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  • The Wilderness Years Part 5

    The Wilderness Years Part 5

    The campfire had burned low when Solaris approached the general.

    Taranis knelt nearby, his wrists loosely bound, the bone collar still tight against his throat. The punishment mask lay beside him, waiting.

    “Sir?” Solaris said cautiously. “Are we binding him again?”

    Grael didn’t answer immediately. He watched the boy the blood-crusted bruises, the unspoken tension in his shoulders, the way his eyes never stopped scanning the shadows.

    “He walks beside the horse now,” Grael said. “Not behind it. That’s earned.”

    “But he’s still tethered?” solaris said

    Grael nodded. “Until he earns trust with more than fire.”

    Solaris stepped closer, lowering his voice. “And the food? He eats with us now?”

    “He eats what he earns. No more. No less.” grael said

    Taranis stirred then, lifting his head. His voice cracked as he spoke.

    “Now I’ve got one foot in both worlds… the world of a chosen, and one of an outcast.” He looked at them both. “One move and I could be executed. The other move, and be honoured.”

    Solaris winced as the mask was fitted back over the boy’s face.

    “Why the mask again?” he asked.

    “To remind him,” Grael said. “And to remind us.”

    “Of what?”

    “That chains and power aren’t opposites. They’re a balance.”

    Taranis tried to move from grael and the other warriors tried to move his head so the mask wouldn’t go on as a dragon flew over head

    “Put it on” grael ordered

    “No I’m human just like you”

    Taranis jerked back, blood still dried in the corners of his mouth. The dragon’s shadow passed again overhead, and something ancient stirred in his chest not rage, not fear, but refusal.

    “I said no!” he growled, voice muffled but defiant.

    Solaris stepped between him and the other warriors. “Wait. He’s not”

    Too late.

    One of the guards lunged forward, grabbing the mask. Taranis shoved back, throwing his shoulder into the man’s chest. The warrior stumbled, caught off guard by the boy’s strength.

    Another grabbed his arm but Taranis twisted, slammed his elbow into the man’s face.

    Blood sprayed.

    Chaos erupted.

    Three warriors tried to restrain him now. Grael did not move. He watched.

    Taranis fought like a cornered wolf. Wild. Desperate. Silent.

    The mask hit the ground and cracked in two.

    When they finally wrestled him down, he was bleeding from the nose and lip, panting like an animal. His wrists were raw, eyes wild.

    But he was smiling.

    “You see me now?” he said through gritted teeth. “I’m not yours.”

    Solaris stood frozen. The broken mask lay at his feet.

    Grael finally stepped forward.

    “Enough,” he barked.

    The warriors pulled back.

    Taranis didn’t rise. He waited.

    “Let him up,” Grael ordered. “And don’t touch him again tonight.”

    “But sir” a guard started.

    “I said don’t.”

    Grael looked down at the broken mask, then at the blood on Taranis’s knuckles.

    “You broke it,” he said flatly.

    “I’d break a hundred more,” Taranis spat.

    Grael didn’t respond. Instead, he knelt.

    “You want to be seen? Fine. Then let the clans see what you are.”

    He picked up the shattered halves of the mask.

    “You’ll wear no disguise. No shield. Not until you earn a new one.”

    Taranis met his gaze. “Good.”

    Grael stood.

    “But remember this, boy there’s a cost to being seen. You can’t take it back.”

    Taranis said nothing.

    The dragon roared again in the sky.

    Solaris knelt beside him later, whispering, “You’re going to get yourself killed.”

    Taranis looked at the stars.

    “Or freed.”

    “What will it take for him to be freed?” Solaris asked

    “Freedom for him? He crippled your brother, he killed a farmer, used by the gods themselves, stories say he killed a bird as a child and his village was killed before his exile freedom is a long way off. What do you say grael ?” A warrior asked

    Grael remained silent for a long while. The fire crackled. Embers danced.
    “I say,” he murmured, “we’ve seen men freed for less… and killed for more.”

    He tossed the shattered mask into the flames.


    “If he was sent by the gods, then they’ll test him again. Until then, he walks. He bleeds. He earns.”

    A warrior scoffed. “And when the next village sees that face?”

    “Then let them decide,” Grael said. “Fear him. Pity him. Curse him. But they’ll see him without the mask. And so will we.”

    Taranis didn’t flinch. He stared into the fire, as if daring it to speak.

    Grael remained silent for a long while.

    The fire crackled between them. Sparks drifted upward into the night, like fleeing ghosts. Taranis sat still, blood streaking his jaw, the collar tight around his throat. The broken mask lay shattered near the flames.

    He stepped forward and tossed the mask into the fire. It hissed as it cracked deeper, flames licking the black bone.

    A warrior scoffed. “And when the next village sees that face? He crippled a boy. His own kin say he’s cursed. What do we tell them?”

    “Tell them the truth,” Grael replied. “He wears no mask because he broke it. He walks unchained because I said so. And if that offends them, they can challenge it by trial.”

    Another man spat. “The Seer warned us he carries the fire without flame. You think a prophecy makes him safe?”

