From the first howl on the wind to the firelit feasts of Caernath, StormborneLore now stands tall a living archive of myth, memory, and meaning.
In these past 19 days, you’ve journeyed through:
✨ Poems of Spirit and reflections from wolves, dragons, outcasts, and gods 🔥 Tales of Hardship and Hope, stories born in darkness, rising toward the light 🍖 Feasts of the Ancients, recipes inspired by the meals of warriors, crones, and storm-born kings. ⚖️ Truths of Our Time articles echoing modern struggles: disability, injustice, survival, and healing
Each post is more than just a page — it’s a voice from the halls of Emberhelm.
“When all the world forgets us, we will still sing around the fire.” Taranis Stormborne
To every reader who’s wandered these halls, thank you. To every warrior, wolf, and flamekeeper yet to come welcome home.
StormborneLore Fiction forged in myth. Truth written in fire.
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.”
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
A man of honour a man who cares A man who shared the darkness yet brought the light.
His tables long but round
with a star of five points So his warriors can all hear his point From near and far.
While the dragons fly over head The wolf-man warrior by his side tall, protective like a father figure Our leader raised by cursed wolves but with his grace freed his friends No slaves exist in Caernath he made it so
The high war lord of Caernath rules equal with charm and grace. but fury like the darkest of storms His group of 12 warriors, seers, healer. around the table making laws, deciding wars and peace.
Come one, come all,
to hear the tales of. The High Warlord of Caernath. A giant in spirit, a friend in kin, Whose heart burns brighter than the wrath of wind.
He lets no soul go hungry nor cold. For in his eyes, all people hold The spark of flame, the worth of kin. No exile too lost, no outcast too thin.
The fire burns bright at Emberhelm’s gate, For weary travellers and those burdened by fate. Hungry, tired, or wounded deep, He offers food, a place to sleep.
So if you wander, far or near, Know this truth and hold it dear. The High Warlord of Caernath stands, With open heart and open hands.
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.
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.”
“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.
A colorful illustration of a bird soaring above a vibrant landscape, surrounded by a decorative border.A striking illustration of a red wolf howling, symbolizing strength and kinship in the narrative of Emberhelm.A howling wolf painted against a vibrant blue background, embodying themes of kinship and wilderness.A striking artwork of a wolf howling at the moon, set against a vibrant purple background, symbolizing strength and spirit in the context of kinship.A vibrant illustration depicting a dragon surrounded by nature, showcasing the essence of storytelling and fantasy.
The great hall of Emberhelm pulsed with firelight. Smoke curled upward from the long hearth, rich with the scent of charred lamb fat, root vegetables, and sweet herbs.
It was a scent that stirred memory of winter hunts. Harvest feasts, and nights when the storm howled but the fire held fast.
Taranis stood at the head of the long stone table. His arms folded behind his back, a rare softness in his eyes. To his right sat Lore, robes still dusted with ash from the spell that broke the curse. To his left, Drax toyed with his carving knife, his appetite as fierce as ever.
But it was the spaces beyond that caught the eye.
Boldolph sat with his broad, wolfish shoulders hunched, a strip of roast meat gripped in one clawed hand. Morrigan.
Once white wolf, now flame-haired woman, laughed as she stirred a pot near the hearth beside Solaris. Who sprinkled crushed nettle and wild garlic into the steaming soup.
And near the fire, two boys sat on a bench Nyx and Rayne. The latter still bore the bruises of captivity, but his shoulders had relaxed, his collar gone. Nyx offered him a chunk of honeyed root and a crude wooden spoon. The boy’s smile was slow, cautious. But it came.
Taranis raised a horn of wild berry wine.
“Tonight, no war. No judgment. No weight of kingship or curse. Tonight, we eat.”
A cheer rang through the hall.
The first course was served hearth-brewed vegetable broth, thick with barley, wild leeks, and stinging nettle. Simple, earthy. Morrigan’s touch. The nettle had been boiled thrice, mellowing its sting but keeping its iron-rich heart.
Then came the main feast braised lamb neck, rubbed with ash salt and roasted on iron spits. It fell from the bone into honeyed mash made of parsnip and turnip, flanked by fire-roasted carrots. leeks, and bruised apples wrapped in dock leaves.
A vegetarian version of roasted nuts, wild mushrooms, and legumes. Bound with barley and wild garlic was passed to those who’d taken vows of gentleness.
The hall grew louder with warmth and full bellies. Solaris poured ladle after ladle of broth. Boldolph, face still savage, offered a growled blessing in the tongue of old wolf-warriors. Even Lore smiled briefly.
