StormborneLore

Tag: Fantasy short story

  • Taranis Stormborne: The Broken Road

    Taranis Stormborne: The Broken Road

    By E.L. Hewitt StormborneLore

    The dawn came slow and grey, dragging itself through the fog. As Taranis stood by the brook, cloak heavy with rain, listening to the groan of trees in the wind.

    The men were stirring mud streaked, bone-tired, but still breathing.
    Caedric coughed, spitting into the fire’s ash.


    “Reckon we’ve outfoxed ‘em, lord. Romans don’t fancy these woods no more than wolves do.”

    Taranis gave a crooked grin. “Aye, an’ I’ll keep it that way. Chase belongs to the storm, not the eagle.”

    He slung his satchel, nodding north. “Pack up. We take the old path up past Wyrley Hill, through the firs. If the gods favour us, we’ll reach the ford ‘fore night.”

    “An’ if they don’t?” muttered one of the younger lads.

    Taranis looked over his shoulder, eyes pale as lightning. “Then we make ‘em.”

    They set off through the trees, boots sucking at the mire, breath fogging in the cold. Above, the sky split in pale streaks of silver and white, like a scar the world hadn’t healed.

    By midday, the Chase fell behind them and the road opened wide broken Roman stones, weeds clawing through the cracks.

    Caedric slowed, squinting. “Watling Street, once. My da said it stretched all the way to the sea.”

    Taranis ran a gloved hand over one of the stones. “Sea don’t matter. Storm reaches farther.”

    He turned to the others. “Keep low. Scouts’ll be watchin’ the high ground.”

    They crossed in silence, shadows sliding between the birch trunks. A crow cried overhead, sharp and lonely.

    Then movement was seen over the ridge. A figure on the ridge, half-hidden by mist. A glint of bronze.

    Caedric hissed, “Bloody Romans?”

    Taranis lifted a hand, quieting him.
    “Nah,” he said after a long look. “One man. Cloak’s too dark. Looks more like one o’ ours.”

    The shape moved closer. A limp. Familiar.

    “Taranis?” a voice called, rough as gravel. “By all that’s left o’ the gods, it is you.”

    From the fog stepped an older warrior, scar cut deep across his jaw.
    “Byrin,” Taranis breathed. “Didn’t think the storm’d spare you.”

    Byrin laughed, short and hollow. “It near didn’t. Lost three good lads south o’ Salinae, an’ near my own arm with ‘em. But word spreadsfolk say you’re gatherin’ again. Stormborne, back from the grave.”

    Taranis gave a small, weary smile. “Not the grave yet, though Rome keeps diggin’.”

    He looked at his men mud-smeared faces, eyes bright with a spark that hadn’t been there yesterday.

    “Then it’s true,” said Byrin, glancing north. “You mean to march again?”

    Taranis nodded. “Not march. Rise. Rome’s road breaks here our land, our law. Time we made ‘em remember.”

    He drew a small blade, slicing a mark into the nearest stone a spiral, storm’s sigil.

    Caedric watched, grinning. “Yow think they’ll see that, lord?”

    Taranis met his gaze, voice low as thunder.


    “Aye. An’ when they do, they’ll know the storm’s still breathin’.”

    The wind rose, carrying the scent of rain and ash.
    Somewhere in the distance, thunder answered deep, slow, and close.

    :

    © 2025 E. L. Hewitt / Stormborne Arts. All rights reserved.
    Unauthorized copying or reproduction of this artwork and text is prohibited.

    Thank you for reading.© 2025 Emma Hewitt / StormborneLore. All rights reserved.Unauthorized copying or reproduction of this content is prohibited.

    If you enjoyed this story, like, share, or leave a comment. Your support keeps the storm alive and the chronicles continuing.

    If you want to read more about Taranis please see The Prophecies and Tales of Taranis Unfolded

    Author’s Note

    The Black Country dialect woven through this story carries the sound of the land Taranis once called home old speech born from forge and field.