    “I think,” Solaris said quietly, “he didn’t run when he could’ve. He fought. He stood. He bled beside us.”

    Silence settled again.

    Then Grael turned to his men, sweeping his eyes across the ring of warriors.

    “Fine,” he said. “Let the clans decide. Those who want him gone, speak now.”

    A few murmurs, but none stepped forward.

    “Those who would test him, not as a slave, but as a warrior raise your blades.”

    One sword lifted. Then another. And another.

    Not all.

    But enough.

    Taranis watched them. His chest rose and fell slowly. The embers reflected in his eyes.

    “So be it,” Grael said. “Tomorrow at first light, he joins the line. No chains. No mask. One trial. If he survives the boy becomes flame.”

    A hush fell across the camp.

    Solaris leaned down beside him. “You’ve got one shot.”

    Taranis looked up, a flicker of defiance in his eyes.


    “Then I’ll make it burn.”

    The company reached the ancient ruins just after dusk.

    Twisted trees clawed at the moonlight, their roots entwined with blackened stones. Smoke drifted from old hearth pits, and torches lined the perimeter of what once had been a stronghold now just skeletal walls and broken pillars.

    They called it the Bones of Fire, where traitors, exiles, and monsters were judged in the old ways.

    Taranis was unshackled but flanked by two guards. His collar still bit into his skin, and dried blood streaked his jaw. He walked unbound, but every step echoed like thunder. Warriors lined the central circle, murmuring. Some remembered his defiance. Others remembered the dragon.

    At the heart of the ruins stood a black stone altar scorched by lightning, older than the clans themselves. Grael waited there, sword at his side, expression unreadable.

    A Seer stood beside him the same woman from the fire, robed in bone and shadow.

    “This place,” Solaris whispered, stepping beside Taranis, “is where they test souls.”

    “I thought I already failed,” Taranis said, not looking at him.

    “No. This is where they see if you can rise.”

    The crowd hushed as Grael raised his hand.

    “Taranis of no clan. Slave by judgment. Exile by blood. Chosen by storm or cursed by fire,” the general said. “You stand here not as a man, but as a question. The people demand an answer.”

    The Seer stepped forward, her voice like wind through hollow bones.

    “You are accused of rebellion, violence, and breaking the old order. But the gods remember your name. So the trial shall be by the elements by Fire, by Bone, and by Storm.”

    Murmurs rippled through the crowd.

    Grael gestured, and three warriors brought forth the tools: a flame bowl carved of obsidian, a bone blade wrapped in cords of sinew, and a weathered spearhead struck once by lightning.

    “You will face each,” the Seer said. “If you fall, your death is justice. If you rise, you walk reborn.”

    Solaris stepped forward. “He saved us. He held the line”

    “And still the trial stands,” Grael said. “This is not for you, Flamekeeper. This is between him and the gods.”

    Taranis stepped into the circle.

    “I’m not afraid,” he said.

    “You should be,” the Seer whispered.

    They began with Fire.

    Taranis knelt before the obsidian bowl. Flames danced without smoke. The Seer extended her hand.

    “Reach into the fire. Take the coal. Speak no sound.”

    He did.

    Pain erupted, white and total, but he did not scream. The coal branded his palm. Smoke curled from his clenched fist but his jaw never broke. When he stood, the mark glowed faintly.

    Next came Bone.

    He was handed the blade and told to carve a single rune into his chest a mark of truth.

    “Only the worthy know which symbol to choose,” the Seer said.

    Taranis hesitated.

    Then slowly, he pressed the blade to his chest and etched a spiral. Not of chaos, but of growth the same symbol the Seer had once placed in his hand. Blood streamed down his ribs. Still, he stood.

    Then came Storm.

    They placed him at the peak of the ruin, where the wind screamed like a thousand dead warriors. He had to face the sky and remain standing until the gods answered or until the storm broke him.

    Lightning gathered. Thunder rolled.

    The dragon came.

    Not with flame, but with presence a black silhouette circling high above.

    Taranis stood. Hands outstretched. Collar glinting.

    And then it happened.

    Lightning struck the spearhead beside him.

    The bolt leapt to his chest to the spiral rune.

    He didn’t fall.

    He screamed, but he stood.

    The Seer’s eyes widened. Warriors dropped to their knees.

    Grael stepped forward as silence returned.

    “He lives,” he said.

    “He is chosen,” the Seer breathed.

    The collar cracked. A seam split down its side. It fell away into the ash.

    And Taranis, gasping, bleeding, burned looked to the sky.

    “I am Stormborne,” he whispered.

    © 2025 E.L. Hewitt. All rights reserved.
    This work is part of the StormborneLore series.
    Do not copy, reproduce, or distribute without permission.

  • Forged from Fire: The Journey of Taranis

    Forged from Fire: The Journey of Taranis


    The campfire had burned low, all golden coals and wind-tossed ash, when Solaris approached the general.

