Tag: fantasy saga

After the Burning

Chronicles of Taranis / Thunorric Stormwulf
© 2025 E. L. Hewitt / Stormborne Arts

The burning of the church was a sunrise to everyone who saw it. But to Thunorric, it was the opportunity he needed.
In the confusion, he slipped the chains placed on him by the Sheriff of Tamworth. Then rode straight toward the shire of his birth. He was fully aware that he would now be hunted by the king’s riders. The Church, and any thief who wanted coin badly enough.

His only hope for shelter was Rægenwine’s inn though even family can not be trusted. He never thought he would rely again on the man who betrayed him to the Romans. Then the man also betrayed him to the sheriff.

He halted his horse on a green hilltop. Morning light poured through the trees, bathing the grass in gold.

“War,” he murmured to the black stallion he’d stolen from a lord near Tettenhall Wood. “It’s going to be a wonderful day.”

He urged the horse into Cannock Woods and vanished beneath the canopy.

The Hunter in the Trees

“Where there’s war, riot, and discord,” he muttered, “I’ll be front flank for all to see.”

He found a small nook between the trees and dismounted, letting the stallion graze. The soft tread of his boots calmed him. A thin stream whispered nearby.

He picked up a thick branch and began carving it into a weapon sharpening one end. Crossing another and moved quietly through the autumn leaves. When he spotted a deer drinking at the stream, a few swift blows brought the animal down. Soon a fire crackled beneath a great oak, and he began preparing the meat.

“Cooked venison for now,” he said to himself, “and dried meat for days.”

As he ate, he watched the woods for soldiers.

His mind drifted to his brothers Dægan, Leofric, Eadric, and Rægenwine and to the nobles of Mercia and Wessex. All of whom would now curse his name. Demon. Devil. Stormwulf. Escaped again.

He pictured the sheriff: a man of fifty, muscular and loud, barking orders with more anger than sense. Thunorric chuckled at the thought.

But when he thought of his thirteen sons, his smile faded.
The oldest five were old enough to serve. He’d given them his blessing.
But the younger ones… they would have questions. Questions his brothers might not answer.

The ache in his chest was sharper than any blade.

Yet he was a wanted man a demon to the Church, a criminal to the king. After years of taking from the rich to feed villages starved by unfair taxes. He had earned little but their fear.

The Black Shields his hidden movement would continue without him. They always had.

He breathed in the scent of sweet leaves, wet earth, fungi, and old wood. All of which was fresher than the damp stinking cell the monks had held him in.

He slept for a few hours. When he woke, dusk pressed against the trees.

The Crossroads

He mounted the stallion, wrapped a cloth over his face, and rode toward the crossroads. Where he had robbed the king’s carriages many times before.

He spotted one now four horses, armed guards, and a noble family inside.

Perfect.

Thunorric burst from the treeline like a wolf, blade ready.
The drivers panicked. One tried to lift a horn, but Thunorric struck first.

He stabbed the driver in the arm and seized the reins, forcing the horses to halt.

“Out. Yow get,” he barked.

A beautiful lady froze as he pressed his blade to her neck.

“Everything you’ve got. Hurry, or she dies.”

“You can’t do this!” the older man shouted. “Do you know who I am?!”

“Aye,” Thunorric said calmly. “But I don’t care. Give me what I want and live or I take it off your corpse.”

“It’s him,” whispered one of the sons. “The demon.”

In minutes, Thunorric had their clothes, weapons, and coin. He tied one of their horses to his saddle.

“I’ll be kind,” he said with a smirk. “I’m only taking one.”

As he rode away, the noble roared:

“The king and the sheriff will hear of this!”

Thunorric laughed.

“Tell ’em the devil said vilis.”

He galloped toward Moel-Bryn, changed into the stolen clothes, burned his old rags, cooked fresh meat. Then travelled through wind and rain toward Worcester.

The Boy on the Road

Just outside the city, a young man leapt from the shadows tall, muscular, dark-skinned, no more than sixteen winters old.

“No one else here,” Thunorric said. “Just the Wolf of Rome. Alaric. Good to see your face. Any news?”

“Plenty.” The boy’s Yorkshire accent was thick. “Your reward’s huge now. You’re declared outlaw.”

