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Created on paper with Ohuhu markers, this artwork represents the duality within the Stormborne line strength and mercy, order and rebellion.
The black and red dragons entwine around the sword of destiny, symbolising the eternal balance between Drax and Dægan, two halves of the same storm.
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The banners of Rome had fallen long ago, but Drax still rode as if the legions would return. The road through Pennocrucium was broken now, weeds spilling through the cracks where once the eagles marched. His armour no longer shone, the crimson cloak dulled by weather and war. Yet he wore it still not for pride, but remembrance.
He had buried too many men to abandon the law.
To the north, word spread of ships black-prowed, heavy with warriors from across the sea. To the west, the Picts pressed down through mist and mountain. Between them, the land lay hollow, ruled by whoever still raise a blade.
From the shadows of the trees, smoke curled not of hearths, but of hidden fires. The Black Shields were at work again.
Drax halted his horse beside the stream. In the rippling reflection he saw a face harder than he remembered. The boy who had once followed Rome’s banners now hunted ghosts of his own blood.
“Brother,” came a voice from the treeline.
Taranis stepped out, cloak blackened, a scar like thunder down his cheek. His men lingered behind him, masked in soot and ash. Outlaws. Rebels. To the poor, heroes.
“The Picts strike from the north,” Drax said, hand on his sword. “You have joined me in holding the border.”
“I hold what matters,” Taranis answered. “The people. The fields Rome left to burn. You guard ruins, Drax I guard the living.”
For a heartbeat, silence two worlds staring across a stream. Then the sound of hooves echoed through the trees.
Draven rode between them, shaking his head. “Enough. We’ve bled too long for banners that mean nothing.” He threw down a pouch of grain. “There’s famine in the villages. We fight each other while children starve.”
From deeper in the wood, Lore watched through drifting smoke. In the caves beneath Cannock Chase he had tended the cairns of their ancestors. Lore kept the fire burning through the endless grey. He whispered to the flame: keep them, all of them, even when they forget the old names.
And Rayne, ever the exile, carved symbols into the stones near the water’s edge runes of storm and warning. Ships will come. The sea brings change.
That night, as the brothers parted beneath a blood-red sky, the wind carried the faintest sound not thunder, but the creak of oars. Far beyond the estuary, lights moved upon the water.
The first of the Saxons had come.
And in the hollow of Britain’s heart, the Stormborne name still burned
© 2025 E. L. Hewitt / Stormborne Arts. All rights reserved.
Unauthorized copying or reproduction of this artwork and text is prohibited.
Thank you for reading.© 2025 Emma Hewitt / StormborneLore. All rights reserved.Unauthorized copying or reproduction of this content is prohibited.
Read more from the Stormborne Brothers:
[Lore – The Flame Beneath the Chase]
[Draven – The Quiet Road]
[Rayne – The Carver of Ghosts]
[Taranis – The Black Shield’s Oath]
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The Prophecies and Tales of Taranis Unfolded
Pennocrucium was dying.The fort that once rang with steel and Latin orders now lay quiet under a bruised evening sky. The last of the Roman banners hung in the wet like torn skin. The gold stitching dull and heavy with rain.
Fires in the watchtowers had burned down to ash. Barracks stood open. Doors unbarred.No sentries.No horn.No empire.Drax stood in the centre of the courtyard, gloved hands behind his back, cloak dark with rain.
He could still see where the eagle standard had stood, planted in the earth like a promise. He had bled beneath that symbol. Killed beneath it. Buried men beneath it.
Defended it long after others began to whisper that Rome no longer had the strength to defend itself.Now the standard lay in the mud.He let out a slow breath.
“This is how it ends,” he said quietly. “Not with fire. With retreat.”A few of his men were still with him. Not many. Veterans. The ones too loyal or too stubborn to walk away until ordered.
“Praefect,” Maren said, stepping to his side. Rain had plastered the boy’s hair to his face, and his jaw worked the way it always did . When he was circling fear and pretending not to feel it. “The last wagons are packed. They’re taking the southern road to Viroconium before dark.”
“Good,” Drax said. His voice stayed even. He didn’t look at his son. “They’ll be safer south.”Maren hesitated.
“What about us? Us.Not the cohort. Not the banner. Us.” Drax let the word settle in his chest.
“We’re not going south,” he said.Maren swallowed.
“Are we going after them?”
“No,” Drax said. “We’re going home.”The boy didn’t answer, but he understood. Drax saw it in the way the tension left his shoulders and something else took its place.