    Taranis knelt nearby, shoulders hunched. His wrists were bound, but not tight just enough to remind. The black collar still pressed against his neck like a verdict carved in bone. His mask, polished smooth and pitiless, lay beside him like a shadow waiting to return.

    “Sir?” Solaris spoke softly. “Are we binding him again tonight?”

    Grael didn’t respond at once. He studied the boy or whatever he was becoming with a gaze that weighed survival against prophecy.

    “He walks beside the horse now,” Grael said. “Not behind it. That’s earned.”

    “But still tethered?”

    “Until trust is more than fire and fury.”

    Solaris hesitated, then asked more plainly, “And the food? He eats with us now?”

    “He eats what he earns,” Grael said. “He trains. He serves. He carries burdens. So we feed him as one of the line half rations until proven otherwise. If he bleeds for us again, the portions grow. But he’s no beggar. He earns it.”

    Taranis stirred. His voice cracked when he spoke.

    “Now I’ve got one foot in both worlds… the world of a chosen, and one of an outcast. One step wrong, and I’m whipped or worse. One step right, and they carve my name into stone.”

    Solaris frowned. “But the mask…”

    Grael stepped closer. He picked it up and turned it over in his hand.

    “We remove it when he fights. When he trains. When he speaks with command. But in towns and camps?” He pressed it gently to the boy’s face. “It reminds him and us of what he was forged from.”

    “Forged?” Solaris echoed. “Or broken?”

    Grael didn’t blink. “Both.”

    “And can he see through it?”

    “Barely. But that’s the point. To teach him to listen more. Feel more. Trust the wind and the wolves.”

    The fire cracked.

    Solaris stepped back, watching as the leather straps were tightened once more.

    “And when does it come off for good?”

    “When the storm calls him by name,” Grael said.

    “And if it never does?”

    Grael didn’t answer.

    The wind howled across the ridge sharp and ancient.

    And far above, in the swirling clouds, something winged and watching passed through the sky without sound.

    By E.L. Hewitt StormborneLore

    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.

    To read more taranis stories please see The Prophecies and Tales of Taranis Unfolded

  • THE WILDERNESS YEARS Part 1.

    THE WILDERNESS YEARS Part 1.

    The enslaved Tanaris

    The clouds hung low, casting a strange dark light over the gathering. The council of elders stood in a tight circle around a young boy.

    “Stormborne, you are now and forever exiled from this village, this clan, and your family,” the elder leader declared, his eyes fixed on the child. Elder Ysra held the ceremonial staff before her, unmoving.

    The little boy turned to his family. “Father, I didnot hurt anyone. Please” he begged, but his words were met with silence.

    All thirteen of his brothers turned their backs. Then his mother did the same. Conan, his father, hesitated but looked away, knowing he could not stand against the council.

    Taranis ran from the camp, tears blinding him as he fled into the woods. His sprint slowed to a walk. He stumbled across berries and gathered nettles to eat. His first meal as an exile—nettles and nuts.

    “Not filling,” he whispered, “but the old ones ate it. Mama used to cook it.” He curled against the base of an ancient tree. Overhead, dragons roared. Wolves howled in the distance.

    Time stilled. The ache of loneliness pressed down on him. He missed his brothers, his mothers humming, and even his fathers barked commands. He walked on, aimless, until he saw a white wolf. He froze.

    The wolf approached, sniffed him, cautious but curious. Then a large black wolf circled nearby.

    “We will not hurt you. Iam Boldolph,’ said the black wolf said not aloud, but directly into his mind.

    ‘You you wont?” the boy whispered as other wolves approached, dropping meat at his feet.

    “No,” said the white wolf, lying down. “We are here to help. Your father sent us. I am Morrigan. Come, lie with me. Warm yourself.”

    Taranis walked to her and buried himself in her thick fur. Boldolph stood guard, ever watchful.

    He had lost his home, his name, and his kin. He had seen a friend die. Three winters passed, and the boy grew thin and pale, cradled in fur and silence. Then one morning, feverish and weak, he was found.

    “Father, hes curled up with the wolves,” a boy said.

    “We will take him. He will serve as a slave,” the man replied, lifting Taranis with ease.

    They carried him to their camp. Women nursed him back to health, but one day he awoke and reached for his neck. A collar.

    “Leave it,” said a teenage boy sitting nearby. ‘They will beat you if you touch it.”

    “Who are you?” Taranis rasped.

    ” I am Solaris of black claw. I am one of your owners sons,” he said, offering him bread. “You are in the Black Claw clans camp. My father found you fevered and curled up with wolves. You are to stay here as a slave.”

    From that day, Taranis worked from sunrise to sunset. He obeyed without question, learning to serve in kitchens and at the forge. He heard whispers of a cursed child, exiled and touched by dark forces.

    On his eighteenth birthday, he hauled stones beneath the harsh gaze of the masters. One man held a branch, ready to strike.

    He was tall now, but thin. His back bore scars from the collar and the lash. All he wanted was to see Boldolph and Morrigan again.

    A slap of something warm and wet stung his spine.

    “Keep it moving!” barked a voice.