“So?” Thunorric shifted his stance. “You going to take me down?”

“Oh hell no.” Alaric snorted. “You’re the demon now. Staffordshire demon, some say Mercia demon. Others say death won’t let you rest. And besides I owe you my life. Figured if I warned you, debt’s paid?”

Thunorric nodded once. “Debt paid. Thank you.”

“May the gods be on your side,” Alaric called as Thunorric rode on.

He reached his old home, washed, rested briefly, then rode west toward the Welsh border. Enough coin in his pocket to reach Spain if needed.

Meanwhile at court, the half-naked noble boy from the robbed carriage arrived with his family. Guards tried not to chuckle.

“Well then,” the king said, approaching, “dare I ask what happened?”

“The demon,” the lord spat. “He stole everything and killed our driver.”

Tamworth’s great hall echoed with uproar long before sunrise. Smoke curled along the rafters. The sheriff knelt before King Coenwulf, mud on his boots, throat bandaged.

“The creature escaped your custody,” the king growled. “You let him burn an abbey and now he humiliates one of my lords.”

“My lord… the storm”

“The storm does not shatter bell towers,” Coenwulf snapped. “Men do.”

“What do they call him now?”

“Stormwulf, sire. Some say the Staffordshire demon. The Mercia demon.”

Whispers spread. Hard men crossed themselves.

Coenwulf did not.

“Then let him be hunted,” he said. “Anyone who shelters him dies beside him. Anyone who brings me his head receives land, silver, and title.”

He nodded to the scribe.

“Write.”

The vellum unfurled.

“Let it be known throughout Mercia and the borderlands that Thunorric, called Stormwulf. outlaw and murderer, stands beyond the law of crown and Church.
Taken dead or alive.
Reward: one purse of gold for his body, two for his head.”

A scarred hunter stepped forward.

“I’ll bring your demon in chains.”

Coenwulf nodded once.

The hunt began.

The Inn at the Border

Thunorric crossed the last ridge before the Welsh border as dusk bled into the trees. The air tasted of rain and smoke.

He approached the inn wedged between two standing stones. His brother Rægenwine’s inn the same man who had betrayed him twice.

But Thunorric couldn’t blame him. The man had believed he was protecting the children.

He tied the horse beneath the oak and stepped inside.

Every sound died instantly.
Tankards stopped in mid-air. Dice froze. The bard’s string snapped.

“I’m not here for trouble,” Thunorric said, walking to the bar.

Rægenwine looked up colour draining from his face.

Thunorric lifted his hood just enough for the firelight to catch his eyes.

“Rægenwine,” he said softly. “You’re forgiven.”

“I… I didn’t expect that,” Rægenwine whispered.

“Aye, well.” Thunorric stepped closer. “Don’t mistake forgiveness for trust.”

“You have every right to hate me,” Rægenwine murmured.

“I don’t hate you,” Thunorric said. “You did what you thought was right. Rome tricked you. They tricked many. But betrayal has a weight and you’ve paid more of it than you know.”

Rægenwine swallowed. “You came back. That must mean something.”

“It means the roads are crawling with hunters,” Thunorric said. “King’s men. Church men. Thieves hungry for silver. And I needed shelter only for an hour.”

“You’ll have it,” Rægenwine promised. “I’ll turn away anyone who asks.”

Thunorric’s smile was thin and dangerous.

“If I wanted you dead, brother… you wouldn’t hear the door open.”

Rægenwine bowed his head. “I’m sorry. I was only trying to keep the children safe.”

Thunorric exhaled. “Good. Now pour me a drink. The storm’s on my heels.”

Rægenwine hurried, hands trembling.

Thunorric turned to the Black Shields behind him.

“Look after this inn,” he murmured. “And his family in my absence.”

Just as the ale touched his hand, the door opened.

Cold air.
Wet leaves.
Heavy, familiar footsteps.

The Brothers Arrive

Dægan and Leofric stepped inside.

The inn froze again.

Dægan tall, broad-shouldered, cloak the colour of storm-clouds, bearing the king’s mark.
Leofric leaner, ink-stained hands, eyes like old winter, a scribe and warlock whose words carried as much weight as steel.

Rægenwine bowed. “My lords… I didn’t know you were coming.”