And then came dessert.
Forest fruit compote slow-stewed blackberries, crab apples, and hazelnuts served over a rough cake of grain and honey. It wasn’t sweet in the way of sugar, but it hummed with the wild tang of the land.
As the fire cracked lower, Taranis rose once more.
“We have reclaimed brothers,” he said. “Rayne is free. Draven will return soon. Boldolph and Morrigan have chosen forms of their own. Solaris has cast down his chains. And you my kin you have chosen your Houses.”
He turned, gesturing to three newly hung banners behind the head table.
Tempestras storm-grey with blue lightning: the House of the Storm.
Ignis flickering red and gold: the House of the Flame.
Umbra shadowed silver moon eclipsing a burnt-orange sun: the House of the Shadow.
“Caernath lives again,” Taranis said. “Not through conquest but through kinship. Through the storm we were broken. But by fire and shadow, we are reforged.”
Rayne rose, slowly, holding up a crude carving the three brothers etched into a cairnstone, side by side.
“Then let it be known,” he said, “that Stormborne is no longer just a name. It is a vow.”
Lore pressed a hand to the stone, then nodded.
“A vow… and a future.”
And beneath the storm-beaten beams of Emberhelm, the wolves howled once more not from pain or exile, but from joy.
Feast Notes (Modern Budget Version approx. £10 total):
Rayne collapsed before the cairnfire, the thick iron collar still tight around his neck. Etched with the jagged insignia of the Black Claw. Solaris had rushed to his side. Morrigan gathered water from the well, whispering healing words she barely remembered. Lore cast protective wards. Boldolph paced, fuming, red eyes narrowed beneath a heavy brow.
“This is madness,” Boldolph snarled, watching the collar pulse faintly with some cursed sigil. “The boy’s half-starved, and that brand it reeks of shadow magic.”
“He’s not a boy anymore,” Drax muttered. “He’s seen things. Same as the rest of us.”
“No child should wear chains,” Solaris said, voice tight. “Not in Emberhelm.”
Lore knelt by Rayne’s side, laying fingers over the rusted iron. “It’s not just a collar. It’s a seal. A blood-binding rune carved into bone. They meant for him to die wearing it.”
“And yet he made it back,” Morrigan added, her hand resting gently on Rayne’s fevered brow. “That means something.”
Taranis hadn’t spoken since Rayne collapsed. He stood just outside the circle of firelight. Eyes locked on the far horizon where Black Claw lands stretched like bruises across the night. Pendragon shifted restlessly behind him, wings tight to his sides.
“They have Draven,” Rayne had rasped before falling unconscious. “They kept him… because of me.”
That had been enough.
Without another word, Taranis had mounted the black dragon and taken to the sky.
The wind screamed around him, colder than it should have been for summer. Taranis kept low over the ridges, scanning the burned-out lands for signs of encampments. Black Claw banners once flew here clawed glyphs torn into hides, marked with bone. Now, they hid in the ruins, like maggots beneath ash.
Pendragon dove suddenly, a cry bursting from his throat.
There a ridge of slate carved into makeshift battlements. A fortress not meant to keep armies out, but prisoners in.
Taranis landed hard, blade drawn before his boots touched the ground. He didn’t speak. He didn’t call out.
He moved.
Two guards fell before they could scream lightning dancing along the edges of his blade. A third tried to flee. Pendragon caught him mid-run and dropped him without effort.
Taranis moved through the ruined keep like a storm incarnate silent, swift, merciless. These were slavers, torturers, the kind who’d once held him in chains. He knew every sound of their cruelty.
He’d been trained in their darkness. Now he wielded it against them.
In the lower chamber, he found Draven.
Naked but for rags, wrists chained above his head, bruises blooming along his ribs. He lifted his face at the sound of boots.
“Taranis?” he croaked.
“I’m here,” his brother said.
“You came back…”
“I always come back.”
Taranis cut the chains in two strokes, catching his brother as he fell.
“Can you walk?”
“No.”
“Then I’ll carry you.”
He slung Draven over his shoulder and stormed out as the keep burned behind him.
Not once did he look back.
By the time Taranis returned to Emberhelm, Rayne was awake.
Solaris had removed the collar with Lore’s help shattering it against a carved cairnstone. It took three days of chanting, and a night of fire that refused to go out. Boldolph had offered to chew the thing apart. Morrigan declined the offer.
Rayne sat in the healing hall, bandaged and trembling. When Taranis entered carrying Draven, the boy’s face crumpled.
“You got him.”
“I said I would.”
Morrigan rushed forward. “Lay him here.”
