Tag: Family Bonds

The last night at Raegenwine’s inn
Chapter I Stormborne Escape

Thunorric leaned one arm on the table, firelight cutting sharp lines across his scarred face. The Black Shields had fallen silent around him. Even the bard held his breath.

He looked at Dægan not as the Stormwulf, nor the outlaw. But as the tired, blood-soaked brother who had outrun every storm except the one inside himself.

“Brother,” he said quietly, low enough only the three Stormborne hear. “I’ll be honest with you.”

He inhaled, slow and heavy.

“I’ll be gone by morning.”

Dægan’s jaw tightened.
Leofric’s quill stilled.

Thunorric’s gaze drifted to the shuttered window where rain tapped a relentless rhythm.

“I’m not sure where. Hispania… France… or the Italian lands.”
He shrugged a gesture heavier than armour.
“Wherever the wind throws me.”

He looked back at Dægan. There was no smirk and no bravado. It was just the raw truth of a man who had lived too long with ghosts.

“But if you asked me to stay…” His voice dropped to a whisper. “I would.”

The fire cracked.

Dægan stepped closer, boots sinking into the rushes. His eyes were a storm pride, anger, fear, love all fighting for ground.

“Thunorric,” he said, voice a blade sheathed in grief, “if you stay, the king will take your head.”

“Aye,” Thunorric muttered. “He’s welcome to try.”

Leofric set down his staff. “Staying is death,” he whispered. “Leaving is exile. Neither path is mercy.”

Thunorric chuckled without humour.
“Mercy and I haven’t spoken in years.”

Behind them, Harold peeked from the cellar door. Bram stood beside him, fists clenched. Wulfie clutched a wooden wolf to his chest. They listened to every word.

Dægan saw them and something in him cracked.

“I won’t ask you to stay,” he said softly. “Because if I do… you’ll die for my sake.”

Thunorric froze as if struck.

For a moment, the brothers were boys again. They stood shoulder to shoulder in the ashes of Rome. This was before kingdoms, before war. It was before death learned their names.

Leofric placed a hand on them both, grounding them like roots.

“You leave before dawn,” he said. “But tonight? Tonight you sit with your family.”

Thunorric nodded.
“One night.”

He looked at his sons.
“One night more.”

Outside, the wind shifted.
The storm was already changing course.

The last night at Raegenwine’s inn

The inn felt too small.

Rægenwine moved with shaking hands, setting out bread, roasted rabbit, and thick barley stew. The Black Shields ate in silence. Rain steamed off Dægan’s and Leofric’s cloaks.

Thunorric lowered himself onto the bench with a battle-worn groan. His sons slipped from the cellar to sit beside him.

“Eat,” Rægenwine murmured. “Storm or no storm, a man rides better on a full belly.”

Thunorric smirked, then winced at his ribs.
“Aye. Though most storms ride on empty.”

For a moment, life felt ordinary stew bubbling, fire crackling, rain whispering at the window.

Wulfie leaned against his father.
Bram gnawed a bone like a wolf-cub.
Harold watched every shadow.
James pushed barley around his bowl.

Dægan finally broke the silence.

“What will you do when you leave?”

“Live,” Thunorric said. “Or try to.”

Leofric murmured, “Spain, Gaul, the Italian kingdoms… you’ve survived worse.”

“Aye,” Thunorric said. “But leaving isn’t what frightens me.”

Dægan frowned. “Then what does?”

Thunorric hesitated.
His sons stared.
The inn held its breath.

Finally, he whispered:

“If you asked me to surrender…”

His voice cracked something it had never done, not even under Roman whips.

“…I would.”

Silence collapsed over the room.

The Stormwulf the terror of the marches offering his life at his brother’s word.

Leofric whispered, “Thunorric… no.”

“I mean it,” he said, eyes fixed on Dægan. “For you two… for the lads… I’d walk into chains.”

Bram slammed his fist on the table. “Da, NO!”

Thunorric raised a calming hand but never looked away from Dægan.

Dægan’s voice broke.
“Brother… if I ask you to surrender, I’m killing you myself.”

“Aye,” Thunorric whispered. “But I’d go willing.”

