StormborneLore

Tag: Duty

  • Shadows Between Brothers

    Shadows Between Brothers

    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.

    © 2025 Emma Hewitt / StormborneLore. All rights reserved.
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  • The Weight of Emberhelm

    The Weight of Emberhelm

    A vibrant abstract background featuring intricate colorful patterns with the text 'The Chronicles of Drax' prominently displayed.

    The fires in Emberhelm burned low, their glow tracing the hall’s carved beams in dull amber. Outside, wind howled through the moors, carrying the echo of the horn that had once called the clans to war. Now it was only memory.

    Lord Drax Stormborne sat alone in the council chamber, a single goblet of wine untouched beside him. The maps and missives lay strewn across the oak table. Roman reports, messages from border scouts, pleas for grain from villages too frightened to send men to market.

    He had not slept. Sleep meant dreams, and dreams brought Taranis.

    His brother’s face haunted him not in death, but in defiance. Bound, bloodied, yet unbroken. There was strength in that memory, but guilt too.

    “You always were the fire,” Drax murmured, voice low. “And I the stone that smothered it.”

    A faint shuffle broke the silence. Caelum lingered at the doorway, unsure if he was welcome. “Father,” he said softly. “Marcos sent word. The Romans will move east toward the river forts. He says it’s only a patrol.”

    Drax’s lips curved into something that have been a smile. “Marcos says many things to make Rome sound smaller than it is.”

    He rose, the movement slow, heavy with sleepless weight. “Tell the men to prepare rations, but not weapons. We will not meet them with steel not yet.”

    Caelum hesitated. “Uncle Taranis wouldn’t wait.”

    “No,” Drax said, turning toward the window, where mist swirled over the dark moorlands. “He would burn the world to free one man. I must keep the world standing long enough for him to have one to return to.”

    The boy nodded but did not understand. Few ever would.

    Drax rested his hands on the cold stone sill, the wind tugging at his hair. Somewhere beyond the horizon, his brother still fought, still endured. And Drax the eldest, the anchor bore the burden of every storm that raged beyond his reach.

    “Forgive me, brother,” he whispered to the wind. “I keep the hearth burning, not because I’ve forgotten you… but because I know you’ll come back to it.”

    Further Reading

    The Chronicles of Drax