Not ease. Something older. Something like hunger.Thunder rolled low over the Chase.Beyond the walls, the land lay open and dark. The tree line a ragged edge against a sky. That hadn’t decided yet if it meant to rain or break clear. Mist gathered low over the fields in pale bands.
The air smelled of smoke from scattered farmsteads and peat fires. The smoke that drifted up on this night, every year, since before Rome ever named this place.
Spirit night.Nos Galan Gaeaf.The first night of winter. Drax looked north, toward the low hills and the mist and the deep-breathing dark of the land that raised him.
“Home,” he said.Then he walked into the new winter.
© 2025 E. L. Hewitt / StormborneLore. All rights reserved. Unauthorized copying or reproduction of this work is prohibited.
To read more about Drax please see The Chronicles of Drax
Where Taranis is the storm,
Drax is the stone that stands against it.
He is the brother who holds the line,
who builds the wall. Who refuses to bend even when the world does.
Drax does not raise his voice.
He does not need to.
Order gathers around him.
People follow him without understanding why.
He is the structure that holds chaos back from devouring everything.
Archetype: The Law / The Shield / The Foundation
What he symbolizes: Structure and justice
His purpose: To keep balance when the world fractures
His burden: To stay steady, even when it costs him his heart
Drax is not the hero in stories.
He is the reason stories do not end in ruin.
Unshakeable discipline
Sharp strategic mind
The ability to command through presence alone
A deep instinct for justice, fairness, and responsibility
When battles break, men look for Taranis.
When kingdoms break, they look for Drax.
There is a weight to being the one who holds everything together.
Drax watches people he protects:
Betray themselves
Destroy what they’ve built
Choose chaos over peace
He sees the worst of human nature and still stands guard.
His tragedy is simple:
He can’t save everyone.
But he tries anyway.
This is why he does not smile often.
Drax is not remembered in songs.
He is remembered in:
Law codes no one knows the author of
Fortified walls that should not have held
Villages that somehow survived raids untouched
Court records where a “quiet advisor” influenced kings
He has stood as:
A commander of Roman cohorts
A border warden in the Dark Ages
An advisor to English lords
A sheriff, judge, and peacekeeper
A detective in the early industrial cities
And later, a founder of something hidden
Where order needed restoring, Drax appeared.
Then vanished when the work was done.
“He is not kind, but he is fair.”
“If you are innocent, stand behind him.
If you are guilty, run.”
“The world holds because he holds it.”
Drax’s path crosses:
Crowns
Courts
Armies
Rebellions
And the silent spaces between wars
His story is not written in history books.
It is etched into the way the world still works.
But the full tale is not told here.
© 2025 E. L. Hewitt / Stormborne Arts. All rights reserved.
Unauthorized copying or reproduction of this artwork and text is prohibited.
Thank you for reading.
If you enjoyed this story, like, share, or leave a comment. Your support keeps the storm alive and the chronicles continuing.
To read more about Drax see The Chronicles of Drax
To learn about his brothers Character Profiles
Dawn crept slow over Cnocc, a thin gold edge behind the rain clouds. Mist clung to the standing stones, turning the world to shadow and breath.
Drax waited alone within the circle, his Armour dark with dew. Around him, the forest held its silence not even the birds dared speak before the storm.
A shape emerged from the trees. Bare-headed, cloak torn by wind, eyes bright with the same lightning that lived in the sea.
“Taranis,” Drax said quietly.
“Brother.”
They faced each other across the stones, a dozen paces apart soldier and exile, lawman and outlaw, blood and storm.
“You sent the boy,” Drax began. “You risked Rome’s wrath to deliver a letter. Why?”
“Because words still travel where armies can’t,” Taranis replied. “And because you needed to see the truth before Rome writes it for you.”
Drax’s hand went to the hilt at his belt, but he did not draw. “The truth is that you lead rebellion.”
“The truth,” Taranis said, stepping closer, “is that Rome rots from within. You see it, even in Pennocrucium the taxes, the prisons, the wards rising against their own peacekeepers. You know their order is just another storm wearing iron.”
“Law keeps the world from tearing itself apart.”
Taranis smiled faintly. “Then tell me, brother which law spared our people?”
The question hung like a blade between them.
Drax’s voice dropped. “You’ll bring ruin on every soul north of the wall.”
“And you’ll call it justice when the legions do it first.”
Lightning cracked behind the hills, casting their faces in white fire. For a heartbeat, they were children again mud on their hands, the taste of rain on their tongues.
Then it was gone.