“You didn’t need to,” Dægan said calmly. “Where is he?”

Leofric’s gaze drifted toward the back tables.

“No need,” he murmured. “He’s here.”

Dægan spotted him with the Black Shields.

Thunorric didn’t turn.
Didn’t flinch.
Didn’t pause.

“…and if you reach the ford by nightfall,” he said to the Shields, “light no fire. The hunters have dogs.”

One Shield swallowed. “Wolf… your brothers”

“I know,” Thunorric said. “I heard them the moment they stepped in.”

He finally turned, smirking beneath his hood.

“Well then,” he drawled, “if it ain’t the golden sons of Mercia.”

Dægan stepped forward. “Brother, we need to talk.”

Thunorric’s eyes gleamed.

“About which part? The abbey burning? The king’s writ? Or the price on my head?”

Leofric’s jaw tightened. “All of it. You’ve started a storm bigger than you realise.”

Thunorric smiled slow and wolfish.

“I didn’t start the darkest of storms,” he said.
“I am the darkest of storms. Devourer of souls. Destruction at the end. Death and resurrection.”

And the inn went silent the silence that comes before something breaks.

©2025 E. L. Hewitt / Stormborne Arts. All Rights Reserved.This work, including all characters, settings, lore, concepts, and text, is the original creation of E. L. Hewitt. No portion of this material may be reproduced, shared, reposted, copied, adapted, or distributed in any form. without prior written permission from the author.Unauthorized use, including AI reproduction of this text, is strictly prohibited.

To read more on Taranis /Thunoric please see The Prophecies and Tales of Taranis Unfolded

November 13, 2025
The Chronicles of the Gold Ring Chapter Twelve

A vibrant painting depicting a colorful tree beneath a bright blue sky, symbolizing life and renewal.

Rest Beneath the Tree

At last they came to the tree.

It rose from the earth as though the hill itself had forced it skyward roots tangled deep, bark silvered with age, branches spread wide like the arms of a giant blessing or warning all who passed beneath. The ground around it was hushed, as if even the wind dared not trespass too loudly here.

Storm staggered to its shade and lowered himself to the roots. The weight of his wounds and weariness pressed him down, yet the tree seemed to hold him as gently as a cradle. He breathed slow, leaning against the trunk, and for the first time since the hill of ashes he felt his heart’s trembling ease.

The others made camp nearby, but left him undisturbed. Brianna spread her cloak by the fire, her eyes flicking often toward where he lay. Cadan tended the embers, muttering half-prayers, half-jests. The boy slept curled by the packs, his face still wet with the salt of grief.

Storm closed his eyes.

The world changed.

The tree shone with light, its roots glowing as though molten, its crown alive with whispering voices. Wolves circled him in the half-dark Boldolph and Morrigan among them, their eyes like coals, their howls joining others long gone. Above the branches wheeled Pendragon and Tairneanach, wings stirring thunder in a sky that was not a sky.

The gold ring gleamed on his finger once more. Its weight was not a burden but a bond. And the tree’s voice, deep as the earth itself, rolled through his marrow:

Rest, child of storm. The road is not ended.
Every root remembers.
Every leaf bears witness.
You are bound to us, as we are bound to you.

Storm reached out and pressed his palm to the bark. He felt its strength answer, steadying his own. When his eyes opened, dawn was breaking.

Brianna stood ready with her blade. Cadan was already packing. The boy stirred from sleep.

Storm rose slowly, his body aching but his spirit steadier, and gave the tree one last look. The mark of his hand remained upon the trunk, a faint glow where blood and dream had mingled.

Then he walked on.

© StormborneLore Emma Hewitt, 2025. All rights reserved.

A colorful thank you message inviting readers to like and subscribe, set against a bright blue sky and grassy background.

Futher Reading

The Library of Caernath

August 27, 2025
The Chronicles of the Gold Ring Chapter Eleven

Boldolph the Wolf brother, shield, spirit of the wild. Painted on clear acrylic, one of a kind.
Part 11 of The Chronicles of the Gold Ring is now live where the wolf walks again in the trees.”

The Wolf in the Trees

The rain had not stopped since the hill.
It drummed on oak leaves, hissed across the ash of the fire, slicked every blade of iron until the men and women of the Black Shields looked like shadows burnished in oil. The night smelled of wet earth and smoke, of wounds bound with linen that would not stay clean.