“No.” Dægan stood abruptly, fists trembling. “I won’t damn you.”

Thunorric looked suddenly old.
Defeated.

Leofric exhaled shakily.
“Then eat. This is your last quiet night.”

But outside, something howled a prophecy forming in the dark.

The last night at Raegenwine’s inn

The fire burned low. Shadows stretched long across the walls.

Bram tugged Thunorric’s sleeve.
“Da… will we ever see you again?”

Thunorric froze.

Wulfie grabbed his cloak.
Harold tried to look brave.
James trembled.

Thunorric cupped Bram’s cheek.

“Ah, lad… don’t ask a man somethin’ he can’t promise.”

“But we want you home,” Wulfie said, lip wobbling.

Harold whispered, “Tell us truth.”

The room fell silent.

Thunorric drew a shaking breath.

“I’ll try my damned hardest to come back to you. Thunder willing, storm willing… I’ll find a path home.”

“You swear it?” Bram whispered.

“Aye,” he said, touching his forehead to his son’s. “On every storm I’ve ever walked.”

The boys sagged with relief.

But a figure stood in the doorway.
A cousin.
A boy loyal to the king.

His voice trembled.
“They know you’re here.”

Dægan shot to his feet.
Leofric gripped his staff.

Thunorric pushed his sons behind him.
“How many riders?”

“…twenty. Maybe more. They’ll be here before first light.”

Thunorric breathed out slowly a calm before a killing storm.

“Get the lads ready. This night ain’t over.”

The Condemned Man’s Choice

“They’ll punish everyone here,” the boy warned. “Even the little ones.”

Thunorric nodded.
“I know.”

He sat, tore a piece of bread, and spoke with fatal calm.

“But we’ve time for a condemned man’s meal.”

Then he drew out a small vial dark liquid swirling like blood.

Leofric’s eyes widened.
“Thunorric… no.”

“It’s insurance,” he murmured.

“For what?” Harold whispered.

“In case the king wants a spectacle. In case they try to take me alive.”

Wulfie grabbed his arm.
“Don’t drink it!”

“I won’t,” Thunorric soothed. “Not unless I have to.”

Dægan leaned ahead, voice low and dangerous.

“If you take that poison now, I’ll drag you back from Hel myself.”

Thunorric smirked faintly.
“That’s the spirit.”

But the boy in the doorway whispered:

“They brought the king’s hunter.”

Silence.
True silence.

Leofric paled. “The one with the wolf-banner?”

“Aye.”

Thunorric stood, rolling his shoulders.

“So,” he said softly. “The king wants a show.”

He looked at his sons their fear, their love, their desperate hope.

He nodded once.

“Right then,” he said. “Meal’s over.”
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The Prophecies and Tales of Taranis Unfolded

The Chronicles of Drax

Ancient Magic and Myth of the Stormborne

Chronicles of Draven

© 2025 Emma Hewitt StormborneLore. The characters, stories, names, and world-building elements of the Stormborne Saga are original works.

This includes Thunorric, Dægan, Leofric, the Black Shields, and all associated lore. They are owned exclusively by the author. Unauthorised copying, reposting, distribution, or adaptation of this content is strictly prohibited without written permission.
November 29, 2025
The Long Game

“Mother, Father,” Caelum said quietly, his small hands trembling as he stepped into the firelight. “I saw him. My uncle chained in every way. I gave him the bowl of food.”

The words fell like stones into still water. Even the fire’s crackle softened, as if the hearth itself held its breath.

Lady Maerin rose from her chair, skirts whispering against the flagstones. “You saw him?” she whispered. “How, Caelum? How did they let a child so near?”

Caelum swallowed hard. “The guards… they didn’t care. Uncle Marcos said it would ‘toughen me.’ He said I should learn what happens to men who defy Rome.” His gaze darted to Drax. “But Uncle Taranis he wasn’t broken, Father. Not like they said.”

Drax’s jaw tightened. His hands curled into fists against the edge of the table. “Go on,” he said, voice low.

