They said he was born of a storm,
but I found him in chains,
skin split by the lash,
eyes empty, yet still watching.
They called him exile.
They called him cursed.
They called him meat for wolves.
But wolves do not howl for cowards.
He did not beg.
He did not speak unless commanded.
Even when the whip cracked bone,
he stood until he dropped.
I gave him no mercy,
only water, only duty.
And still, he rose.
He refused the kill.
Said, “No one’s worthless.”
In that moment,
he was worth more than the son of kings.
I do not love the boy.
But I will make him a blade.
The gods have already tempered his soul.
I am only the fire.
© 2025 E.L. Hewitt StormborneLore.co.uk
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