Storm slept little. When he closed his eyes, the hammer fell, and the nails drove, and he woke with the sound of iron in his skull. So he stayed upright with his back to the birch, watching the drip of water through branches, listening to foxes bark and owls call, waiting for morning.

At dawn, a shape lingered beyond the edge of the fire’s reach. Low, black, moving between trunks with the patience of hunger. Storm’s hand went to the haft of his knife before he realised what he saw.

A wolf.

Not the lean carrion-pickers that shadowed armies, but broad in the shoulder, thick in the ruff, eyes burning with a colour no dog had ever worn. It did not growl. It did not flee. It stood in the bracken and watched him.

“Boldolph,” Storm breathed, though he knew the beast before him was no man, no brother, no shieldmate returned. But something in the tilt of the head, in the way it lifted its nose as if to scent not flesh but memory, made his chest tighten.

The others woke one by one. Cadan saw it first and rose with his knife ready.
“Leave it,” Storm said. His voice was rough with the weight of command.
Brianna squinted through the rain. “Is it a sign?”
Storm shook his head. “It is a wolf. That is enough.”

But when the wolf turned and padded into the thicket, Storm followed. He did not tell the others to stay; they knew.

The trail wound between dripping ferns and stones slick with moss. Once, the wolf vanished altogether, and Storm thought he had been chasing a ghost but then the shape appeared again on a rise of ground, waiting. Guiding. Testing.

At last they came to a hollow ringed with oaks older than any fort or cross. Their roots knotted together like clenched fists. At the centre lay a cairn of stones blackened with age.

The wolf set its paws upon the mound, lifted its muzzle, and gave one long, shivering call. Not to the pack for there was no pack—but to the world itself. Then it was gone, as if the trees had folded and swallowed it whole.

Storm touched the cairn. Cold. Wet. His fingers came away with lichen and soil. And something else. A groove cut deep, filled with rain. A mark he knew from chalk scratched on gateposts and painted on stolen shields. A ring.

The Gold Ring.

He knelt, pressing his forehead to the stone. For a breath he smelled not wet earth but smoke from a hall long gone, heard not rain but the laughter of those who had died before him. Nessa. Morrigan. Boldolph. Rayne.

The voices came like wind through hollow wood: Hold fast. The story is not done.

Storm rose. His wrist throbbed where the nail had kissed bone, but his grip was steady when he returned to the camp.

Brianna looked at him, sharp-eyed. “What did you find?”
“A place,” Storm said. “A promise buried under stones.”
Cadan spat into the fire. “More promises.”
“Not words,” Storm answered. “A mark. The old ring. It waits for us.”

The rain eased then. Just enough to let the fire breathe.

That night, when the Black Shields moved again, they did not march as hunted rebels, but as something else. A rumour clothed in rain, a shadow given teeth. And always at the edge of the path, in the corner of sight, Storm thought he saw the wolf pacing them between the trees.

© StormborneLore Emma Hewitt, 2025. All rights reserved.

Futher Reading

The Library of Caernath

August 19, 2025
The Chronicles of the Gold Ring Chapter Nine.

Bread for Blood

The night was raw and sharp with frost, the air thick with the scent of pine and woodsmoke drifting from distant hearths. Taranis rode ahead, the black shield strapped to his back catching what little moonlight broke through the bare branches.

Behind him, the Black Shields moved like a shadow given form. Seven riders their shields painted black and marked with the storm-sigil in dull grey ash. Among them, Brianna kept pace, her raven-dark hair bound in a warrior’s braid, eyes fixed on the road ahead.

Their target lay where the old trader’s road bent toward the river. a Roman supply convoy, fat with grain, salted pork, and amphorae of oil. The guards wore the same polished arrogance as all Rome’s men helmets gleaming, spears upright, their march a perfect, disciplined rhythm.

Taranis raised his fist.
The forest seemed to hold its breath.
Then his hand dropped, and the night erupted.

Arrows hissed from the treeline, felling the lead guard before the others could shout. Brianna’s blade flashed as she rode through the side of the column, cutting down a soldier who tried to raise his horn. Taranis slammed into the rearmost wagon, sending it lurching into the ditch.

