By Elhewitt
I was chained but not broken,
beaten but not bowed.
The fire marked my silence,
the storm made it loud.
I do not kneel for tyrants,
nor gods who curse the flame.
My name was born in thunder
and I rise to wear that name.
Let them come with shackles,
with blades and masks of war.
I have walked through death already
and I do not fear it anymore.
© 2025 StormborneLore by EL Hewitt. All rights reserved
further Reading
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.
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
StormborneLore 