    The clan leaders sons played nearby. Solaris laughed with his younger brothers by the grain shed. One of them, a tall boy with a cruel grin, threw a rotten turnip.

    It struck Taranis in the chest. The others laughed.

    “Stop it,” Solaris snapped. “He is not our enemy.”

    “He is a slave,” the older boy sneered. “You and Father found him half-dead. No name, no clan. Just stories of a cursed exile.”

    That was me. Eight years old, alone in the snow. They said I was cursed. Touched by darkness.

    But I was just a child.

    He didnot remember lunging only the feel of dirt flying behind his heels. Rage took over.

    The branch came down before he landed a punch.

    Crack.

    Pain burst across his shoulders. A second strike. A third, slower, deliberate.

    Taranis didnot cry out.

    The man loomed. “You want to fight the leaders sons? Try again, and we will gut the wolves that raised you. Make you skin them yourself.”

    That stopped him.

    His vision blurred. He tasted blood his or someone else’s he wasn’t sure but then a shadow blocked the light.

    Solaris.

    He stepped forward, fists clenched but low.

    “You will kill him like this,” Solaris said.

    “Hes still breathing,” the overseer growled. “Let the beast learn his place.”

    “Hes not a beast.” Solaris growled

    Silence.

    “I have seen beasts. This ones still human.”

    That day, there were no more beatings. But no food either.

    Night fell cold. Taranis curled beside the embers, shivering.

    Footsteps. He didnot lift his head. If they came to hurt him, so be it.

    Something thudded beside him. Bread, wrapped in cloth.

    “Its Still warm,” Solaris muttered. “I stole it before dinner. Donot die. Not yet.”

    “it’s good I don’t intend to” Taranis took the bread in both hands. The warmth bled into his finger as he stared at the fire. There was a time hed healed a bird, mended his brothers broken arm. Even healed his brother but now He touched his collar.

    “I will escape. I will kill them all,’ he whispered.

    His family was a fading memory. The names Rayne, Drax, Draven, Lore blurred in his mind.

    Then he heard a howl. “Thats Silver,” he whispered.” Thats Boldolph. And Morrigan. They stayed near.”

    Men came. They dragged him to a tree marked by rope and tied his hands above his head. Children threw scraps at his face. Laughter. Rotten food.

    A man approached. Large, green-eyed, wrapped in furs.

    “Slave, you will stay here overnight. No food for two days for daring to touch my son,” he said. “Twenty lashes if you try anything.”

    Taranis bowed his head. He knew not to speak. Not to fight.

    As they walked away, he remained in silence, bound and bruised.

    “Two days,” the man said to a woman. “No food. No water. Do not tend his wounds.”

    The coals glowed nearby.

    “Make him walk it,” said a boy named Root. They prodded Taranis toward hot stones.

    He resisted.

    “Please don’t make me’ he pleaded his hands rebound and a tether held by another boy.

    “Walk,” another growled.

    A younger boy smirked as he stepped across the coals unfazed.

    “Hes not normal,” whispered Calor. “Is that the one the enemy fears?”

    ‘He speaks with wolves. And dragons,” the Seer answered.

    “Bring our best fighter,” the leader ordered. “Let them fight.”

    They dragged Taranis, barely conscious, to the firelit circle. The crowd formed in a crooked ring.

    Barefoot, bruised, he stood in the dirt. His collar scraped with every breath.

    Rukar, the clans champion, stepped forward. Twice his size. A necklace of teeth. Leather-wrapped fists.

    “Fight,” the elder barked.

    No weapons. No mercy.

    The first punch knocked him flat. The second split his lip.

    Thunder cracked. Lightning danced.

    “Come on, exile,” someone jeered. “Show us your curse.”

    But Taranis rolled. Rukars foot slammed into a stone instead of ribs.

    Taranis launched upward, shoulder-first into Rukars knee. The brute staggered.

    Dirt in the eyes. A headbutt. Teeth bared like a wolf.

    Rukar swung. Another blow grazed Taranis temple. Blood poured.

    This was not about victory.

    It was about survival.

    He twisted low, locking Rukars arm. A snap echoed. The champion fell, howling.

    Silence.

    Taranis knelt over him, ready to strike.

    He didn’t move. He just stood

    Bloodied. Shaking. Alive.

    The Seers voice broke the silence. “The wolves taught him well.”

    Taranis bowed to the master, kneeling as he had once knelt to his father.

    “Take him to the tree,” the leader said. “Hes now a warrior-slave. He will earn his freedom in battle. But punishment for attacking my son still stands.”

    They resecured him to the tree, pain burning through every limb.

    Later that night, Solaris approached with broth. His father watched.

    “You are a warrior-slave now,” Solaris said. “They will send you to war.”

    Taranis did not answer.

    He just drank the broth and stared into the fire.

    Copyright EL Hewitt

  • The Houses of Caernath Part 7

    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

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

    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.