Drax exhaled slowly. “If I turn my back on Rome, they’ll come for my sons.”
“Then send them to me,” Taranis said. “I’ll keep them safe and teach them what it means to be Stormborne.”
Drax met his brother’s gaze, every oath and scar warring inside him. “You ask too much.”
“I ask what blood demands.”
The wind rose, carrying the scent of thunder and pine. Somewhere beyond the ridge, a horn sounded Roman, sharp and close.
Taranis looked toward it, then back at his brother. “You didn’t come alone.”
Drax’s jaw tightened. “I had no choice.”
“You always had a choice.”
He turned, cloak whipping in the wind, and vanished into the mist.
Drax stood amid the stones, thunder rolling like a closing gate. For the first time in years, he no longer knew which storm he served.
The horn still echoed when Drax turned toward the ridge.
Rain came again sharp, cold, unending washing the footprints from the mud where his brother had stood.
From the southern slope came the sound of Armour. The steady rhythm of Roman discipline: shields clashing, orders barked, hooves grinding stone.
Centurion Varro rode up through the mist, helm crested, voice clipped.
“Praefect! You were told to wait at the lower ford. Our scouts saw movement rebels, by the look.”
Drax said nothing. His men shifted behind him, uneasy under the Centurion’s glare.
Varro’s gaze swept the clearing. “You’ve been here long, sir?”
“Long enough.”
“Any sign of the outlaws?”
Drax’s hand brushed the rain-darkened hilt of his sword. “None that concern Rome.”
Varro frowned. “Sir?”
“Withdraw your men to the ridge. If they move through the forest, they’ll spook what they can’t catch.”
Varro hesitated, suspicion flickering behind his eyes. “The Governor will want a report.”
“He’ll have one,” Drax said, voice like iron. “But not from you.”
Varro opened his mouth, then thought better of it. He saluted stiffly and wheeled his horse. The soldiers followed, vanishing into the haze.
When the last sound of their march had gone, Drax turned back to the standing stones. The mist seemed thicker now, the air charged and whispering.
He drew his sword not for battle, but for memory. The blade caught a sliver of light and, for a heartbeat, reflected the spiral carved into the nearest stone.
From the forest edge came a faint flicker of movement a figure, hooded and still. Not Taranis, but one of his kin. She raised her hand, palm out, the mark of the storm inked in black across her skin.
A silent vow.
Drax sheathed his sword. “Tell him,” he said quietly, though she not hear, “that I won’t be his enemy again.”
The woman vanished into the fog.
Behind Drax, Maren approached, cloak dripping. “Father… what will you tell Rome?”
“The truth,” Drax said, mounting his horse. “Just not all of it.”
As they rode back toward Pennocrucium, thunder rolled once more not from the sky, but from the earth itself. The storm was awake again.
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.
If you want to read more about Drax please see The Chronicles of Drax
The last of the rain had faded, leaving the courtyard of Pennocrucium slick with light. Drax stood with his men, issuing orders for the road north, when a shout broke the morning calm.
A boy no more than ten came running from the treeline. Bare-foot and wild-eyed, his breath tearing in the cold air. The guards moved to intercept, but Drax raised a hand.
The child stumbled to a halt before him, clutching a scrap of parchment tight against his chest.
“He said to give you this,” the boy gasped.
“Who?” Drax asked.
The boy only pointed back toward the woods. “The man with the scars. He said you’d know.”
A chill heavier than the rain settled over the praefect. Slowly, Drax took the parchment. The wax seal bore a spiral mark the Ring of the Stormborne.
He turned the seal over in his palm, the crimson wax cracked and flaking like old blood.
“Did he say anything else?”
The boy shook his head. “Only that the sea’s not where he’s coming from anymore.”
Drax looked up, scanning the mist beyond the walls.
“Go home, lad,” he said quietly. “And tell your mother to keep her doors barred tonight.”
When the child was gone, Drax broke the seal. The message inside was written in a firm, weathered hand one he had not seen since the exile.
Brother,
If Rome still owns your heart, it will soon own your sons. The storm has left the sea. Meet me where the law ends and the wild begins at Cnocc.
— T.
Drax folded the letter and slid it into his cloak. Around him, his men watched, waiting for orders.
“Mount up,” he said finally. “We ride before sunset.”
“Sir?” his aide asked. “The boy”
“Forget the boy.” Drax’s gaze lingered on the northern horizon, where thunderclouds gathered over the hills.
“Remember the name.”
The road north was half-swallowed by mist.
