(Anglo-Saxon Cycle – c. 430 AD)
Rain hammered the shutters of Rægenwine’s inn until the boards shuddered. Smoke coiled in the rafters, thick with the scent of peat, wet wool, and spilled ale. Outside, the Chase moaned beneath the wind; the storm had teeth tonight.
Rægenwine wiped the counter with a rag that smelled of salt and hops.
“Ay,” he muttered, “always storms when old ghosts come knockin’.”
The door blew open without a knock. A tall man stepped in, cloak dripping, eyes hard as river-iron Dægan. Once Prefect of Pennocrucium, now a lawman in a land with no emperor to serve.
He crossed to the hearth, boots leaving muddy scars on the floor.
“Ale,” he said.
His voice still carried Rome’s cadence command given as fact, not asking.
“Tha’ll have it,” Rægenwine answered, pouring dark froth into a cup. “Never thought I’d serve one o’ Rome’s men again.”
Before Dægan replied, another gust tore the door wide. Smoke and rain flooded the room and through it came Stormwulf, the outlaw the peasants called Thunorric. The fire flared white as he passed, throwing lightning on the walls.
“Salve, frater. Iam diu est,” he said with a half-smile that was never quite humour. Greetings, brother. It’s been a long time.
Dægan’s hand went to the hilt at his belt.
“You’ve no right to that tongue.”
“Quomodo te appello?” Stormwulf asked softly How shall I name you now?
Before Dægan answered, a voice from the benches called out,
“He’s a lawman, that one.”
Stormwulf’s grin sharpened.
“Aye. He was the Prefect. The Romans handed their slaves to the invaders”
He stepped closer, rain dripping from his hair, thunder answering outside.
“so what are you goin’ to do, Dægan? Arrest me?”
The two stared, silence vibrating between them like drawn wire.
“Peace, brothers,” said Leofric, the scribe, descending from the loft with a candle and a roll of parchment. Ink stained his fingers; wax flecks dotted his sleeves.
“Wyrd wendað geara-wælceare,” he murmured. “Fate turns the years of slaughter. It turns again tonight.”
Dægan’s eyes flicked toward him.
“You sent the summons?”
Leofric shook his head.
“No man did. The seal was older than any of us.”
A chair scraped. Eadric, rings glinting on every finger, rose from the shadows.
“Does it matter who called us? Trade dies, war comes, the Saxons push east. If the Storm-kin don’t stand together, we’ll all be dust by spring.”
Rægenwine set fresh cups on the table.
“Stand together, fight together, die together. Same as ever. You lot never learn.” He said it lightly, but his hands trembled.
Lightning cracked overhead. For an instant the five faces glowed judge, scribe, merchant, keeper, outlaw the bloodline reborn into another dying age.
Stormwulf lifted his drink.
“Then here’s to what’s left of us. The law’s gone, the kings are blind, an’ the wolves are hungry. Let’s give the world somethin’ to remember.”
They drank. The fire roared as if an unseen god breathed through it. Thunder rolled away toward the hills, leaving only rain whispering on the thatch.
For a heartbeat it felt like peace.
Then the door creaked again.
A small figure stood in the threshold a boy, ten, slim and flame-haired, his tunic soaked to the knees. His wide eyes caught every glint of the fire.
“Papà… who are these men?” he asked, looking straight at Stormwulf.
The outlaw froze. The cup slipped in his hand; ale hissed on the hearth.
Rægenwine raised his brows.
“By the saints, the wolf’s got a cub.”
Leofric’s candle wavered.
“Stormwulf has a son.”
The boy straightened, chin lifting with pride.
“Yam son thirteen,” he said, the Chase thick in his voice.
Dægan exhaled slowly.
“You hide a child through war and outlawry? What future do you think you give him?”
Stormwulf met his brother’s gaze.
“The same future Rome gave us only this time he’ll choose his chains.”
Eadric leaned forward, eyes narrowing.
“Then he’s the legacy. That’s why we were called.”
Leofric touched the parchment to his heart.
“The blood renews itself. The storm passes from father to son.”
Rægenwine poured the boy a sip of watered ale and pushed it across the counter.
“Ay, lad, welcome to the trouble. Name’s Rægenwine. Don’t worry we only bite when cornered.”
The boy smiled, uncertain but brave. Thunder rolled again, softer now, echoing deep in the forest.
Stormwulf placed a hand on the child’s shoulder.
“Whatever comes, we stand together. Storm-kin, by storm or steel.”
Dægan gave a curt nod.
“Then let it be written.”
Leofric’s quill scratched across the parchment, capturing the words before they fade.
When the last ember dimmed, a faint spiral. Had burned itself into the table’s grain the mark of the Stormborne glowing like lightning caught in wood.
Leofric broke the silence.
“You said son thirteen, Stormwulf. So you’ve others?”
The outlaw’s mouth twisted into a grin.
“Give or take fifty not all born to the same mother. Some Roman, some Saxon.”
Eadric laughed low.
“You’ve turned legacy into a trade.”
Stormwulf raised his cup.
“The world burns fast, brother. Someone’s got to leave a few sparks behind. Don’t act innocent, Dægan lawmen breed as quick as wolves. And Draven aye, you’ve your share.”
His gaze slid to Rægenwine.
“What of you, innkeeper?”
Rægenwine shrugged.
“My children’re these four walls, and the fools they shelter. That’s enough family for me.”
The fire sighed. Outside, the rain softened to mist over the Chase
Copyright Note© 2025 E. L. Hewitt / Stormborne Arts. All rights reserved.Unauthorized copying or reproduction of this artwork and text is prohibited.Thank you for reading.
Futher Reading
The Chronicles of Drax
Chronicles of Draven
The Prophecies and Tales of Taranis Unfolded
Join the Adventure in Tales of Rayne’s Universe
Ancient Magic and Myth of the Stormborne
Author’s Note The Names of the Storm-kin
Every age reshapes its heroes.
When Rome fell and Britain fractured into the wild patchwork of the Anglo-Saxon kingdoms. The tongues of the land changed too. Latin softened into Old English; titles faded into kin-names; family names hadn’t yet been born.
To keep the story true to its time. The Stormborne brothers now wear the names their world would have given them.
Earlier Name Anglo-Saxon Form Meaning / Role
Drax changed to Dægan which means “Daylight.” The lawman who still carries Rome’s order into a darker age.
Lore changed to Leofric the meaning of thid name is “Beloved ruler.” The scribe whose ink preserves the old magic and the new faith.
Draven was changed to Eadric which means “Wealth-ruler.” The freeman-merchant who keeps the Storm-kin fed when kings fail.
Rayne Rægenwine “Counsel-friend.” The innkeeper who shelters all sides when storms rise.
Taranis Stormwulf / Thunorric “Storm-wolf / Thunder-ruler.” The outlaw lord, half legend, half warning.
Surnames did not yet exist. So “Stormborne” becomes a title rather than a family name a mark carried in blood and story.
The people call them the Storm-kin, those who walk beneath thunder and never yield.These changes let the saga move naturally into the fifth century. without losing the heart of the brothers or the world they built.
StormborneLore 