  • The Houses of Caernath Part 6

    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

  • The Houses of Caernath Part 5

    The Houses of Caernath Part 5

    The Feast of Echoes


    As the feast burned on into the night, the firelight danced on stone and skin. The laughter of children clashed like wooden swords as they played warriors. Dashing between the legs of old veterans now soft with wine and bread.

    From the edge of the great hearth-circle, Boldolph. The ever watchful wolf-man, stood with arms crossed, one eye scanning the shadows beyond the firelight.

    Beside him, the High Warlord of Caernath. Stood wrapped in a dark cloak trimmed with the dragon’s sigil, grinned like a rogue caught in mischief.

    Morrigan, seated nearby with a healer’s grace. But a wolf’s patience, gave Taranis a sharp look one that said plainly: “Behave. Don’t test those who would die for you.”

    Taranis gave a half-bow and a lopsided smile.

    “I know, fair lady. I’m not the cub I once was but has everyone forgotten?” He raised his arms wide, as if to embrace the stars. “I can’t die. I’ve walked out of battles far worse than the ruins of old clans left to rot.”

    At that moment, two small children ran up and collided with his legs, eyes wide with awe. They looked to their fathers for permission then to Taranis as if gazing upon the man behind the myth.

    One boy stepped ahead, voice clear:

    “We’ve heard the tales, sir. Especially of Stormborne how the dragons flew above the ridge and bowed to you. How Boldolph and Morrigan led the wolves into battle. Everyone fought, but only you walked out untouched.”

    Before Taranis answer, Solaris, seated close to the fire, his collar gone but his voice steady, spoke quietly:

    “No… I think he means the Cave of Skulls. One hundred and fifty men, women, and children trapped. Clawclan sealed the tunnels, left their own behind. But you…” Solaris met Taranis’s gaze. “You went back. You left the manor of Rock. You found the torture dens. You should have walked away. Instead, you tried to free us.”

    His voice grew softer.

    “My father cursed your name that day. My mother tried to calm him. But the slave the one who defied the lords had stirred the dead to rise.”

    Taranis looked into the fire.

    “They caught me. Tortured me. Bound my hands in chains of bone. Months passed. They set the date of my execution and buried me beneath the stone the very slab the warlords dined upon.” He paused, the flames reflecting in his eyes. “But they didn’t expect me to climb back out. From under their own table.”

    He turned to the children, his voice gentler now.

    “As long as I draw breath,” he said, “you will not face this world alone. Nor shall horrors befall you while I yet live.”

    A hush fell over the feast, broken only by the crackle of fire. And in that silence, some said they heard it faint but unmistakable:

    The low, mournful howl of a wolf, rising from the northern hills. And then another.

    And another.

    As if the old ghosts, the ones buried in bone and memory, were listening.

    “they’ are howling for you Taranis, a lord they can all trust, a man leading his people to better days.” Morrigan said with a gracious smile

    © 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

  • The Houses of Caernath. Part 4

    The Houses of Caernath. Part 4

    The Wolf and His Warlord

    The scent of blood still hung on the morning mist. Mingling with the smoke from the still-burning ridge beyond Emberhelm’s eastern watch.

    The gates had only just been sealed behind the last returning scouts. The courtyard was filled with low murmurs and the clang of steel being resharpened.

    Taranis Stormborne stood alone beneath the stone arch, his shoulders squared but his body streaked in ash and dried blood. The battle had ended. Victory had been claimed.

    And yet, the courtyard was quiet. Too quiet.

    Then came the growl.

    It rumbled low at first, barely more than a whisper on the wind. Before shaping itself into something unmistakable the warning bark of a wolf that knew disappointment far more intimately than fear.

    Boldolph emerged from the shadow of the stables, his half-wolf form towering, claws still sheathed in crusted gore. His red eyes burned with something deeper than rage. Not fury. Not even grief.

    It was wrath tempered by love.

    “You damned fool,” Boldolph snarled, stalking toward the warlord. “You should’ve waited.”

    Taranis didn’t flinch. He met the wolf-man’s gaze with that same infuriating storm-steeled calm. “I had to act.”

    “You had to die?” Boldolph’s snarl cut through the air. “That’s what you wanted? To fall alone so the bards sing about it later?”

    “I had to protect them,” Taranis snapped. “The Black Claw”

    “Were expecting you.” Boldolph’s voice was thunder now, claws clenched at his sides. “They wanted you to come alone. You gave them exactly what they needed — the head of the storm without the wind behind him.”

    Taranis looked away. The silence between them thickened.

    Boldolph stepped closer. “You are the High Warlord now. You bear the storm in your veins and ride the dragon in the sky. But to me, you’re still that cub who couldn’t see the trap until he stepped into it.”

    Taranis said nothing. He couldn’t. Not when he knew Boldolph was right.

    Taranis moved to speak, but Boldolph raised a clawed hand.

    “No,” the wolf-man growled. “You don’t get to explain it away with honor or duty or some poetic rot about sacrifice. You’ve earned your scars, Taranis but so have we. And we didn’t survive hell just to watch you walk back into it alone.”