Caelum’s eyes glistened in the glow of the fire. “He was hurt… bleeding. But he looked at me and smiled. He told me not to cry. He said” the boy’s voice faltered, “he said you’d come for him. That you’d want to. But he warned me… he said if you launch a rescue, they’ll make everyone suffer. If he escapes, they’ll make us all suffer. He said” Caelum’s voice broke. “He said to play the long game.”

A silence followed that seemed to swallow the world.

Lady Maerin’s breath hitched. “He’s thinking of us, even now,” she whispered. “Even in chains.”

Drax rose slowly, the fire casting bronze and gold across his face. He moved to the window, where the mist pressed thick against the glass. Outside, thunder murmured faintly across the hills. He stared toward the south toward the Roman fort where his brother sat in chains.

“The long game,” Drax repeated, the words rasping like steel drawn from a scabbard. “He means patience. Observation. Wait… and strike when the empire’s eyes are elsewhere.”

Caelum nodded, wiping his nose on his sleeve. “He said storms don’t break, Father. They change the sky.”

A small, aching smile ghosted across Drax’s lips. “Aye,” he murmured. “That sounds like him.”

Behind him, Maerin’s voice was brittle as frost. “And what will you do, my lord? Wait… while they bleed him dry?”

Drax turned, shadows shifting across his face. “I’ll do what he asks. For now.” His eyes hardened. “But when the storm comes when it truly comes not even Rome will stand in its path.”

Lightning flashed through the mist. Illuminating the valley below and for a heartbeat, the clouds took the shape of wings unfurling above Emberhelm.

Caelum hesitated before speaking again. “Father… are they poisoning Uncle Taranis?”

Drax turned sharply. “What?”

Caelum’s voice dropped to a whisper. “He’s not eating what they give him. He said the food tastes wrong.”

The fire crackled louder then, as if stirred by an unseen wind. Drax’s gaze darkened.

“Then Rome has already begun its slow killing,” he said softly. “But storms, Caelum…”

He looked toward the thunder rolling in the distance.

“…storms have a way of purging poison from the earth.”

October 7, 2025
The Weight of Emberhelm

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

October 7, 2025
The Bitter Berry

Isolation

The punishment was isolation not exile, not quite. Taranis, though still only a babe by the tribe’s reckoning, was watched but not spoken to. No brothers played with him. No mother’s lullaby wrapped him in comfort. He was to be observed, not nurtured. Fed, but not spoken to. Cared for, but not loved.

It was said the elders feared what he would become. A child with glowing hands who healed a broken mind just as easily break others, they whispered.

And so, silence fell over him like a second skin.

But the boy the boy did not stop being hungry.

On the third day of his confinement, Taranis wandered just beyond the shadow of the chief’s hut.
He was old enough to walk, too young to know danger. And he was hungry.

He saw berries.

They gleamed with dew, small and red like droplets of blood upon the brambles. They looked like the ones Nyx used to give him in summer. He plucked them, popped one in his mouth, and smiled.

Within minutes, the world tilted.

Taranis clutched his belly, his body shaking. His legs gave way as a cry tore from his throat not of pain alone, but of betrayal.

The world blurred. The air thickened. He vomited violently and collapsed into the underbrush.

From the edge of the village, Nyx saw the fall.

“FATHER!” she screamed, racing ahead before any guards stop her. “Taranis! Taranis!”

Conan came running, as did Lore and Boldolph, the great black wolf. Lore scooped the child into his arms, his skin already burning with fever again, his lips pale and trembling.

“What’s he done?” Lore cried.

“Berries,” said Morrigan softly from the tree line. “The bitter kind. Poisonous to children.”

Nyx was sobbing now, her hands over her mouth. “He didn’t know. He was hungry. He was hungry and no one fed him.”

Father turned to the elders, fury flashing in his eyes.

The elders said nothing.

That night, the laws were rewritten.

Taranis would not be left alone again. He would still be watched, still be studied but never again forgotten.

Because even a stormborn child needs more than destiny to survive.

He needs kindness.
He needs love.
And above all…

He needs to eat.

© StormborneLore. Written by Emma for StormborneLore. Not for reproduction. All rights reserved.

June 30, 2025
The Awakening of a Charmed Hero

Taranis lay silent in his cradle, just moments after birth. He didn’t cry, didn’t scream only watched with wide, storm-coloured eyes. I sat by his side, listening to the rising argument between our father and eldest brother, Drax.

