Whisper not his name too loud, Lest storms descend and fire shroud. The child who walks ‘twixt wolf and flame, Was never born to live the same.
His cradle rocked in winds that roared, His breath was thunder, wild, untoward. At one moon old, he called the stars At two, he broke his brother’s bars.
The elders spoke with furrowed brows, “This one will break our sacred vows.” But in his hands, a light did grow, Too pure to burn, too fierce to slow.
He healed the sick with dragon’s grace, And sorrow fled his glowing face. Yet fear, like roots, took hold and spread “He brings both blessing… and the dead.”
Some say his eyes hold forest lore, The wolves’ old grief, the fae-folk’s war. Some say his blood recalls the flame Of gods who walked with no true name.
What tribe can hold a storm so wide? What fire endures when fear must hide? So mark these words on bark and bone, The Stormborne never walks alone.
For when the wind begins to wail, And branches sing a deathless tale, Look not for mercy, shield, or guide. The fire within the child will rise.
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My uncles and father stood within the sacred ring of fire. The smoke curling into the twilight sky as the elders sat in silence. Each wore the furs of their lineage, feathers braided with bone and bark, their eyes sharpened by decades of judgement. The fire crackled with unease not just heat, but the energy of something unseen, something stirring.
Father stood tall, one hand resting on the haft of his ceremonial spear. He was prepared not just as a warrior, or chief, but as a father. A father standing between his blood and the storm.
“Your son broke the sacred law,” spat Elder Bran, his voice like dry bark in winter. “He entered the hut of an ostracised man without escort. That law is older than your title, Chief Conan.”
“He must be punished,” added Elder Tarn, slamming his staff into the scorched earth. “Compassion does not absolve disobedience. Rules are not bent for favoured blood.”
A silence fell taut as a bowstring before Drax stepped ahead. Gaunt, but no longer wild, his words rang with clarity.
“He saved my life.”
Gasps and murmurs broke across the council. Even those who had long abandoned hope for Drax looked at him now with flickers of wonder, or wariness.
“I would be dead if not for him,” Drax continued. “I felt it something leave me. A darkness burned away. I am… clear.”
Lore moved to stand beside our father. “He is barely one year old,” he said. “Yet he speaks in tongues, walks like a hunter, and heals the broken with words no one taught him.”
“This is what troubles us!” snapped Elder Ysra, rising in her many-layered cloak of ash and iron charms. “Power like this does not come without price. The last child marked by the storm brought famine, flood, and war.”
“We do not know what mark he carries,” my father replied, eyes level. “But I will not see my son punished for compassion.”
Ysra stepped ahead, face drawn like flint. “It was not just compassion. It was prophecy in motion. And prophecy unguarded is wildfire in a dry forest.”
Behind them, Morrigan and Boldolph stood watch just beyond the fire’s reach. The black wolf growled low, a rumble of warning. while Morrigan’s gaze stayed fixed on the chief’s hut where Taranis slept, gripped by fever.
The fire hissed and popped. Somewhere nearby, a nightbird called.
Elder Bran raised his staff. “The child shall remain under close watch, isolated from others but housed within the chief’s care. He will be marked not as cursed, but as unknown. No more unsanctioned visits. If he breaches this again”
“We will not exile a babe,” my father growled.
“No,” said Ysra coldly. “But we may exile what grows inside him.”
The flames danced higher, wind tugging at the circle as if the fire spirits themselves had stirred.
Lore bowed his head slowly. “Then we shall walk the knife’s edge between reverence and fear. But mark my words if you turn on him too soon, you lose more than trust. You lose the only light left.”
As the council slowly dispersed, dusk settled like a shroud. The camp held its breath. Only the crackle of fire and the quiet steps of retreating warriors broke the silence.
Later, beneath the stars, young Nyx turned to our father. “So what happens now, Father?”
“Isolation. No one speaks to him unless permitted. He’ll be watched not as punishment, but out of fear. They don’t understand what he is. And people fear what they do not understand.”