The horses hooves splashed through the puddled ruts. The sound muted beneath the weight of silence that followed them from Pennocrucium.
Drax rode ahead, the sealed parchment still heavy in his cloak. Each mile drew him closer to the hill he had sworn never to see again Cnocc. the place Rome had called untamed and his people had called sacred.
Behind him, his men rode uneasily. They had fought rebels, pirates, and ghosts of empire. But none of them knew what to do with silence that breathed like a living thing.
“Sir,” Maren said quietly, drawing level with his father. “We’re far past the patrol lines. There are no markers, no forts… not even smoke from farms.”
“There used to be farms,” Drax replied. “Before the Empire burned them.”
The boy said nothing more.
They reached the crest by dusk. The land opened out before them rolling forest and wet moor. Scattered with standing stones like broken teeth in the earth. The wind smelled of peat and lightning.
A movement caught Drax’s eye a flicker among the stones. A man watching, cloaked and hooded.
Drax reined in. “Hold.”
The riders stopped. The watcher didn’t flee. Instead, he raised a horn old, carved from a blackened ram’s horn and blew once, low and deep. The sound rolled through the mist like thunder in a cave.
Within moments, others appeared half a dozen figures stepping from the treeline. The shields blackened, armour mismatched, but each bearing the spiral mark upon their arms.
The Black Shields.
Maren’s hand went to his sword. “Father”
“Wait.”
Drax dismounted slowly, his boots sinking into the wet soil. He walked ahead alone until the leader stepped out a woman. Tall and scarred, with iron rings braided through her dark hair.
“Praefect Drax Stormborne,” she said, her voice low and steady. “Or do you answer to Rome only now?”
Drax studied her face. “I answer to my blood when it calls me by name.”
She nodded once. “Then the storm welcomes you home.”
From behind her, two men carried something between them a bundle wrapped in oilcloth, heavy and dark. They laid it at Drax’s feet.
He knelt, unwrapping it. Inside lay a Roman helm scorched, the crest torn away and beneath it. A bronze medallion marked with the eagle of the Twelfth Legion.
Maren’s breath caught. “That’s”
“Proof,” Drax said softly. “That my brother isn’t bluffing.”
The woman met his gaze. “Taranis waits at the standing circle by dawn. He says he’ll speak to you not the Praefect, not the lawman. The brother.”
Drax rose slowly, rain dripping from his cloak. “Then he shall have both.”
Thunder rolled again closer this time, echoing through the hollow hills.
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.
If you want to read more about Drax please see The Chronicles of Drax
The tide was retreating when they found the broken chains. The sight of melted iron through as if struck by lightning.
“Gods preserve us,” whispered one of the guards, stepping back. “No blade have done that.”
Tiberius knelt beside the scorched links. “He didn’t break free,” he muttered. “He shed them.”
The centurion barked orders.,Sending riders to the northern watch and ships to sweep the channel. But even as they moved, the sky began to darken. The wind shifted, dragging the scent of iron and rain across the water.
“He’s gone home,” Tiberius said at last. “Back to the place Rome never tamed.”
“To Britannia?” asked the young guard again, voice shaking.
“Aye,” said the older legionary. “And if the stories are true, every storm between here and there will answer his call.”
From the cliffs, they can see the faint shimmer of the sea calm for now, but seething beneath.
The Emperor’s standard flapped once, hard enough to snap its pole.
“Should we tell the mainland?” the centurion asked.
Tiberius stood slowly, eyes on the horizon. “Tell them nothing. Let them think he drowned. If the gods favour us, maybe they’ll believe it.”
But none of them truly did.
Even as the orders went out, the men felt the pressure in the air, that strange stillness before thunder. Somewhere far to the north, in the heart of Britannia, the wind began to rise.
“What if he’s caught out there commander?”
Tiberius didn’t answer at first. His eyes stayed on the sea, the horizon split between light and shadow.
“If he’s caught,” he said finally, “then the sea itself will break first.”
The young guard frowned. “You speak as if he’s a god.”
Tiberius turned to him, his face hard. “You weren’t here when they brought him in chains. You didn’t see the storm that followed. The ships burned before they reached the harbour. No oil, no fire arrows, just lightning, and him standing in the rain, laughing.”
The guard swallowed, his knuckles white around his spear.
Another soldier older, scarred, voice low spat into the dirt. “Men like that ain’t gods. They’re reminders. Rome builds, Rome burns, and the earth keeps its own count.”
Thunder rolled far out to sea, deep and slow.
