the soil like a spear, skewering a line of advancing warriors.
Still they came.
From the far end of the field rode their leader a brute named Gaedrix. cloaked in bone armour and wielding twin axes carved from dragon tooth.
He bellowed a challenge.
Taranis turned. His sword burned brighter. “This ends now.”
They met in the centre of the field the High Warlord and the Bone King.
Steel clashed. Sparks flew. The ground cracked beneath their boots. Gaedrix struck wild, savage, unrelenting. But Taranis moved like wind and thunder blocking, dodging, answering with devastating power.
One swing he broke Gaedrix’s left axe.
Another he knocked the warlord to one knee.
The Bone King snarled, blood spraying from his lips. “You should’ve stayed dead, Stormborne.”
Taranis drove his blade into the ground beside him, stepped forward, and cracked Gaedrix across the jaw with his gauntlet.
“I don’t die,” he said.
Then, as the dragons roared overhead and the warriors of Stormborne shouted in unison. Taranis lifted Gaedrix above his head and hurled him toward the burning ridge.
He never rose again.
Silence swept the field.
The remaining Black Claw warriors, seeing their leader defeated, dropped their weapons. Some fled. Others dropped to their knees.
The sky cleared.
Pendragon circled once before landing beside Taranis. The great beast bowed his head, his flank marked by a shallow gash but his eyes burning bright.
Tairneanach landed beside Boldolph, nudging the wolf-man with a low, throaty growl.
Drax limped forward, laughing through the pain. “You’ve always been dramatic.”
Taranis sheathed his sword and looked around at the wreckage, the blood, the fire.
“We were born of storm,” he said. “But we survive through each other.”
Lore joined them, hand resting on the cairn stone. “The old ways live.”
From the cliffs above, children and elders peeked out watching, hoping.
Taranis turned and called, “We are Stormborne! This is your land. Your fire. Your home!”
Cheers broke like thunder across the valley.
Boldolph threw his head back and howled. Morrigan’s answering cry echoed from the woods. The wolves had returned.
Above them, the two dragons fire and storm crossed paths in the sky.
A new age had begun. The prophesy come true. Tairneanach landed near Taranis allowing Taranis to climb his back.
“I’m not the ball I’m the dragon rider ” Taranis smirked chuckling as he swooped up into the sky.
The fire had long gone out, and the cold crept in like a snake through the underbrush. Taranis sat with his back to a stone outcrop, shivering in silence. His breath came in misted gasps, though he dared not build another fire. Fire drew eyes. And eyes mean death.
He was only nine winters old skin and bones beneath a damp wolf-pelt, alone since exile. Alone… or so he believed.
Until that night.
A low growl rolled from the darkness.
Taranis reached for his stick-spear crude, splintered, tipped with flint and rose to a crouch. The growl came again, closer. Deep. Measured. Not hunger. Not rage. Warning.
The trees parted.
A shadow, massive and black, emerged from the mist.
The wolf.
Not just any wolf this one had eyes like embered blood. A scar down his left side that caught the moonlight. He have snapped Taranis in two.
But he didn’t.
Instead, the wolf circled once, then lay down, his tail wrapping around his legs. He did not blink. He just watched.
Taranis lowered his spear.
“You’re not here to eat me,” he said, voice hoarse from days without speech.
The wolf said nothing, but his ears twitched.
Taranis crept closer, sat back down beside the dying fire pit. He wrapped the pelt tighter and leaned ahead.
“I don’t know why they hate me,” he whispered.
The wolf’s eyes did not move.
“I saved my brother. I didn’t ask for the fire, or the storm. I just… did what I was told.”
Still the wolf said nothing, but his breathing was calm, deliberate like he was listening.
Taranis closed his eyes.
In the morning, he woke to warmth. Not from a fire, but from the wolf curled around him, sheltering him from the frost.
From that day onward, Boldolph never left his side.
He didn’t need to speak. His presence was enough. His strength, a shield. His silence, a vow.
Taranis never asked him why.
But deep down, he knew.
Boldolph had seen something in him not just a boy, not just a fire-starter. Something ancient. Something kin.
And Taranis, though still just a child, reached out and rested a hand on the wolf’s thick fur.
A vibrant illustration of Boldolph the black wolf howling at the moon. Embodying the mischievous spirit of the character from the poem.
(As sung by the kitchen fires)
Boldolph the black wolf sniffed the stew, His belly growled: “This meat will do!” He tiptoed past the snoring men, And dipped a paw in the broth again.
