Category: StormborneLore

Taranis The Wilderness Years Part 3.

The Mask and the Warrior.

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.”

🛡️ Copyright
© 2025 E.L. Hewitt StormborneLore.co.uk
All rights reserved. This work may not be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means without the express written permission of the author.

Further Reading

THE WILDERNESS YEARS Part 1.

THE WILDERNESS YEARS PART 2

The Iron Voice of Grael.

Survival Gruel of the Exile.

July 19, 2025
The Halls of Emberhelm

Court Beneath the Storm

A tale from the Chronicles of Taranis Stormborne

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.

The court was full.

Farmers. Warriors. Mothers. Messengers. Petitioners. Accusers.

This was the burden of the Stormborne to listen.

The first voice was a child’s.

“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:

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

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July 14, 2025
After the Duel

A Fireside Conversation

The courtyard had long emptied. The ash of the fire pits still glowed faintly, casting soft light on stone walls and weary limbs.

Taranis sat alone, legs stretched, a jug of broth in one hand,. the other flexing and sore from the clash with Boldolph.

The crack of staffs still echoed in his bones.

Footsteps approached not boots, but clawed paws. Heavy, padded, unmistakable.

Boldolph.

Without a word, the old wolf-man knelt beside him, a strip of clean linen in hand. He took Taranis’s wrist and began to bind the bruises, slow and methodical, like a ritual done a hundred times.

“You didn’t hold back,” Taranis said after a moment.

“You didn’t ask me to.”

The silence between them was old, familiar. Like the stillness before a storm. Or the hush before a boy became a warlord.

“I needed them to see I bleed too,” Taranis muttered, wincing as the linen tightened. “That I fall. That I get back up.”

Boldolph grunted.

“They already know you bleed,” he said. “They just needed to see you still feel it.”

Taranis looked toward the sky. Smoke trailed like threads into the blackness. One dragon circled high above, a quiet sentinel.

“I keep thinking,” he said, “about when I was exiled. Alone in the wilds. All I had was that storm inside me and the promise that no one was coming.”

He looked down at the staff beside him.

“And now… now there’s you. Solaris. Lore. Drax. Rayne. Even Draven. I have everything I never thought I would. And I don’t know how to hold it without crushing it.”

Boldolph didn’t speak at first. Just poured a second jug of broth and handed it to him.

Then he said, low and hoarse:
“Every beast that’s ever bared teeth knows fear. Not of pain. Of losing what it’s fought to protect.”

He paused, eyes distant.

“I was exiled once too. Long before you were born. I clawed through snow and silence, not knowing if I was cursed or chosen. I still don’t.”

Taranis turned to him.

“You stayed. Even cursed. Even as a wolf.”

Boldolph nodded.

“Because someone had to. And because I believed that one day, the one I guarded would understand the weight of the fire he carried.”

The flames crackled beside them. Taranis took a slow sip of broth.

“I understand it now.”

Boldolph gave a grunt soft, almost approving. Then he stood, stretched, and turned toward the shadows.

“You’re not alone anymore, High Warlord,” he said. “Stop trying to fight like you are.”

Then he was gone, back into the night, tail flicking behind him like a whisper of old magic.

Taranis sat a while longer.

Then he smiled.

Not like a warlord. Not like a weapon.

Like a man who had bled, fallen, and been lifted again by the hand of a wolf.

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.

July 13, 2025
The Road to Umbra Written from Lore’s perspective

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.

July 13, 2025
Training Day at Ignis

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

The Prophecies and Tales of Taranis Unfolded

July 12, 2025
Did Bronze Age People Know About Ley Lines?

Spoiler: Not by name but they felt the land’s power.

They didn’t call them ley lines.
They didn’t mark them with ink.
But the builders of cairns and stone paths walked in tune with something deep a rhythm etched in earth and sky.

Across prehistoric Britain, ancient people aligned their lives and deaths with natural forces that modern names can only echo.

🧭 What Are Ley Lines?
Today, ley lines are understood as invisible paths said to connect places of ancient or spiritual importance a kind of unseen network crossing the landscape.

The idea gained attention in the 1920s when Alfred Watkins, a British thinker and historian, observed that many old sites from standing stones and burial mounds to chapels and crossroads seemed to fall into long, straight lines on the map.

Though his view was practical at first, later generations embraced the mystical side. The idea of earth energy flowing beneath our feet became a key part of modern folklore, spiritual healing, and even fiction.

🔥 Did Bronze Age People Believe in Them?
They had no word for “ley lines.”
But they knew how to read the land.

Stone Circles & Sunlines
Sites like Stonehenge were built with exact alignments to solstices, star paths, and natural landmarks. These weren’t accidents they were maps carved in stone.

Sacred Roads
Ceremonial trackways like the raised Avenue near Stonehenge weren’t for trade. They were used in rituals, processions, or seasonal gatherings.

High Cairns & Burial Sites
Ancient barrows were often placed on ridges visible for miles, suggesting a belief in sightlines and spiritual pathways.

Mystic Memory
Many later myths from Celtic and Welsh traditions speak of dragon roads, fairy paths, and spirit lines echoes of older beliefs in a world shaped by invisible forces.

🌌 In StormborneLore…

House Ignis draws from the fire-veins beneath the Malvern Hills

House Umbra guards the shadows where old stones hum

House Tempestas rides the storm-lines through the Marches

House Terra roots into the deep stones of the north

House Lumen awakens where sun and soul meet

And in the centre Emberhelm, where all lines converge, and prophecy stirs the stones.

🐉 So… Did They Know?
Not in words.
But in ritual, in rhythm, and in the way their bones followed the wind, the ancient people of Britain lived by the lines long before we gave them a name.

And perhaps, deep under our modern roads and ruins…
the lines are still there, waiting.

A colorful illustration encouraging readers to engage with StormborneLore’s content, featuring a sunny sky and grassy background.

July 11, 2025
The Houses of Caernath Part 7

The Fifth Flame

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 for reading

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

💬 If this spoke to you, please like, share, and subscribe to support our mythic journey.

Further Reading

The Prophecies and Tales of Taranis Unfolded

The Chronicles of Drax

Join the Adventure in Tales of Rayne’s Universe

Ancient Magic and Myth of the Stormborne

July 11, 2025
Good Afternoon, God eftermiddag, Prynhawn Da, Buenas tardes, Guten Tag, Добрый день (Author note)

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.

Please try to stay safe.

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

If this spoke to you, please like, share, and subscribe to support our mythic journey.

I wrote this directly into wordpress so absolutely no editing.

July 11, 2025
100 Tales from the Halls of Emberhelm 🐉

100 posts. 19 days. 6 tales a day.

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.

July 10, 2025
The Houses of Caernath Part 6

The Path They Choose

StormborneLore Original Story

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.”

Rayne nodded. “We carry the weight.”

[TO BE CONTINUED]

Further Reading

July 10, 2025