    Where words still echo the rhythm of hammers, storms, and stories told by firelight.

    Much of The Broken Road is inspired by the landscapes around Cannock Chase, Wyrley, and Watling Street places where the ancient and modern meet in the same mist.

    In those quiet corners, the past never quite sleeps, and the storm still remembers its name.© 2025 E. L. Hewitt / StormborneLore. All rights reserved.

  • Rome’s Shadow: Taranis and the Fight for Freedom

    Rome’s Shadow: Taranis and the Fight for Freedom

    By E.L. Hewitt — StormborneLore

    The mists of Cnocc clung low across the fields when Taranis turned north.
    Rain soaked the cloak across his shoulders, each drop heavy as guilt. Behind him, the standing stones of the old circle faded into grey half memory, half warning.

    A handful of men followed, what was left of the Black Shields. Some limped. Some bled quietly into the mud. Yet none complained.

    They cut through the marsh track at Landywood, the ground sucking at their boots.

    “Bloody mire,” grumbled one of them Caedric, a smith from the Chase. “If Rome don’t catch us, we’ll drown in the bog.”

    Taranis gave a faint smile. “Better the bog than their chains. Least the land buries its dead with honour.”

    The men laughed, low and rough, their voices carrying through the mist.
    Overhead, crows turned circles against a sky bruised with stormlight.

    By midday, they reached the edge of Cannock Chase. The trees rose dark and close, their branches whispering in the wind.

    Here, the old tongue lived still the rustle of leaves. Carried the same sounds as the words once spoken in Mercia before Rome built her roads.

    “Best not light a fire,” said another man. “The smoke’ll draw ‘em down Watling Street.”

    Taranis shook his head. “The legions keep to stone. They fear what grows wild. That’s our road, not theirs.”

    They made camp near the brook, the water brown with silt.

    Taranis knelt, washing his hands, watching the red earth swirl away downstream.

    He thought of Drax his brother in law and blood. Who wasvstanding in that Roman armour like a stranger wearing their father’s ghost.

    “Praefect Drax,” he muttered. “You walk in the eagle’s shadow now. But one day, even eagles fall.”

    As the others settled, Taranis sat alone beneath a birch tree. The thunder rolled again to the south, echoing over the hills of Pennocrucium.

    He closed his eyes and let the sound find him not as omen, but as promise.

    “Let Rome march,” he said softly. “The storm remembers.”

    By nightfall, the brook had gone still only the soft hiss of drizzle on leaves broke the quiet.

    The Black Shields huddled beneath the birches.Their cloaks steaming faintly where the rain met the last of the day’s warmth.

    A small fire burned low, more ember than flame. They sat close to it, speaking little. The world had shrunk to mist and memory.

    From the shadows, a young scout pushed through the undergrowth, mud streaking his face.

    “Riders,” he whispered, breath sharp with fear. “South o’ Watling Street. Legion banners silver eagle, red field. A dozen strong, maybe more.”

    Taranis looked up, his eyes catching what light the fire still gave. “Which way?”

    “East,” said the boy. “Toward Pennocrucium.”

    That word hung like ash. Rome’s fort Drax’s post.

    Caedric spat into the fire. “Then your brother’s hounds are sniffin’ their trail back home.”

    “Mind your tongue,” Taranis said, but without heat. “Drax walks a path I wouldn’t, but he walks it for his sons. Rome holds chains tighter than iron.”

    The men nodded. They’d all felt those chains some on their wrists, some around their hearts.

    The fire popped softly. Rain whispered down through the canopy, finding its way to the coals.

    “Shall we move?” asked Caedric.
    “Not yet.”

    Taranis rose, brushing mud from his knees. “If they ride to Pennocrucium, they won’t look for us here. And if Drax stands where I think he does, he’ll turn them aside before dawn.”

    He turned his gaze toward the south, where the hills of Cnocc faded into night.