The fight was short, brutal.
When it ended, the snow was churned with blood and the mules stood trembling, steam curling from their nostrils.

“Take the lot,” Taranis said. “Every last sack.”

The Shields loaded what they could onto their own wagons, but instead of retreating into the forest as usual, Taranis turned his horse toward the lowland villages along the marsh. They moved in silence, the wagons creaking under the weight of Rome’s stolen bounty.

The first door they knocked on belonged to a bent-backed widow with two hungry children. Brianna handed her a sack of grain without a word.

At the next farmstead, a half-crippled shepherd received a barrel of salted pork. By the time they reached the edge of Emberhelm’s border, half the load was gone.

The rest, Taranis delivered at dawn to Lore’s men at the southern watch, and to Drax’s quartermaster in the hills.

When Brianna caught up to him by the river, she frowned.

“You give more than you keep. That’s not how outlaws survive.”

Taranis shrugged, eyes on the water.

“Then I’m not an outlaw. I’m a storm. Storms take, but they leave the earth ready to grow again.”

She studied him for a long moment before nodding once.

“Then let’s see how long the earth lets you live.”

© 2025 Emma Hewitt. All rights reserved.
This story and all characters within the StormborneLore world are the original creation of Emma Hewitt. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the author, except in the case of brief quotations used in reviews or scholarly works.

The Library of Caernath

The Chronicles of the Gold Ring… Chapter One

The Chronicles of the Gold Ring Chapter Two

The Chronicles of the Gold Ring Chapter Three.

The Chronicles of the Gold Ring Chapter Four.

The Chronicles of the Gold Ring Chapter Five

The Chronicles of the Gold Ring Interlude.

The Chronicles of the Gold Ring. Chapter Six

The Chronicles of the Gold Ring Chapter Seven

The Chronicles of the Gold Ring Chapter Eight

August 15, 2025
The Chronicles of the Gold Ring Chapter Eight

The Shadow Raid

The forests north of Emberhelm were not empty. They whispered in the cold leaves rustling without wind, branches creaking as if bearing witness.

Every step of Taranis’s horse cracked frost from the dead undergrowth, and in the darkness, unseen eyes marked his passage.

The Black Shields had grown in only a handful of days. Seven now a band stitched together from thieves, deserters, exiled warriors, and one woman with hair like raven feathers whose blade was sharper than her tongue. She called herself Brianna , and unlike the others, she did not flinch when Taranis looked at her.

They camped in the hollows where no light could reach. They moved before sunrise, leaving only cold ashes behind, and they spoke little, except for the soft murmur of plans and the low hum of old battle songs.

Their first strike had been for food.
The second, for vengeance.
The third would be for a message, not just for them but the starving.

Bryn Halwyn a hill fort the Romans had claimed but not yet reforged in their own style. Its high earthwork walls crouched like a sleeping beast above the winding road. That road was crawling now with supply wagons, the torchlight of the guards bobbing like fireflies in the mist.

Taranis’s voice was a low growl “Shields black. Faces darker.”

The Shields moved as one, melting into the tree line. Arrows hissed from the dark, the first taking a Roman through the throat before his shout could leave his mouth. The second dropped a driver from his cart, spilling barrels into the mud.

Then came the torches. They arced through the air, their fire licking greedily at wagon covers, rope, and dry straw. Flames climbed fast, reflected in the wide eyes of panicked mules.

Taranis was already moving.
A shadow at the edge of the firelight, blade flashing, he cut through the first guard and didn’t stop. The air stank of blood and burning oak. The Romans shouted in their clipped tongue, but their formations shattered in the chaos.

By dawn, the road was empty but for the smell of wet ash and a single storm-sigil burned deep into the dirt where the wagons had stood.

When they were gone, the crows came, hopping between the blackened wheels and picking at the dead.

That night, beside a hidden fire, the Shields feasted on stolen bread and salt pork. Kerris leaned across the flames.

“What now?” she asked.

Taranis stared into the heart of the fire until his eyes stung.
“We keep going until there’s nothing left to take. Or until they come for me.”

Kerris smirked. “And if they do?”