“No one will hurt you, baby brother,” I whispered, “not while I and the others still draw breath.”

“Lore,” came our mother’s voice, tired but clear, “you’ll be good to him, won’t you? He’s weak…”

I turned to her and gave a gentle nod. “Yes, Mother. And so will you. You’ll teach him to gather berries and cook. And Father will teach him to hunt. He has eleven older brothers, we’ll teach him everything. But… what is Father going to do about Drax?”

I cradled Taranis in my arms, gently rocking him the way I’d done with the others. Even then, he felt… different. Lighter and heavier at the same time.

“We’ll protect him,” Mother whispered. “But if Drax doesn’t stay quiet, your father may have him silenced.”

There was pain in her voice, thick with grief.

“Drax is being ostracised,” Father said later that day.

“He’s moved to the empty hut. My men are watching him. But Lore my boy you are to be chief when I enter the eternal sleep. Drax has forfeited his claim.”

“Yes, Father,” I replied, handing the baby to him before leaving for council training.

Many moons passed.

Drax had become more unstable touched by something dark. He talked to shadows. He thrashed like a wild animal when approached. Still, Father refused to have him killed.

But Drax had never been allowed near Taranis unbound not since the moment of his birth.

One afternoon, I sat carving a storm sigil into a flat stone when a scream echoed across the camp. It was Stone, a tribal woman and healer. I dropped my tools and ran.

Inside the birthing hut, Taranis barely four months old was standing unaided.

“L… Lore?” the baby said softly.

I froze. My heart thundered in my chest. “Yes… I’m Lore. You’re Taranis the stormborne one.”

No child had ever spoken or walked at that age. He was already taller than most children twice his age. His voice was clear. His steps were steady.

Our parents rushed in.

“Conan, he’s doing it,” Mother said, her voice laced with awe and fear. “But it’s far too early.”

Father’s eyes scanned the room. He bent down and lifted Taranis, pride and dread wrestling in his expression.

“Stone,” he said quietly, “you saw nothing. And neither did you, Lore.”

“Drax is here for visitation today,” I reminded him, uneasy.

“The shaman has blessed him. He’s… clear enough,” Father replied. “But I will not kill my own blood.”

“Dadda?” Taranis said with a toothless grin. “Momma. Daddy. Lore.”

“That’s right, my charmed one,” Father said softly. “And you are?”

“Tabaris,” he chirped, mispronouncing his own name.

“Close. It’s Taranis,” Father corrected gently.

“Taranis,” he said again, tapping his chest. “Me Tanaris. You Daddy. That Mommy Sweet Voice. That Lore.”

I chuckled. “That’s right, little one. I’m your brother Lore. That’s Stone. And these are your other brothers. Do you know their names?”

“Lore… Oak, Willow… River, Sky… Star…”

He paused, hiding his face bashfully.

“You did brilliantly,” I reassured him. “You’re only three moons old and already speaking better than most of us at one year!”

Time flew.

Taranis walked and talked far too early. At one year old, he was disappearing from sight vanishing, even. He was growing rapidly, faster than any child the tribe had ever seen.

One morning, he wandered toward the hut where Drax now lived, under guard by two warriors.

“What you doing, little brother?” Rain asked, trailing behind him.

“Why Drax in there alone?” Taranis asked, blinking up at the warriors.

“He’s touched,” Rain said. “They say a vengeful spirit cursed him.”

Taranis tilted his head. “I heal him,” he said matter-of-factly.

Before I stop him, he dashed toward the door.

“TARANIS! NO! STOP RIGHT NOW!” I shouted.

“I heal!” he giggled.

Rain and I exchanged looks. “Get Father!” I barked.

We followed him inside. Drax sat cross-legged, staring at the wall. He didn’t move, didn’t speak.

Taranis approached him with no fear and touched his hand. A strange, gentle glow pulsed from his palm.

“I call on my sacred friends,” he whispered, “to heal my brother Drax.”

And in that moment, something ancient stirred.

To be continued…

Further Reading

The Prophecies and Tales of Taranis Unfolded

June 29, 2025