    The warlord took a breath. His face, still smeared with ash and dried ichor, softened. “I thought”

    “That’s the problem,” Boldolph snapped, “you thought. You didn’t ask. Not me, not Lore, not Drax, not Solaris. You didn’t trust any of us to stand beside you.”

    Taranis’s jaw clenched. “I trust you all with my life.”

    “Then why won’t you trust us with your death?”

    The words struck like a hammer.

    Taranis staggered a step back not from force, but from the weight of truth. Boldolph’s eyes didn’t waver.

    He looked less like a beast and more like a grieving elder. Wearied by a child who couldn’t yet see his own worth beyond the blade.

    “You think being the High Warlord means dying on your feet,” Boldolph said, voice roughening. “But what it really means is living long enough to carry others. That’s what the storm is for. Not just to burn. To shield.”

    The fire pits crackled in the stillness. From the northern walkway, Lore stood quietly, arms folded, having heard the last of it. He said nothing only nodded to Boldolph, and then vanished back into the shadows.

    “You’re not alone anymore,” Boldolph continued, softer now. “You have brothers again. You have warriors, wolves, dragons. And you have people who’d bleed for you, not because you command them but because they love you.”

    Taranis sat slowly on the stone steps beside the training pit. For once, the weight of his own armor seemed too much to bear. “I’ve spent so long fighting to survive,” he said, staring at the sky. “It’s hard to let go of that.”

    “I know,” Boldolph murmured. “But surviving isn’t living. And we didn’t break our curses just to watch you chain yourself to a ghost.”

    The wolf-man crouched beside him, joints creaking.

    “I made a vow to your father when you were exiled. I swore to watch over you even when you didn’t know I was near. I failed once. I won’t again.”

    Taranis turned to him. “You were there… even then?”

    Boldolph nodded. “Always.”

    They sat in silence, the roar of the battlefield replaced by the quiet whistle of wind between towers. In the distance, children’s laughter echoed from the lower courtyard. where Morrigan was teaching younglings to bind wounds with willow bark and song.

    Boldolph sighed. “You need to speak to them. To all of them. Tell them what you’re fighting for. What we’re building.”

    “I don’t know what to say.”

    “Then let your silence be honest. But show them, Taranis. Not the warlord the man. The brother. The one who came back from the brink and built something no storm can wash away.”

    Taranis stood slowly, shoulders still tense, but eyes clearer.

    “You’re right,” he said. “I’ve been leading from the front but I’ve been doing it like I’m still alone. Like that eight-year-old boy who was cast out into the wilds.”

    Boldolph rose beside him, towering and fierce. “Then stop being that boy. And become the storm the world remembers.”

    Taranis gave a faint smile. “You’re more of a father than ours ever was.”

    “I know,” Boldolph grunted. “You lot are exhausting.”

    “Drax I’m sorry please forgive me’ tanaris told his oldest brother “just. ‘ 

    “No I’m not hearing excuses young brother. You know boldolph asked morigan if he eat either you or your dragons ” Drax smirked 

    “that…that is definitely something Boldolph would say. I trust my mother wolf said no” Tanaris grinned. AS he folded his arms with a grin as morigan gave him a cautionary look.

    Further Reading

    The Prophecies and Tales of Taranis Unfolded

    The Chronicles of Drax

    A Journey Through My Poetic Collection

    Join the Adventure in Tales of Rayne’s Universe

    Ancient Magic and Myth of the Stormborne

  • Emberhelm’s Guardian: The Legacy of Solaris

    Emberhelm’s Guardian: The Legacy of Solaris


    He who feeds the fire, heals the wounded, and watches when others sleep.

    “The hearth remembers what the sword forgets.”
    — Solaris

    ️

    Loyalty Forged in Fire


    Once a prisoner of war and former member of the Black Claw clan. Solaris now stands at the heart of Emberhelm. Not as a warrior, though he is one but as its Flame keeper.

    Bound by fate and fire to Taranis Stormborne. Solaris is both servant and sage, a man who turned from chains to purpose.

    He answers to no tribe but the one that gave him back his name.

    Keeper of the Hearth, Bearer of the Flame.


    Solaris tends the ancient hearth of Emberhelm. Where fire is not just warmth it is memory, ritual, and shield. He is the first to rise, the last to sleep. The quiet strength behind every campaign, ceremony, and storm-weathered return.

    He knows the secret songs that coax flame from damp wood. He prepares meals that bind warriors like kin. He chants the old rites before a journey and the healing incantations after a battle.

    They call him Flame keeper. They forget he once fought in the pits.

    A Warrior’s Past, A Healer’s Hands


    Beneath the linen and ash, Solaris is built like stone. He was trained in combat from childhood both in brutal close quarters and ritual duels. Though now he wields ladles and herbs more than blades. Make no mistake: Solaris can kill as easily as he can cure.

    But he chooses mercy. And that, say some, is his greatest strength.

    A Father First

    Solaris is father to four children, born of hardship and hope. Two serve in the Emberhelm guard. One studies under Lore as a flame-reader. The youngest is said to speak to animals, though Solaris smiles and says nothing when asked.