    The stormlight there flickered once a pale flash through the clouds.

    “See that?” murmured one of the men. “Thunder over Penn. He’s sendin’ you a message, I reckon.”

    Taranis smiled faintly. “Aye. Or a warning.”

    He knelt by the fire and drew a spiral in the dirt the old mark, the storm’s sign.

    “Tomorrow we move north,” he said. “Watling Street’s theirs, but the woods are ours. We’ll strike where the road breaks near the old fort make Rome remember who walks her border.”

    The men grinned, weary but alive again.
    For a heartbeat, the fire caught, burning bright as dawn.

    Above them, thunder rolled once more.
    It sounded like a heartbeat slow, vast, unending.

    Copyright Note

    © 2025 E. L. Hewitt / Stormborne Arts. All rights reserved.
    Unauthorized copying or reproduction of this artwork and text is prohibited.

    Thank you for reading.© 2025 Emma Hewitt / StormborneLore. All rights reserved.Unauthorized copying or reproduction of this content is prohibited.

    If you enjoyed this story, like, share, or leave a comment. Your support keeps the storm alive and the chronicles continuing.

    If you want to read more about Taranis please see The Prophecies and Tales of Taranis Unfolded

  • The Chronicles of the Gold Ring Chapter Four.

    The Chronicles of the Gold Ring Chapter Four.

    The Storm Beneath the Cradle

    A vibrant artwork depicting a colorful tree with heart-shaped leaves under a bright blue sky, adorned with a large sun and intricate designs.
    An artistic representation featuring a vibrant blue sky, a radiant sun, and a colorful tree, embodying the themes of nature and rebirth.

    The fires of the Ring had long since burned low. Smoke and judgment still clung to the stones, but the voices were gone scattered into the dark like leaves. The echoes of debate, of accusations half-spoken and oaths half-broken, were swallowed by wind.

    Only Taranis remained.

    He stood at the centre of the stone circle, not as a warlord or seer or storm-marked legend, but as a man uncertain of what to do next.

    At his feet, a small crib newly carved, rough-edged but lovingly made sat in the shadow of an ancient standing stone.

    Runes spiralled along its frame like protective thorns. Inside, the child slept, his breath barely stirring the wolfhide blanket that covered him.

    Taranis stared. Watched. Listened to nothing but the sound of his son’s heartbeat soft, fragile, real.

    “He’s mine,” he whispered.

    The words fell like an oath.

    He hadn’t spoken them aloud until now. Not to the Ring. Not even to himself. But the moment he looked into the child’s eyes, he had known.

    There in that small, storm-dark gaze was the same flicker that had burned in his own since birth. A fire that would not die, even when beaten. Even when left in chains.

    “I wasn’t sure,” he said, as if the child could hear him. “But now I am.”

    Footsteps approached quiet but familiar. He didn’t turn.

    Drax entered the ring with Aisin beside him. Her dark braid caught what little moonlight remained. She wore no armor, no crown but her presence always arrived like both.

    They stood silently for a while, watching him.

    “We thought you’d already gone,” Aisin said gently.

    “I couldn’t,” Taranis replied. “Not yet.”

    He gestured toward the crib, voice taut.

    “I know what you’re thinking. That I’m out of character. That I’ve gone soft.”

    He turned toward them now. His eyes were storm-lit, ringed with exhaustion. But beneath that a rawness neither of them had ever seen.

    “He’s mine,” Taranis repeated. “There’s no denying it now.”

    Aisin moved to the crib. She looked down at the child with the quiet reverence of a priestess before a sacred flame. One hand reached out, slow and certain, to brush the boy’s brow.

    “He’s strong,” she said. “But quiet. Like he already knows too much.”

    Taranis exhaled hard. His voice wavered a rare thing.

    “If it’s too much… if he’s too much to carry…”
    “We’re not strangers to raising children,” Drax said.
    “This one isn’t just any child,” Taranis replied. “He’s my child. And I was no angel.”