He smiled without warmth. “Then they’ll find the storm waiting.” he replied with a grin

© 2025 Emma Hewitt. All rights reserved.This story and all characters within the StormborneLore world are the original creation of Emma Hewitt. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the author, except in the case of brief quotations used in reviews or scholarly works.

Futher Reading

The Library of Caernath

The Chronicles of the Gold Ring… Chapter One

The Chronicles of the Gold Ring Chapter Two

The Chronicles of the Gold Ring Chapter Three.

The Chronicles of the Gold Ring Chapter Four.

The Chronicles of the Gold Ring Chapter Five

The Chronicles of the Gold Ring Interlude.

The Chronicles of the Gold Ring. Chapter Six

The Chronicles of the Gold Ring Chapter Seven

August 14, 2025
The Chronicles of the Gold Ring Chapter Seven

Ash on the Bridge

The morning after the storm was silent, but for the river.

Its grey water curled slow beneath the bridge, licking at the stones as if to wash them clean of the night before.
It could not.

Boldolph lay there still, fur wet, eyes closed in the peace of warriors who never feared death. Morrigan was beside him, her flank pressed against his as though she had refused to fall alone.

Taranis did not kneel. He stood apart, a horn of bitter mead in one hand, the other wrapped around the haft of his spear. His brothers spoke words over the dead the kind of words that should have meant something but the high warlord’s gaze was elsewhere. Past the pyres, past the valley, toward the ridges where the enemy had come.

The smell of charred wood and dragon’s breath lingered. Somewhere above the clouds, the great wings of Pendragon and Tairneanach were gone to ash or exile. He could feel the absence as a wound.

When the flames took the wolves, he drank deep. When the ashes scattered on the wind, he did not look back.

That night, in the hall of Ignis, Lore spoke of rebuilding. Draven spoke of the Ring’s oaths. Drax spoke of vengeance.
Taranis said nothing until the room had emptied.

Then, to the empty benches, he muttered, “The Ring is cracked. And cracks spread.”

Outside, the moon rode high. In its light, a man in a blackened cloak rode from Emberhelm with no banner and no blessing only a storm sigil scratched into his shield with the point of a knife.

The Black Shields had begun.

2025 Emma Hewitt. All rights reserved.
This story and all characters within the StormborneLore world are the original creation of Emma Hewitt. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the author, except in the case of brief quotations used in reviews or scholarly works.

The Library of Caernath

The Chronicles of the Gold Ring… Chapter One

The Chronicles of the Gold Ring Chapter Two

The Chronicles of the Gold Ring Chapter Three.

The Chronicles of the Gold Ring Chapter Four.

The Chronicles of the Gold Ring Chapter Five

The Chronicles of the Gold Ring. Chapter Six

August 13, 2025
The Wilderness Years Part 7

The Grave That Couldn’t Hold Him

The wind rolled down from the mountain like a warning.

Three days had passed since the Trial by Fire. Taranis had been seen walking beside Grael’s warhorse, the shattered collar left behind, and the obsidian pendant still warm against his chest. But not everyone had accepted his transformation.

Some called him storm-marked. Others, cursed.

In a low tent near the edge of camp, whispers brewed.

“He defied the gods,” one said.

“Walked through flame and came out smiling,” said another.

“Flame tricks the weak. It blinds.”

The men gathered around the edge of the fire, cloaks pulled close against the creeping mist. They weren’t Grael’s most loyal, nor Solaris’s brothers. They were wolves without a pack mercenaries who had once served the Clawclan, now waiting for coin and chaos.

They didn’t wear Stormborne colours. Not yet.

“Tonight,” muttered Kareth, his eyes gleaming with spite. “We do what fire could not.”

A few nodded.

“He should’ve died in chains. He’s no warrior. He’s a beast.”

“And beasts don’t get reborn.”

They struck after moonrise.

Taranis had gone to the stream to refill his waterskin, alone as he often did, choosing solitude over celebration. The camp had begun to sleep. The guards were half-drunk from fermented berry wine.

They came from the trees six of them. Faces covered, blades drawn.

The first blow caught him across the shoulder, sending him to the ground.

“Traitor,” one hissed. “Freak.”

Taranis fought back with bare fists, striking like the wolf they feared but it was too many. A second dagger found his ribs. A club broke across his spine.