    His love for them is quiet but endless. They are the reason he never leaves Emberhelm’s walls unless the need is dire.

    Master of Fire and Flesh


    In the temples of the old clans, Solaris learned to read flame patterns. Mix healing salves, and call upon the Ember Breath a rite known to few and respected by all.

    His knowledge of ancient remedies is unmatched. Some say he can slow a fever with a whisper. Others, that his fire never burns without reason.

    ✴️ Known As:
    The Flame keeper of Emberhelm

    He Who Stills the Fire

    The Ash-Hearth Watcher

    Blood Brother to Taranis

    Father of Four Flames

    🏠 His Place in the Realm
    Residence: Emberhelm, Caernath

    Allegiance: Taranis Stormborne

    Role: Hearth guardian, healer, cook, and flame ritualist

    Weapon of Choice (if needed): Iron cooking knife, hooked staff, bare fists

    ✍️ Written by: emma.stormbornelore

    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.

  • The Flame That Counsels.

    The Flame That Counsels.


    A tale from the firekeeper’s hearth.

    By the time the boy was dragged into the fire-circle, Solaris already knew what the verdict would be.

    The child barely ten summers old had stolen from the Emberhelm kitchens three times in as many weeks. This last time, he’d taken smoked venison, enough for three mouths.

    It wasn’t a clever theft either; he’d left claw-marks in the ash like some wild cub. They’d found him crouched behind the root cellar with a bone in one hand. His little sister clutched to his side, shaking from fever.

    Taranis sat high above, throne of blackened oak behind him, his blade resting point-down in the dirt. His eyes storm Grey and quiet met Solaris’s across the fire.

    “Third offence,” the warlord said, not unkindly. “You know the law.”

    Solaris bowed his head.

    He had known it would come to this.

    The fire crackled between them amber light dancing against carved cairnstones. The gathered clan murmured like wind in the pines. Some looked away. Others watched with cold detachment.

    From the shadows near the far cairn, Boldolph crouched in wolf-man form, eyes glowing red in the dusk. Morrigan stood beside him, silent and still, her white fur streaked with soot from an earlier hunt. Neither beast moved.

    The boy trembled, snot running down his nose. His sister was nowhere in sight.

    One of the younger guards bristling with duty dragged the child ahead. “What’s the order, High Warlord?”

    Taranis looked not at the boy, but into the flame. “Three thefts. All marked. The hand goes.”

    A stillness fell. Not outrage. Not shock. Just a silence.

    Solaris stepped ahead.

    He didn’t ask permission. He never had.

    “My lord,” he said softly, “I speak?”

    Taranis’s jaw tightened, but he nodded.

    “Come.”

    Solaris walked slowly into the circle, his linen tunic soot-streaked, hands calloused from tending both fire and blade. He stopped beside the boy who flinched at his nearness then turned to face Taranis directly.

    “You talk of mercy, sir,” Solaris said. “Of giving your people hope. Of forging something better than the clans before us. Yet you would take a child’s hand for hunger?”

    “It’s not the first time,” the warlord said.

    “No,” Solaris agreed. “It’s the third. Which tells me we failed twice already.”

    Murmurs rose again uneasy, uncertain.

    Taranis said nothing.

    Solaris went on.

    “Do you remember when we met, Taranis? You were half-starved. Barefoot. Curled between two wolves like a dying branch in the snow.” His voice cracked, just a little. “You think Morrigan would’ve taken your hand? Or Boldolph watched you bleed?”

    Boldolph’s snarl low, thoughtful rumbled through the circle.

    “Do not compare me to that child,” Taranis said, but the edge was gone from his voice. “I was cast out by my own blood. He broke a law.”

    “So did you,” Solaris said, gently. “You stole from death. You defied exile. You bonded with a dragon.”

    The flames snapped high.

    Behind them, Lore stepped quietly into the circle’s edge, arms crossed. Drax lingered further back, sharpening his axe with deliberate rhythm.

    “The law is clear,” Taranis said, but softer now. “What’s your counsel, Solaris?”

    Solaris exhaled.

    “The hand stays. Cut his rations. He works the ash pits. But let the sister be seen. She’s burning from within.”

    A pause.

    Then: “Do we have a healer who treats the children of thieves?”

    Solaris gave the barest smile. “We have a Flamekeeper who remembers that fire burns all the same.”

    Taranis stood.

    He turned to the guards. “The child’s hand stays. Halve his meals for two moons. The sister—tend her.”

    “And after that?” the guard asked.

    Taranis glanced to Morrigan.

    “We watch,” he said.


    Later that night, Solaris sat by the embers of the great hearth. The kitchens had long since emptied. The scent of root broth clung to the stones. He stirred a mix of wildfire oil and willow sap in a clay bowl, preparing a balm.

    The door creaked. Taranis entered, shoulders still dusted with ash.

    “She’ll live,” Solaris said, not looking up. “The girl. The fever broke at dusk.”

    “You were right,” Taranis murmured.

    “No. I remembered something you forgot.”

    He set the bowl down and finally looked up.