    He looked to Aisin, then Drax his oldest brother, his iron pillar.

    “I can take him elsewhere. To a quiet place. Far from the weight of prophecy. Far from the Ring. Just say the word.”

    Drax frowned.

    “You’d give him up?”

    “I’d shield him,” Taranis corrected. “From this. From me.”

    Aisin turned to him, calm and sharp all at once.

    “You fear yourself more than your enemies?”

    “Yes,” he said. “Because I dream of betrayal, but never the face. I wake with my hand on my blade. I feel hunted in my own mind.”

    He swallowed.

    “I don’t trust myself near him. Not like this.”

    Drax stepped forward and gripped his brother’s arm.

    “Then trust us.”

    Aisin nodded. “He stays. He is blood. That’s enough.”

    Taranis closed his eyes. A moment of stillness passed between them.

    Then he whispered, “His name is Caelum.”

    The name rang like truth in the circle.

    Drax smiled faintly. “Sky-born. Storm-blessed.”

    “Let’s hope he lives to become more than that,” Taranis murmured.

    Later – The Grove Beyond Emberhelm


    Rayne stood in the dark, half-shrouded by the charred remnants of an old grove. Draven hovered nearby, shoulders hunched.

    “So. He’s claimed him,” Rayne said, not asking.

    “He named him Caelum,” Draven replied.

    Rayne smiled thin, sharp.

    “That’s dangerous. Naming something is binding it to fate.”

    “He’s a child, Rayne.”

    “No,” Rayne said. “He’s a threat. A future. A soft spot waiting to be pierced.”

    Draven said nothing. He looked at the ash, not the stars.

    “You said we’d only observe,” he whispered.

    Rayne stepped closer, boots silent against the earth.

    “And we are. But sometimes watching is how you choose the moment. Let the warlord get sentimental. Let him love.”

    He leaned in, voice silk-wrapped iron.

    “Love makes good men hesitate. And hesitation… kills kings.”

    © 2025 EL Hewitt. All rights reserved.This story and all characters within the StormborneLore world are the original creation of EL Hewitt. Do not copy, repost, or adapt without permission.

    Further Reading

    The Library of Caernath

  • THE WILDERNESS YEARS Part 1.

    THE WILDERNESS YEARS Part 1.

    The enslaved Tanaris

    The clouds hung low, casting a strange dark light over the gathering. The council of elders stood in a tight circle around a young boy.

    “Stormborne, you are now and forever exiled from this village, this clan, and your family,” the elder leader declared, his eyes fixed on the child. Elder Ysra held the ceremonial staff before her, unmoving.

    The little boy turned to his family. “Father, I didnot hurt anyone. Please” he begged, but his words were met with silence.

    All thirteen of his brothers turned their backs. Then his mother did the same. Conan, his father, hesitated but looked away, knowing he could not stand against the council.

    Taranis ran from the camp, tears blinding him as he fled into the woods. His sprint slowed to a walk. He stumbled across berries and gathered nettles to eat. His first meal as an exile—nettles and nuts.

    “Not filling,” he whispered, “but the old ones ate it. Mama used to cook it.” He curled against the base of an ancient tree. Overhead, dragons roared. Wolves howled in the distance.

    Time stilled. The ache of loneliness pressed down on him. He missed his brothers, his mothers humming, and even his fathers barked commands. He walked on, aimless, until he saw a white wolf. He froze.

    The wolf approached, sniffed him, cautious but curious. Then a large black wolf circled nearby.

    “We will not hurt you. Iam Boldolph,’ said the black wolf said not aloud, but directly into his mind.

    ‘You you wont?” the boy whispered as other wolves approached, dropping meat at his feet.

    “No,” said the white wolf, lying down. “We are here to help. Your father sent us. I am Morrigan. Come, lie with me. Warm yourself.”