Taranis set Draven down gently. Lore began his work, murmuring ancient words. Solaris lit the fire with a whispered flame. Rayne crawled forward and took his brother’s hand.
“I’m sorry,” Rayne whispered. “I told them everything. They used me. And I still couldn’t save him.”
“You survived,” Taranis said. “That was enough.”
Drax entered moments later, axe slung over his back.
“You went alone.”
“I didn’t need an army.”
“You’re lucky I like you, brother.”
Boldolph huffed from the doorway. “I told you not to go alone. Next time, I’m riding the dragon.”
Pendragon let out a soft growl as if agreeing.
“Next time,” Taranis said, “there won’t be a need.”
That night, they gathered in the Hall of Storms. The Three Houses stood beneath banners newly hung. The thunder-mark of Tempestras, the flame glyph of Ignis, and the silver eclipse of Umbra.
Rayne, still weak but standing, stepped forward.
“I was taken when I followed a shadow beyond the border. They said my blood would buy silence. But my silence almost cost a life.”
Taranis laid a hand on his brother’s shoulder.
“It is not your shame to carry.”
“No,” Rayne said, looking around, “but I want to stay. I want to fight. I want to belong.”
Lore smiled. “Then choose your house.”
Rayne hesitated.
Then: “House of the Shadow.”
Umbra’s banner unfurled behind him.
Draven, barely upright, spoke next.
“I never stopped believing we’d meet again. Even when they broke my ribs and chained my hands. I clung to the howl of a wolf I couldn’t see. I thought it was memory. Now I know it was Boldolph.”
The great wolf-man stepped forward, placing a fist over his chest.
“You’re one of us.”
Draven smiled through broken teeth. “Then I choose House of the Storm.”
The warriors roared their approval.
Taranis turned to Solaris.
“We’ve brought them back. But we’re not finished, are we?”
“No,” Solaris replied. “Not until all chains are broken.”
Boldolph grunted. “I say we raise a hunt. Take out the last Black Claw den.”
Drax cracked his knuckles. “Been waiting for that.”
Lore added quietly, “We’ll need more than swords. The blood magic they used—it’s older than the cairnstones.”
Taranis nodded.
“Then we rebuild. We teach. We prepare.”
He turned to face the assembled tribes.
“The era of exile is over. The age of the Stormborne rises.”
And above them, Pendragon howled not in anger.
But in unity.
Later, as the fires dimmed, Boldolph stood outside the gates, leaning on his axe like a watchful father. Morrigan brought him stew.
“You stayed.”
“I always stay.”
“Still think about eating Taranis?”
“Not lately.”
They laughed quietly.
“Do you think they’ll ever stop fearing him?” Morrigan asked.
“No,” Boldolph said. “But that’s not what matters.”
The screams echoed off the stone walls of Emberhelm like the wind of old gods mourning. They weren’t screams of pain, but of release centuries of silence and curse unraveling into the night.
Morrigan collapsed first, the white fur shedding in great clouds that shimmered like frost. Her limbs twisted, reshaped. Bones cracked. Light laced through her as though fire ran in her veins.
When it was over, she knelt there, naked and human once more. Tall, slim, freckled, her long red hair cascading down her shoulders like the sun had kissed her into being.
Lore, standing nearby with his hands still outstretched from the spell, stumbled back, exhausted. His voice trembled.
“It is done.”
Boldolph did not scream.
He roared.
A roar that turned the blood of every warrior in Emberhelm cold. His black fur thickened, but did not fall away. His body bulged with new strength arms growing longer, spine broadening, but the wolf did not vanish. Instead, the man stepped ahead from the beast, and what remained was both.
A wolf-man. A warrior unlike any other.
Lore turned to his brothers. “Boldolph chose this. A warrior’s form. His path remains in the hunt, not the hearth.”
Taranis watched, silent, hand resting on the hilt of his sword. Morrigan, now fully clothed in a borrowed shawl, stepped across the courtyard to a waiting man her husband. They embraced without fear.
“She’s still loved,” Taranis muttered, half to himself.
Lore heard him anyway. “And no one fears them now. Not like they did you.”
Taranis smirked, eyes glinting. “If she wasn’t married, I’d have made her mine.”
“Careful,” Drax chuckled from behind, sharpening his axe on the stone steps. “You’re a warlord, not a poet.”
Taranis turned, expression softer now. “He screamed, you know. Our father. The night I was exiled.”
Lore nodded. “He didn’t know what to do. But he regretted not letting you stay. Mother wept for months. Still wore your wolf bone pendant long after we buried it in the cairn.”