    “You’re not a tyrant, Taranis. But you are tired. Tired men return to old laws.”

    Taranis sat across from him, resting his blade beside the hearth. “They look to me to be strong.”

    “Then be strong enough to bend.”

    They sat in silence a moment.

    Then Taranis said, “What would you have me do? End the slave laws? Free them all?”

    Solaris’s eyes softened.

    “I’d have you start with one.”

    A pause. Fire popped.

    “My children,” Solaris said. “You let them stay with me. You feed them better than the others. You trust me with your fire. But still, by law, I am bound. My collar is light, but it is still iron.”

    Taranis didn’t speak.

    “I do not ask for release,” Solaris said. “I ask for meaning. If I am to be your Flamekeeper, let it not be as your property. Let it be as your kin.”

    Taranis rose slowly.

    He walked to the wall, lifted a flame braided chain from its hook, and placed it at Solaris’s feet.

    “I will ask the cairn council to rewrite the bond,” he said. “You’ll take no collar again.”

    Then, softly: “And neither will your children.”


    Days passed. The fevered girl recovered. The boy, now under Solaris’s quiet supervision, took to the ash pits with a haunted gaze but steady hands.

    At dawn, he brought Solaris firewood without being asked.

    At dusk, he left a hand-carved wolf at the hearth.

    Taranis watched from the upper cairn, Morrigan seated beside him.

    “He’ll never steal again,” Taranis said.

    “No,” Solaris replied, stepping beside him. “Because now he belongs.”

    Taranis looked at his old friend, the man who had once been enemy. Then servant, then brother in all but blood.

    “Thank you, Solaris.”

    The Flamekeeper only smiled and added another log to the fire.

    That evening, Solaris’s eldest son, Nyx, approached. He carried a plate of meat and grain, handing it to his father before setting his own aside.

    “You scorn the meal, boy?” Taranis asked.

    “No, sir,” Nyx said. “But it’s not right I get meat and grain while my father gets broth.”

    Taranis tilted his head. Then smirked.

    “Bring your father a plate from my stores.”

    Then added, almost as an afterthought

    “And Solaris it was never one dragon, was it? Two stood beside me all along.”

    One Week Later Postscript to The Flame That Counsels

    “He’s gone mad. The Highlord’s either broken or possessed.”

    The guard’s words hit like ash in the lungs. Solaris said nothing, hands deep in the roots he was cleaning for poultice. He’d heard rumors all morning that Taranis had dismissed the old slave branders, torn the punishment scrolls in half, and ordered the cairnstones rewritten.

    Another voice joined the first: “They say he talks to the dragons now. Not just rides them talks. Pendragon flew south and turned back. Refused to land in Gaedrix’s old territory.”

    Then came softer steps. Young Nyx, barefoot and breathless, ran across the ash-warmed floor of the kitchen hall.

    “Uncle Solaris!” he grinned, waving a carved wolf bone. “Father says you can visit him. No chains. No guards. Just you. He said it’d be good to see you without your collar.”

    Solaris froze. Slowly, he turned — not to the boy, but to the collar hanging near the forge. Empty. Cold.

    “Why now?” he asked, kneeling.

    Nyx beamed. “He says the laws are wrong. That you helped him remember who he was. That it’s time to make them right.”

    The fire cracked behind him. Solaris closed his eyes.

    Later that dusk, in the central hall of Emberhelm, Taranis stood before his people — not in war-gear, but in storm-black robes, his sword sheathed at his back, Morrigan and Boldolph flanking him like ghosts.

    A hush fell.

    Then he spoke.

    “I was cast out as a child chained not by iron, but by fear. I lived. I burned. I changed.

    So hear me now.

    From this day onward, Stormborne law changes:

    First crime: a warning, carved in cairnstone.
    Second: servitude, no longer than a season’s moon.
    Third: magical judgment the storm or the shadow will decide.
    No child shall ever be born in chains.
    Dragons will not fly over lands where children are enslaved.
    All who labor shall eat. None shall go hungry.
    The broken, the maimed, the soul-wounded they will have a place.
    We are not the Clawclan.
    We are Stormborne.
    The fire will not consume us. It will make us whole.”

    Lore lit the cairnstones behind him. Solaris stepped forward and cast his collar into the flame. Pendragon circled overhead.

    Taranis met his gaze with quiet steel.

    “You are no longer mine,” he said. “But you are still my kin.”

    Solaris bowed low, not as slave but as Flamekeeper.

    And above them, the wolves howled, and the fire did not flicker.

    Taranis turned to Morrigan and Boldolph, who stood unmoving beneath the runestone arch. A chant had begun low in their throats a strange, old language from before the cairns were raised.

    “That is, if you’ll stay, Solaris?” Taranis asked quietly.

    Then to the wolves:

    “Boldolph. Morrigan. You’ll be free of this too. The curse ends with fire and brotherhood. You’ll walk again in human form.”

    The chant rose.

    The fire roared.

    And somewhere in the high wind above Emberhelm, the storm broke not in rage, but in light.