“Get word to the docks,” Tiberius ordered. “Seal the forges. Lock down the armoury. And if the Emperor asks…”
He paused, eyes narrowing.
“…tell him the storm never left the island.”
The men scattered to obey, but above them, the gulls were already fleeing inland.
The wind picked up again not from the west, but the north.
And on the water, beneath a bruised sky, something vast and dark moved with purpose.
Taranis stood at the prow of the small boat, the sea hissing beneath its hull as if warning him back.
He only smiled.
The wind carried the scent of earth his earth and beyond the mist. The cliffs of Britannia rose like the bones of old gods. Behind him, the island of exile vanished into shadow. Before him lay vengeance, memory, and the ghosts of his kin.
“Home,” he murmured. “Or what’s left of it.”
His brothers would be the first. Drax, bound by Rome’s gold and law; Rayne, lost between loyalty and freedom. Then the old comrades, the broken men who once bore the wolf upon their shields.
The Black Shields would rise again not as soldiers. But as something Rome can not name and never kill.
He shifted his weight, watching the distant shoreline of Letocetum take shape through the fog.
Beyond that lay the salt pits of Salinae. The forests near Vertis, the villages that still whispered his name like a curse and a prayer.
“Word travels faster than ships,” he said to the empty wind. “By the time I step ashore, they’ll already know.”
Lightning rippled across the far horizon, faint but deliberate, as though the heavens themselves answered.
He gripped the tiller and laughed quietly to himself not with joy. But with the fierce certainty of a man who had waited too long to be mortal anymore.
When the first gulls circled overhead and the shore drew near, Taranis whispered the words that had haunted his exile.
“Rome fears the storm. Now it will remember why.”
The tide carried him in. Somewhere in the fort at Rutupiae Drax Stormborne turned toward the sea. With a feeling of dread, without knowing, that the storm had come home.
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 camp lay quiet beneath a bruised sky.
“Father, what does exile mean?” Julius asked, peering up with wide, uncertain eyes.
Before Drax could answer, Marcus spoke first, his tone full of the confidence only youth could forge.
“It means Father can kill Uncle Taranis. It means Uncle has no home, and should be on his island. Right, Father?”
The fire crackled. For a long moment, Drax said nothing. The weight of the question pressed heavier than the armour across his shoulders.
“No, Marcus,” he said at last, voice low. “Exile does not always mean an enemy. Sometimes it means Rome has no place for a man who refuses to kneel.”
The boys exchanged a glance, uncertain. Julius frowned. “But you serve Rome. Uncle does not.”
Drax looked out toward the dark treeline where his brother had vanished. The smoke twisting like ghostly fingers into the grey sky. “I serve peace,” he said. “Rome just calls it something else.”
“Will you fight him, Father?”
Drax’s jaw tightened. “If I must. But I hope the gods grant me a choice before that day.”
Marcus turned back to the fire, his expression thoughtful. “Uncle said the storm’s already here.”
“Aye,” Drax murmured, his gaze distant. “And sometimes the storm wears a familiar face.”
Thunder grumbled again, rolling through the valleys. Drax drew his cloak closer. Feeling the weight of legacy settle across him the burden of blood and oath, of brotherhood turned to legend.
Somewhere beyond the hills, Taranis walked free.
Drax, bound by Rome and duty, wondered who among them was truly exiled.
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your support keeps the storm alive and the chronicles continuing.
The sun stood high as Praefect Drax Stormborne lingered beside the fire, cloak folded tight against a thin breeze.
“Hello, brother,” a teen voice said, and Drax’s hand went to the hilt of his sword before he turned.
“Taranis, show yourself now,” he said, keeping his tone even.
“Why? So you can look at me and scowl?” Taranis’s voice came from the trees. “I’m fine here, where you can’t see me but I can see you. I see you have children now, and you look smart in the Roman uniform of their law-men.”
“You acknowledge that, brother?” Drax asked, eyes narrowing.
“I acknowledge,” Taranis replied, stepping from the shade with a faint smile. “but I do not bow not to you, my liege, nor to your Roman overlords. We all do what we must to survive.” He paused, then added, quieter, “But try anything and I’ll snap your men like twigs.”
A small boy tugged at Drax’s sleeve. “Father, who is he?” the child asked.
“Is he a barbarian, father?” another eight-year-old whispered, peering toward the tree-line.
“Julius that’s our uncle Taranis?” a smirking boy offered. “The legendary gladiator Lupus… wasn’t he exiled?”