Morrigan caught him, gave a glare, “You thieving pup, don’t you dare!” But Boldolph smirked with sausage pride, And gobbled half the pot inside.
The cooks awoke to clatter and howl, The stew was gone, the bowl was foul. They found a trail of bones and crumbs, And one big wolf with sleepy gums.
Now every night the guards are warned, “Keep watch on Boldolph, ever adorned. For if you blink or turn your back, He’ll steal your soup and leave no snack!”
The sun broke through the bruised clouds, casting shafts of gold over the bloodied field. Smoke curled from the remnants of fires, and bodies friend and foe lay strewn like broken oaths across the grass. The storm had passed, but silence hung thick as grief.
Taranis stood still, sword lowered, his chest heaving. Blood streaked his arms, his face, even his hair but none of it slowed him. His eyes, grey as thunderclouds, scanned the chaos. Not for more enemies, but for the ones who had once called him brother.
A shape moved through the mist. Then another.
Lore came first tall, limping, one eye swollen shut. His armor was scorched, his left arm dripping crimson. But his voice was whole when he said, “You came back, little storm.”
Taranis didn’t speak. His jaw clenched as he looked at Lore, then at the shadow beside him. Drax emerged next, sword still slick with blood. A gash crossed his temple, but his stance was steady. They looked older. Harder. But not strangers.
“I thought you were dead,” Taranis said at last.
Drax shrugged. “We thought the same of you. For a long time.”
Lore stepped closer. “The others… they didn’t make it. The sickness. The blades. The fire.”
Taranis’s voice cracked. “None of them?”
Lore shook his head. “Only us.”
A long silence passed, broken only by the wind rustling the torn banners on the hill.
Taranis turned, scanning the field again. “I need to see them.”
Drax put a hand on his shoulder. “They’ve been gone a long time, Taranis. But you weren’t forgotten. Even when the tribe cursed you, some of us still believed.”
Lore added quietly, “Mother asked about you. Before the fever took her. She said… if the wind howled in the right way, she still hear your voice in the trees.”
Taranis closed his eyes. The wolves at his side sat in silence. Above, the dragons had vanished, leaving only smoke trails where the storm had passed.
Then, slowly, he knelt.
He didn’t weep. But he placed his blade flat against the soil and whispered words. Only the wind would carry a farewell, a promise, a mourning for all he had lost.
Lore and Drax stood beside him, the last of the Stormborne bloodline. No longer divided. No longer boys.
The mist churned with the heavy breath of the earth. It was a blanket of silence, thick as the sorrow that weighed on the air. The warriors stood, unsure whether to kneel or fight to greet their kin, or strike at their curse. There had been no warning, no word of Taranis’s return. He had simply appeared the shadows parting to reveal him like a storm-born god.
Taranis stood tall in the heart of them, his broad shoulders cut against the rolling mist. The wolves at his side. Boldolph, his red-eyed companion, a shadow of night itself, prowled silently beside him.
Morrigan, a beautiful white wolf, ever the ghost, her eyes glittering like twin embers. Moved with the grace of wind, barely disturbing the earth beneath her paws.
Above them, the storm was waiting watching. Tairneanach and Pendragon, the dragons, were not of this earth. But they lingered in the skies, their wings beating the air like the rhythm of war itself.
He did not call for battle. He did not raise a spear. He simply let the storm guide his steps. The weight of his presence alone seemed to shift the land. The earth trembling as though it too remembered what the boy now a man had become.
The warriors of his homeland, who had once been his brothers. Now looked upon him with a mixture of awe, fear, and guilt. Lore, his older brother, stood before him, his face shadowed with grief and anger. There was no joy in his eyes, only the harsh weight of lost years and lost family.
“You return, Taranis. But what have you come back to?” Lore’s voice cut through the stillness. There was no warmth in his tone. Only a coldness that ran deep, a layer of resentment that not be overlooked.
Taranis’s voice, nonetheless, was steady as thunder in the distance, resonating with the storm that had followed him for years. “I return for blood,” he said. “Not just for yours, but for mine.”
A wave of motion the clash of steel, the growl of beasts. But it wasn’t just the tribe who sought war. From the far ridge, a war band of strangers approached, their figures shrouded in shadow. They were not just raiders.