He fell to one knee.

They kicked him until he stopped moving.

Until his breathing went quiet.

Until he bled into the moss and stones.

They dragged the body to the far side of camp, past the standing stones, into a hollow in the woods where no firelight reached.

They left no markers. No words. Just dirt over his body and a curse on their breath.

“He walks no more,” Kareth said. “The storm dies in silence.”

And they returned to camp, blades clean, alibis ready.

No one would find him.

No one would weep.

They believed the gods had finally corrected their mistake.

But Taranis was not dead.

He dreamed of fire.

He dreamed of wolves.

He dreamed of the black dragon watching from above not with pity, but with fury.

And beneath the soil, his fingers twitched.

The early morning sin rose and grael could be heard hollering

“STORMBORNE WHERE ARE YOU?” grael shouted looking around for taranis

“He fled, he’s a coward” one of kareths men said smirking Wolves circled where his body lay leading them to discover taranis body still and cold.

Two days passed “we will find him tether him again no escape this time.” A warrior said as the wolves circled a piece of land
“Hes dead grael” a Saris said
“He deserves a real burying ” another said

The earth did not keep him.

Not on the first day, when silence reigned.
Not on the second, when the wolves came.
But on the third the wind changed.

At first, just a shift. A stillness. Then, a scent.

Morrigan arrived first. White fur gleaming against the ash-darkened trees. She paced in a wide circle around the hollow. Then came Boldolph, the black wolf, teeth bared, hackles raised.

They howled.

A low, haunting sound not grief. Warning.

Grael rode at once, followed by Solaris and half the guard. When they reached the hollow, they found the wolves digging. Claws tearing through dirt, paws flinging soil like rain.

Grael dismounted. Something in his chest cracked.

“Taranis…”

Solaris dropped to his knees beside the wolves, hands trembling.

“Help me dig!”

No one moved until the first scrap of cloth was exposed. A torn edge of tunic, blood-black, crusted to the earth.

Then the digging began in earnest.

It took three men and two wolves to drag the body out.

He was pale. Lips cracked. Blood dried to his skin. The obsidian pendant still hung around his neck, dirt pressed into the ridges.

One eye was swollen shut. Bruises ran like vines across his chest and arms.

But he was breathing.

Shallow. Ragged. But alive.

Solaris shouted for the healer. Grael stared at the boy like he was seeing a ghost.

“No burial mound,” he said softly. “No cairn. Just a shallow grave… and a storm too stubborn to die.”

The healer worked in silence, hands quick and firm. Crushed pine and fireweed were pressed into the wounds, stitched with thread made from gut and hope. Taranis didn’t speak. He didn’t need to. Each time the wind shifted, the wolves growled low in their throats, sensing the old power flicker just beneath his skin.

By nightfall, they had moved him to a guarded hut near the heart of camp. Four warriors stood watch. Grael gave orders that anyone who tried to enter unbidden would be struck down no questions asked.

Solaris sat beside the boy, wiping dried blood from his temple.

“You stubborn bastard,” he whispered. “Even the grave gave up on you.”

Taranis didn’t reply. But his eyes opened barely and fixed on the obsidian pendant now laid upon his chest.

Grael returned before moonrise.

“Speak if you can,” he said.

Taranis’s voice was a thread. “They buried me.”

“I know.”

“They didn’t even check.”

“I know that too.”

“Will you punish them?”

Grael paused. “I already have.”

He tossed something at Solaris’s feet a piece of fur, torn and bloodied.

“Kareth?”

“Gone,” Grael said. “Dragged into the trees by Boldolph. I don’t expect him back.”

Silence settled between them again.

“I should be dead,” Taranis murmured.

Grael nodded slowly. “You were.”

That night, as the wind moaned through the valley, a scout returned from the northern ridge.

“There’s smoke again,” she said. “Not ours. Not Clawclan. Something… older.”

She hesitated before finishing.

“There’s no fire. But trees are blackened. Stones cracked. Something passed through.”

“What kind of something?” Grael asked.

The scout swallowed.

“The kind that flies without wings.”

By dawn, word had spread. Taranis had survived. Taranis had risen.

They called it impossible. Witchcraft. Proof of corruption.

But some whispered another name.

Stormborne.