“Did they know I was alive?”
“They did.” Lore crouched, drawing a symbol in the dirt. “Boldolph kept them informed. Something about the tribe’s elder being the only one who can hear his thoughts. Said our ancestor lived in you.”
Taranis gave a dry laugh. “Our ancestor, eh? Boldolph told me that too. Great-grandfather five times back, wasn’t it?”
Drax’s voice cut in. “Father called to Boldolph when you were exiled. Said the storm had swallowed you whole. What happened out there?”
Taranis exhaled, jaw tight.
“Adventure. Hunger. Despair. I was nearly dead when Solaris’s father found me, just beyond Blackclaw territory. They took me in. His father made me a slave, heavy work for little return. I treated his son in exchange for scraps. But Solaris he remembered me. He saw more than a starving boy.”
Lore rested a hand on his brother’s shoulder.
“You survived.”
“I endured,” Taranis corrected.
He stepped ahead and raised his voice so all gathered hear.
“Boldolph. Morrigan. Solaris. You are free now. The chains of old curses, of blood debts, and oaths not chosen gone. But I ask you this…”
He paused, turning slowly.
“Will you stay?”
The fire pits roared to life, casting flickering gold over the three freed souls. Solaris stood tall, still bearing the ash-mark of Flamekeeper. Morrigan leaned into her husband’s side, eyes scanning the faces around her. Boldolph’s red eyes flared, unreadable.
Taranis continued, “There are three houses in Caernath now. The House of the Storm — for warriors and defenders. The House of the Flame for healers, lorekeepers, and seers. And the House of the Shadow for scouts, spies, and those who walk the forgotten paths. Each of you has earned a place, should you wish it.”
He looked to them, one by one.
“If you leave, so be it. With my blessing. With food. With horses so the fair lady no longer walks barefoot through bramble. know this: your path and mine will cross again. Whether as friend or foe… that remains to
A few chuckled.
“But if you stay…” he added, softer now. “then the food is yours to share, we shall ride and fight together as brothers and sisters.”
Lore stood beside him, arms folded. “Three houses. Three choices.”
Drax, ever the blunt one, added, “But don’t take too long to decide. Winter’s hunting season comes fast.”
Silence.
Then Solaris stepped ahead.
“I will stay.”
His voice was calm, like embers beneath ash.
“But not as a servant. As a Flamekeeper. As a free man.”
Taranis nodded once. “Then take your place in the House of the Ignis”
Boldolph came next, stepping ahead with thunder in his stride. His beast-form loomed, but he knelt low before Taranis.
“I stay,” he growled. “But not as man. Not as beast. As both. I fight with you. For Stormborne.”
Taranis placed a hand on the wolf-man’s brow. “House of the Tempestas then.”
Morrigan stepped ahead last. The crowd held their breath.
“I have known healing. And fury. And grief. But I choose to give life now, not chase vengeance. I will stay… as a healer.”
Lore smiled.
“House of Umbra welcomes you.”
The wind picked up. Overhead, Pendragon flew a wide arc above the fort, and the sky shivered with promise.
Taranis raised his voice once more.
“The Houses are chosen. The bonds are made. The future begins now forged in flame, bound by oath, tempered by storm.”
And far below, in the silent stones of Emberhelm, the echoes of curses past gave way to something new.
A howl not of sorrow.
But of belonging as a mysterious stranger approached.
“I know to well how brothers can turn on each other ” a voice behind them said one they vafukey recognised
Drax arched a brow “rayne? Little brother is that you? We thought you lost?”
Rayne Nodded a thick iron coller around his neck with black claw marking in
“Who did this ” Tanaris whistles for Pendragon as his brother collapsed through torture and starvation
“Black Claw they still have Draven”
“I going to wipe that clan out ” Tanaris said
“NO YOUNG ONE NOT ALONE” boldolph said
“Morrigan he’s doing it again can I eat him or Pendragon” Boldolph said seeing the young one Tanaris flying towards enemy land as if to rescue another brother
Morrigan looked over “he will return now Rayne”. she ordered as Solaris prepared food and she gathered healing herbs.
post script
Which House Do You Belong To? In the lands of Caernath, every soul has a path.
Do you crave thunder and battle like Boldolph? You belong to House Tempestras the warriors.
Do you heal with fire and memory like Solaris and Morrigan? House Ignis calls you the keepers of lore and flame.
Do you move in shadow, unseen yet ever watchful? Then step into House Umbra where secrets become power.
🧭 Tell us in the comments: Which house would you choose and why? Feel free to share this post and invite others to find their stormbound path.
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.
StormborneLore 