These men had come for something more like. They had heard the legends of the boy who had been cast out. The one who had walked through the storm. They had come to test the power of the Stormborne bloodline.
Taranis didn’t wait. He swept ahead, his blade gleaming like the edge of the storm, glowing with fury. Boldolph leapt alongside him, his jaws snapping at the air. A creature of black shadow and red fire, creature of his own making. Morrigan, ever the shadow, darted forward like a streak of vengeance. her white fur glowing as if the moon itself had poured through her.
The first strike landed. Taranis’s blade cut through the flesh of his nearest foe with the ease of wind through the trees. Blood sprayed from the wound, but it wasn’t just mortal men he was fighting. The storm answered him, the air vibrating as if the heavens themselves would break apart.
The Storm Unleashed Taranis fought as though he was the very storm itself. Each swing of his blade cutting through flesh like lightning raking the sky. His movements were fluid, practiced not from years of training, but from something older. He had become the storm, the blade in his hand merely an extension of his fury.
Boldolph was a black shadow beside him. His jaws closing around an enemy’s throat, tearing through flesh like a force of nature. Morrigan struck with the elegance of wind, swift and deadly, cutting through men. As though they were nothing more than smoke in the air.
Her eyes burned with the same fire that danced in Taranis’s chest. Morrigans presence was a reminder of the wildness that had shaped him.
The warriors of the rival tribe faltered under the weight of the storm that followed Taranis. The mist, which had once cloaked them in mystery. As it began to burn away, replaced by a swirling cloud of rage and prophecy. The ground rumbled beneath their feet, the clash of steel mingling with the roar of dragons in the sky.
Above them, the dragons spiraled, their forms flickering in and out of the thunderclouds. Pendragon, the King of Dragons, seemed to grow in size with each heartbeat of battle. His wings tearing through the air like the flaps of fate itself.
Tairneanach, the storm dragon, called down bolts of lightning, sending the enemy scattering in terror. He was not of the world below. But his power filled it with such force that even the mightiest warriors. were little more than ants beneath his gaze.
Lore, still standing firm at the edge of the battlefield, shouted over the chaos, his voice tinged with fear,.
“Taranis! This battle is ours to win, but not with blood alone. The storm has a price.”
Taranis glanced at his brother, the bond between them still intact despite the years of separation. Lore’s face was etched with worry, and Taranis saw the doubt in his eyes. They had fought together once, long ago. But the battlefield was different now, and so were they.
Taranis nodded, raising his sword to the sky. Pendragon roared, and the ground trembled beneath them. The clash of steel and the roar of dragons echoed across the hills as the battle raged on.
The Turning Point Taranis had always fought for survival, but now he fought for something more his legacy. This battle was more than a struggle for land or tribe. It was a struggle for what would stay of the Stormborne name. The tribe, his family, and the ancient bond of blood and storm were all tied to this moment.
Drax, his brother, caught sight of him in the thick of the battle. Their eyes met across the chaos. Drax had once been the fierce, unrelenting warrior, the protector. But now, his eyes were full of something else hesitation.
Taranis fought his way toward him, cutting through the enemy like a force of nature. When he reached Drax, there was a moment of stillness the battlefield paused, the winds held their breath.
“You fight as a man, Taranis,” Drax said, his voice rough with emotion, his sword slick with blood. “But you’ve never known the price of victory.”
Taranis’s eyes flashed with a fire of their own. “Victory isn’t about what you take. It’s about what you give.”
Drax, understanding in that moment what Taranis meant, raised his sword. “Then let us give,” he said, and together they turned. Fighting back to back, cutting through the enemy ranks with a power born of blood, storm, and flame.
The End of the Storm
The battle raged on for what felt like eternity, but slowly, the enemy forces began to break. The storm that had followed Taranis, fierce and untamed, began to recede as the last of the rival warriors fell.
The sky cleared, the clouds parted, and the first rays of sunlight broke through. casting a strange glow over the blood-soaked earth.
Taranis stood midst the chaos, bloodied but unbroken, his sword raised to the heavens. Pendragon and Tairneanach circled above, their forms still haunting the skies as their presence faded with the storm.
Lore and Drax stood beside him, their faces full of silent grief and reluctant pride. The cost had been great, and the blood of their brothers stained the earth beneath them.
But the Stormborne bloodline had endured. Taranis had returned and with him, the legacy of the Stormborne would live on. No longer a whispered legend, but a truth written in blood, storm, and flame.
StormborneLore 