He stood the next morning.

Not for long, and not without pain, but he stood.

Morrigan watched from the doorway. She did not enter only nodded once, her red eyes gleaming.

“Even the wolves thought you were lost,” Solaris said.

“I was,” Taranis replied, voice raw. “But I heard them. In the soil. Calling.”

He stepped out into the morning light slow, stiff, but upright. The warriors turned to look. One dropped to a knee. Another stepped back in fear.

Grael met him near the edge of the camp.

“We’re riding soon. There are still wars to fight.”

Taranis nodded. “Then I’ll ride.”

“No packs,” Grael said. “No chains.”

Solaris handed him his cloak. “And no grave can hold you.”

Taranis turned to the standing stones, where birds now circled. Thunder echoed in the far hills.

He placed his palm against the earth the earth that had tried to hold him.

“Not today,” he whispered. “I am not done.”

In Emberhelm, the elders would speak of that day for generations.

The day the Stormborne rose from the grave.
The day the wolves howled not for mourning but for warning.

And from that moment on, no one dared bury him again.

Because legends, once born, do not stay buried.

© 2025 StormborneLore by EL Hewitt. All rights reserved.

THE WILDERNESS YEARS Part 1.

THE WILDERNESS YEARS PART 2

Taranis The Wilderness Years Part 3.

The Wilderness Years Part 4

The Wilderness Years Part 5

The Wilderness Years Part 6

The Iron Voice of Grael.

One Foot in Two Worlds

July 20, 2025
The Houses of Caernath Part 2

The Forgotten Blood

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.”

He turned to her, eyes soft.

“They follow him anyway.”

July 8, 2025
The Houses of Caernath Part 1

The Broken Howl.

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.

July 7, 2025
Discover Legends: The Stormfire Saga Part 1

The Return of Stormfire

A vibrant abstract artwork featuring a bold central pattern surrounded by colorful concentric lines.

They say the sky cracked open the morning he returned.

A low thunder rolled across the hills, though no lightning had yet touched the earth. The mist lay thick upon Malvern Hill, curling over the stones like the breath of ancient spirits. Somewhere between the bracken and the stormclouds, a shape emerged not quite man, not quite myth.

A fierce black wolf howls against a vibrant blue background, embodying the spirit of Taranis Stormborne’s journey in ‘The Return of Stormfire.’

Taranis Stormborne had come home.

He walked as one who had been reforged, each footstep heavy with memory and fire. Ten winters had passed since he’d been cast out as a cursed boy. But now he stood seven feet tall, shoulders broad as yew trunks. his eyes glinting with the steel-grey of a storm’s eye. His breath steamed in the cool dawn, yet he wore no furs. He needed none.

To his right padded Boldolph, the black wolf, massive and scarred, his red eyes burning like coals.

To his left prowled Morrigan, white as frost, her gaze sharp as carved bone.

An eye-catching illustration of a dragon intertwined with vibrant foliage, showcasing the magical essence of StormborneLore.

Above them circled the watchers of the sky two dragons cloaked in storm. Tairneanach, the spirit of thunder, and Pendragon, King of Flame. Their wings stirred the clouds. Their roars were hidden in the rumble overhead.

No trumpet called. No banner flew. But the mountain knew.

So did the tribe.

The watchmen were first to see him — one dropped his spear, the other fled into the trees. Word spread like fire through dry grass:
“The Stormborne has returned.”

By the time Taranis reached the outer ridge, a ring of warriors had formed. Men he once called brothers. Men who remembered the boy and now beheld the storm.

His father was gone. His mother, buried in silence.

But Lore was there the eldest, proud and sorrow-worn.

So was Drax once cruel, now haunted.

And others less forgiving.

They stepped ahead, hands on stone blades, fury in their eyes. The past had not been buried with the bones of the dead.

Taranis did not speak.

He simply knelt. Placed his hand upon the earth.

And the clouds above them began to swirl.

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 would like to read more Taranis stories please see: The Prophecies and Tales of Taranis Unfolded

If you would like to read more about Drax : The Chronicles of Drax

If you would like to read more about Rayne: The tales of Rayne

If you would like to read more about Lore: The Keeper of Cairnstones: Myths and Mysteries Revealed

July 2, 2025