“If we don’t talk to him… won’t that break him?”
Conan’s voice was low. “That is what I fear most.”
Just then, the elders returned with the boy. His fever had broken. Taranis walked unaided into the firelight, eyes drowsy but glowing faintly.
“What is going on?” Conan asked, rising quickly.
“He entered the eternal sleep,” Elder Ysra whispered. “But then… he came back.”
Even the fire seemed to pause.
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The mystical bond between the black and white wolves, symbolizing the intertwined fates of Boldolph and Morrigan.
Boldolph’s people wept for him and Morrigan.
As the cursed pair fled the stone cave. Their new forms heavy with shame and grief, they knew the truth they would yet be hunted. Death would almost be kinder than living on, watching their people unravel from the shadows.
From the tree line, they watched.
The enchantress Whitehair was dragged to the punishment stones. Her mouth forced open as the chieftain stepped forward.
“Bring me my grandchildren,” he commanded.
A line of children stood before him. The oldest, a thirteen-year-old girl, stared straight ahead as the wind lifted her dark hair.
“Gwyn,” the chieftain said, “you are the eldest of my blood. This honour is yours. Remove her tongue and nose.”
Without a word, the girl obeyed. She carried out the sentence without question her hand steady. Her eyes blank while Boldolph and Morrigan looked on from the trees.
“The youngest three,” the chieftain continued, “shall be raised among us. Spared. But the oldest, Ryn…”
A fourteen-year-old boy was dragged forward.
“…He will be cast out.”
“No! Please…” Ryn cried. “I was hungry she hadn’t fed me in weeks…”
“You’re old enough to hunt,” his father barked. “Old enough to fish. Old enough to gather. You chose to steal.”
As the blade was drawn, Morrigan gave a sharp growl.
Boldolph stepped from the trees not attacking, but shielding the boy with his massive black form.
“Morrigan? Boldolph?” the chieftain asked, surprised but calm. “Do you understand what is happening here?”
Boldolph gave a single nod.
“Do you agree with this judgment?” another tribesman called out.
Morrigan whimpered, then moved beside Boldolph, gently nosing Ryn toward the tree line.
“Boy,” the chieftain said, “how can we speak to the wolves?”
“My father knows a chant, sir,” Ryn answered softly. “I’ve heard him whisper it to the earth spirits.”
A moment later, the chant rose in the air low and trembling. The spirits stirred.
“It is done,” the seer confirmed. “The wolves may not speak through mouths, but they will speak through minds. A bond has been made between Boldolph and the tribe’s spirit.”
“Father,” Boldolph said in thought alone, “let the boy live. Morrigan wishes no harm.”
“If she could poison her own people, she may have cursed him too,” someone muttered.
But Morrigan white as snow, her eyes full of sorrow pressed her head into the chieftain’s hand.
“He has always seemed… touched by something,” she said. “Not cursed. But not untouched either. Let him go. For me.”
The chieftain knelt.
“Boy,” he said, “do you understand what this means?”
“No, sir.”
“It means my grandfather will spare your life,” Gwyn said, stepping forward. “But you must leave, Ryn. And never return. You will walk with the cursed wolves. And you will not bear a name. Not in any tribe. You will be the boy who walks in exile. The boy of silence.”
Ryn’s father added, “You will walk until you sleep. And when you sleep, you will not wake.”
Tears welled in Ryn’s eyes. “Can I say goodbye to my brothers and sisters?”
“Five minutes,” the chieftain said. “Then the exile begins. You’ll be given a spear, a stone knife. One day’s food for you. A week’s for my son and his mate.”
The children nodded.
The chieftain’s hand rested on Morrigan’s head, then Boldolph’s.
“You are not forgotten,” he whispered.
Boldolph’s mother stepped from the crowd, her eyes wet with love and regret.
“Boldolph,” she said, “you are always welcome at our fire.”
And with that, the wolves turned toward the deep forest and the cursed child walked beside them.
StormborneLore 