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