Drax let the questions run off him like rain. He studied Taranis as if measuring a blade. Blood and oath pulled between them one brother in Roman order, the other a storm wearing man’s skin.
The campfire crackled, throwing sparks into the brittle afternoon air. For a heartbeat, the world held its breath two brothers standing on opposite shores of the same river.
Taranis tilted his head slightly, the ghost of a smile curving his lips.
“Exiled, yes,” he said softly. “But storms don’t vanish, brother. They wait for the right sky.”
Drax said nothing. His men shifted uneasily, hands brushing spear shafts, glancing between the prefect and the outlaw.
“You shouldn’t have come,” Drax murmured finally. “Rome watches even the wind that bends near me.”
“I’m not here for Rome,” Taranis replied,. his gaze flicking toward the boys proud, uncertain, wearing their father’s steel in miniature. “I came to see what became of the man I once followed into the fire.”
“You followed because you had no choice,” Drax snapped, voice sharp enough to cut the air.
“And you bowed because you wanted one,” Taranis countered.
Silence fell again. The forest around them seemed to lean closer, listening.
Julius, the youngest, tugged at Drax’s sleeve.
“Father… he doesn’t look like a villain,” the boy whispered.
“No,” said Drax quietly, eyes still locked on Taranis. “That’s what makes him dangerous.”
Taranis laughed then, low and bitter. “Dangerous? I bled for this land before Rome knew its name. If danger is survival, then yes I am a danger.”
A faint roll of thunder trembled beyond the horizon. Both men turned toward it, instinctively.
“Storm’s coming,” said one of Drax’s soldiers.
Taranis met his brother’s eyes one last time.
“No, soldier,” he said, voice like wind through iron. “The storm’s already here.”
He vanished into the trees before anyone move. leaving only the fading echo of his words and the scent of rain.
Drax stood long after he was gone, until his eldest spoke softly:
“Will we see him again, Father?”
Drax’s jaw tightened. “If the gods have mercy or none at all.”
The thunder answered for him.
Julius started to run after his uncle.
“No, child,” Drax called, voice tight.
Taranis turned, the stormlight catching on the scars that crossed his jaw. He knelt so his eyes met the boy’s.
“Your place is with your father,” he said softly. “He’s a good, honourable man.”
Julius frowned. “How did you get off the island?”
Taranis’s mouth twitched into a smirk. “I built a boat.”
He rose, cloak stirring in the wind as thunder growled again in the distance.
“Remember that, boy when the world cages you, build your own way out.”
Then he was gone once more, the forest swallowing him whole.
Drax stood in silence, watching the trees sway. His men busied themselves with meaningless tasks tightening straps, banking the fire anything to avoid the weight in the air.
The prefect’s eyes lingered on the path his brother had taken.
“Stormborne,” he murmured, the name a curse and a prayer all at once.
Above them, the first drops of rain began to fall.
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The wind off the coast carried a strange scent that morning salt, smoke, and something older.
Drax Stormborne stood upon the cliffs of Caerwyn. His cloak drawn tight, eyes narrowed toward the southern horizon where the sea met the clouds. The gulls wheeled low, uneasy, their cries sharp against the stillness.
Behind him, his second-in-command approached, boots crunching on frost-slick stone. “Another ship’s gone missing,” the man said quietly. “Roman, they say. A patrol near Carthage. The reports claim a storm took it.”
Drax didn’t turn. “A storm,” he repeated, voice low. “Or something that wears its name.”
The man hesitated. “You think it’s him?”
For a moment, only the wind answered. Then Drax’s gloved hand closed around the hilt of his sword, fingers tracing the worn leather grip. “Taranis never drowned easy,” he murmured. “If the Empire bleeds at sea, then he’s drawing the blade.”
He moved to the edge of the cliff, gazing down at the waves hammering the rocks below. The sea had always been Rome’s pride a wall of conquest, a promise of control. But now it whispered rebellion.
“Send word to the northern outposts,” Drax said. “Quietly. Tell them the Black Shields move again. No banners. No noise. Just watch the tide.”
The officer nodded and left, his footsteps fading into the mist.
Alone, Drax drew his sword, holding it toward the sea. The steel caught the dawn light, flashing gold for a heartbeat like lightning beneath the clouds.
“Brother,” he said softly, as the first drops of rain began to fall. “If the storm returns… then so do I.”
The thunder answered, rolling like distant drums of war.
The Empire called it weather.
The Stormborne called it warning.
© 2025 Emma Hewitt / StormborneLore. All rights reserved.
Unauthorized copying or reproduction of this content is prohibited.
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