    Taranis walked to her and buried himself in her thick fur. Boldolph stood guard, ever watchful.

    He had lost his home, his name, and his kin. He had seen a friend die. Three winters passed, and the boy grew thin and pale, cradled in fur and silence. Then one morning, feverish and weak, he was found.

    “Father, hes curled up with the wolves,” a boy said.

    “We will take him. He will serve as a slave,” the man replied, lifting Taranis with ease.

    They carried him to their camp. Women nursed him back to health, but one day he awoke and reached for his neck. A collar.

    “Leave it,” said a teenage boy sitting nearby. ‘They will beat you if you touch it.”

    “Who are you?” Taranis rasped.

    ” I am Solaris of black claw. I am one of your owners sons,” he said, offering him bread. “You are in the Black Claw clans camp. My father found you fevered and curled up with wolves. You are to stay here as a slave.”

    From that day, Taranis worked from sunrise to sunset. He obeyed without question, learning to serve in kitchens and at the forge. He heard whispers of a cursed child, exiled and touched by dark forces.

    On his eighteenth birthday, he hauled stones beneath the harsh gaze of the masters. One man held a branch, ready to strike.

    He was tall now, but thin. His back bore scars from the collar and the lash. All he wanted was to see Boldolph and Morrigan again.

    A slap of something warm and wet stung his spine.

    “Keep it moving!” barked a voice.

    The clan leaders sons played nearby. Solaris laughed with his younger brothers by the grain shed. One of them, a tall boy with a cruel grin, threw a rotten turnip.

    It struck Taranis in the chest. The others laughed.

    “Stop it,” Solaris snapped. “He is not our enemy.”

    “He is a slave,” the older boy sneered. “You and Father found him half-dead. No name, no clan. Just stories of a cursed exile.”

    That was me. Eight years old, alone in the snow. They said I was cursed. Touched by darkness.

    But I was just a child.

    He didnot remember lunging only the feel of dirt flying behind his heels. Rage took over.

    The branch came down before he landed a punch.

    Crack.

    Pain burst across his shoulders. A second strike. A third, slower, deliberate.

    Taranis didnot cry out.

    The man loomed. “You want to fight the leaders sons? Try again, and we will gut the wolves that raised you. Make you skin them yourself.”

    That stopped him.

    His vision blurred. He tasted blood his or someone else’s he wasn’t sure but then a shadow blocked the light.

    Solaris.

    He stepped forward, fists clenched but low.

    “You will kill him like this,” Solaris said.

    “Hes still breathing,” the overseer growled. “Let the beast learn his place.”

    “Hes not a beast.” Solaris growled

    Silence.

    “I have seen beasts. This ones still human.”

    That day, there were no more beatings. But no food either.

    Night fell cold. Taranis curled beside the embers, shivering.

    Footsteps. He didnot lift his head. If they came to hurt him, so be it.

    Something thudded beside him. Bread, wrapped in cloth.

    “Its Still warm,” Solaris muttered. “I stole it before dinner. Donot die. Not yet.”

    “it’s good I don’t intend to” Taranis took the bread in both hands. The warmth bled into his finger as he stared at the fire. There was a time hed healed a bird, mended his brothers broken arm. Even healed his brother but now He touched his collar.

    “I will escape. I will kill them all,’ he whispered.

    His family was a fading memory. The names Rayne, Drax, Draven, Lore blurred in his mind.

    Then he heard a howl. “Thats Silver,” he whispered.” Thats Boldolph. And Morrigan. They stayed near.”

    Men came. They dragged him to a tree marked by rope and tied his hands above his head. Children threw scraps at his face. Laughter. Rotten food.

    A man approached. Large, green-eyed, wrapped in furs.

    “Slave, you will stay here overnight. No food for two days for daring to touch my son,” he said. “Twenty lashes if you try anything.”

    Taranis bowed his head. He knew not to speak. Not to fight.

    As they walked away, he remained in silence, bound and bruised.

