The sea was restless that night, black as iron and twice as cold. Taranis Stormborne stood at the prow of the ship, his cloak heavy with salt and rain. Behind him, the Black Shields moved in silence, their faces hidden, their oars cutting through the water with a rhythm older than empire.
Rome’s ships had been sighted near Carthage a patrol too far from home, too confident. This voyage was not conquest, but message.
Lightning split the horizon. Taranis lifted his gaze toward the thunderclouds, their light catching the gold in his eyes.
“Do you fear the storm?” one of the younger soldiers whispered.
Taranis’s answer was soft, almost drowned by the wind.
“I am the storm.”
The first Roman galley loomed ahead, torches guttering in the wind. The Black Shields struck swift and silent, grappling hooks biting wood, blades flashing in the rain. No horns, no cries only the sound of waves breaking and chains rattling as old fears were unmade.
By dawn, the sea was calm again. The Roman ship burned behind them, its mast sinking like a dying pillar of the old world.
Taranis watched the smoke fade into the clouds. “Let them think it was lightning,” he said. “Let them think the gods themselves strike against their arrogance.”
He turned back toward the island, where fire and training awaited. The storm had passed but the Empire would wake to the scent of rain and know its name.
© 2025 Emma Hewitt / StormborneLore. All rights reserved.
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