    “Two days,” the man said to a woman. “No food. No water. Do not tend his wounds.”

    The coals glowed nearby.

    “Make him walk it,” said a boy named Root. They prodded Taranis toward hot stones.

    He resisted.

    “Please don’t make me’ he pleaded his hands rebound and a tether held by another boy.

    “Walk,” another growled.

    A younger boy smirked as he stepped across the coals unfazed.

    “Hes not normal,” whispered Calor. “Is that the one the enemy fears?”

    ‘He speaks with wolves. And dragons,” the Seer answered.

    “Bring our best fighter,” the leader ordered. “Let them fight.”

    They dragged Taranis, barely conscious, to the firelit circle. The crowd formed in a crooked ring.

    Barefoot, bruised, he stood in the dirt. His collar scraped with every breath.

    Rukar, the clans champion, stepped forward. Twice his size. A necklace of teeth. Leather-wrapped fists.

    “Fight,” the elder barked.

    No weapons. No mercy.

    The first punch knocked him flat. The second split his lip.

    Thunder cracked. Lightning danced.

    “Come on, exile,” someone jeered. “Show us your curse.”

    But Taranis rolled. Rukars foot slammed into a stone instead of ribs.

    Taranis launched upward, shoulder-first into Rukars knee. The brute staggered.

    Dirt in the eyes. A headbutt. Teeth bared like a wolf.

    Rukar swung. Another blow grazed Taranis temple. Blood poured.

    This was not about victory.

    It was about survival.

    He twisted low, locking Rukars arm. A snap echoed. The champion fell, howling.

    Silence.

    Taranis knelt over him, ready to strike.

    He didn’t move. He just stood

    Bloodied. Shaking. Alive.

    The Seers voice broke the silence. “The wolves taught him well.”

    Taranis bowed to the master, kneeling as he had once knelt to his father.

    “Take him to the tree,” the leader said. “Hes now a warrior-slave. He will earn his freedom in battle. But punishment for attacking my son still stands.”

    They resecured him to the tree, pain burning through every limb.

    Later that night, Solaris approached with broth. His father watched.

    “You are a warrior-slave now,” Solaris said. “They will send you to war.”

    Taranis did not answer.

    He just drank the broth and stared into the fire.

    Copyright EL Hewitt

  • Taranis and the Thief.

    Taranis and the Thief.

    A Story of Kindness.

    The fire crackled low, licking the belly of a fresh kill. A young deer brought down by patience and precision. Its scent mingled with pine resin, wood smoke, and the dry musk of wolf-fur.

    Taranis sat cross-legged near the embers, his gray eyes fixed on nothing.

    He had not spoken aloud in days. The wolves Boldolph, silent and alert. Morrigan, fierce-eyed and restless watched him as they always did, as if tethered not by duty, but by knowing.

    He tore the meat with his fingers, chewing slowly, not tasting. Hunger had long become a ghost he ignored, like the grief that gnawed behind his ribs.

    Then came the rustle. Too light for bear. Too soft for storm.

    He didn’t move. But the wolves did.

    A man emerged from the trees, thin, mud-streaked, crouching low not with confidence, but desperation. He made for the meat as if pulled by instinct stronger than fear. But the moment his hand reached toward the platter of bark and stone…

    A low growl stopped him.

    Morrigan’s teeth shone like bone in firelight. Boldolph blocked his retreat. And Taranis finally looked up.

    Their eyes met. One pair hollowed by loss, the other by starvation.

    “I thought you would kill me,” the stranger whispered.

    “I have,” Taranis replied, “for less.”

    He stood slowly, towering over the man a figure carved by exile, his face painted with ash and time. But there was no rage in him now. Only silence. And a slow understanding.

    He broke the meat in half. Handed the larger piece to the thief.

    The man hesitated, then took it with shaking hands.

    “What’s your name?” Taranis asked.

    The man blinked. “Rhonan.”

    “No longer a thief,” Taranis said, sitting again. “Tonight, you eat with me. Tomorrow, you hunt beside me. And if you run…” He glanced to Morrigan. “You’ll not outrun the black one.”

    Rhonan gave a breath that was a laugh, or a sob.

    And for the first time in many moons, Taranis chewed his meat and tasted it.

    From the author:

    This story bridges two truths: that hunger drives desperation, and that mercy can be stronger than fear.
    Taranis’s decision not to punish the man reflects a deeper shift. one from raw survival to the beginnings of community, yet small.

    If you’ve ever chosen kindness when the world expected cruelty this story is for you.

    © written and created by ELHewitt

    Further Reading

    The Prophecies and Tales of Taranis Unfolded

  • Taranis and the Bone Wolf: A Night of Survival

    Taranis and the Bone Wolf: A Night of Survival

    Symbols of protection and exile, reflecting Taranis’s journey into the mysterious woods.

    The trees no longer knew his name.

    Taranis sat beneath the twisted yew roots where the earth sloped sharply into shadow. His hands, still small though scarred, trembled not from cold, but from the silence. He had not spoken since sunrise not when his father handed him the satchel, not when the last brother refused to meet his eye, not even when his mother whispered

    “Run.” Her voice had broken, but not for him for the children who had not survived the sickness.

    For the village, he was now a curse. A child touched by strange spirits. One who brought death and unnatural things. One who raised a bird from stillness, and soon after, watched the village rot from within.

    So he ran until his breath failed, deeper into the old woods. The Wending Hollow.

    He knew the stories: spirits with antlers, beasts with no eyes, witches who wore the skins of deer. He knew, too, that children were not meant to survive here. But he wasn’t a child anymore.

    He was eight. Alone. Exiled.

    And hungry.

    By dusk, Taranis had found a shallow stream and a fallen log riddled with mushrooms. He sniffed each cap like his uncle had taught him. Then he took only the pale gilled ones that didn’t smell of metal or death.

    He dug roots near the waterline — bulbous, bitter, but full of strength. Nettle leaves, stripped with care and boiled in his small clay pot over a weak ember-fire. Then made a tea that smoked green into the mist. It tasted sharp, like the sting of his mother’s goodbye.

    His first exile meal was crude:
    🌿 A bitter root mash warmed on a flat stone.
    🌰 Wild hazelnuts cracked with care.
    🍵 A handful of mushrooms, seared by flame.
    🌿 Nettle tea, sipped from his cupped palms.

    It filled his belly but not the hollow in his chest.

    The howl came just after nightfall.

    Low. Wide. As if dragged from the pit of a creature that had forgotten how to live.

    Taranis froze. The fire dimmed, not from wind, but from presence.

    Another howl. Closer.
    Then bones not breaking, but rattling.
    Like antlers knocking together.
    Like something with no voice calling for company.

    He rose slowly. The wind twisted his fire out.

    From the trees stepped a figure that wasn’t quite wolf.

    It was tall as a stag, gaunt as famine. Its limbs stretched too long and wrapped in skin the color of ash. Bone jutted from its snout and spine. Its eyes were hollow. And it carried no scent only silence.

    The Bone Wolf.

    Taranis stood firm, chest rising and falling. He did not cry. He did not scream. Something inside him, something older than fear, whispered:

    Face it. Or be followed forever.

    He reached for a stick and held it like a spear. The creature stepped closer… then paused.

    Its skull tilted. It sniffed the steam of his cooked meal, then… turned.

    It vanished into the dark, leaving no prints. Only breath warm, inhuman on the back of his neck.

    He did not sleep that night.

    But when the dawn came, the trees whispered again. Not in welcome, but in recognition.

    The boy had survived Night One.

    And the Bone Wolf had spared him.

    Thank you for reading.

    © written by ELHewitt

    Further Reading

    The Prophecies and Tales of Taranis Unfolded