Tag: fantasy

Echoes of War: Secrets of the Ash-Strewn Shore

Whispers Across the Sea

The night hung low, thick with ash and the faint glow of molten rivers. Taranis Stormborne stood at the cliff’s edge, listening to the pulse of the waves. Each roar of the sea carried a story, a whisper of what the Empire thought it can ignore.

The Black Shields moved silently across the ash-strewn plateau. Training not for spectacle, but for the unseen for strikes in shadows, patience, and loyalty forged in fire.

Exiles and criminals who had once bent to fear now moved with precision. Their eyes carrying the memory of chains and the promise of freedom.

A messenger arrived under the cloak of darkness, bringing news from beyond the sea. A small port town had whispered rumors of a golden-eyed warrior training men in secret. Shaping them into something Rome would not understand. Taranis did not smile. Rumors were the first arrows of war silent, deadly, and everywhere.

“Send scouts,” he instructed, his voice low, like distant thunder. “Learn what they fear, what they ignore. Rome has grown fat on ignorance, and we shall remind them of storms.”

In the volcanic caves, he spoke to the leaders of his order. Tracing the map of the Mediterranean with ash from the fire. Each mark represented a seed smuggled weapons, loyal exiles, slaves freed and sworn to secrecy. Each note in the symphony of rebellion.

Above, lightning split the sky. Taranis lifted his face, feeling the electric pulse in his veins, the same storm that had followed him from Britannia. “Soon,” he whispered, “the whispers will become cries, and the cries will echo through the Empire. Let them fear the shadow that bends, but never breaks.”

Far across the sea, Marcus and a handful of loyal men tracked the tales. Every report of a shadow in the hills, of soldiers who moved with impossible skill, brought unease to their hearts.

They did not yet know the full force of Taranis’ plan. But they sensed it, like the first stirrings of a hurricane, unseen but unstoppable.

On the island, fire and stone were the teachers, patience the tutor, and loyalty the currency. The Black Shields were no longer mere survivors; they were an omen, a promise carried in whispers across the waves.

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

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further Reading

The Prophecies and Tales of Taranis Unfolded

October 9, 2025
The Ceremony of Chains

The sea that carried him south was blood-red at dusk. The waves flecked with gold like the veins of a dying god.

Taranis stood chained at the bow . His eyes fixed on the horizon where Sicily’s black cliffs rose from the mist. Around him, soldiers whispered prayers, unsure if they guarded a man or something older.

Rome had sent for him again.
The Emperor’s priests claimed the island’s fires would cleanse the gods’ anger. But that the immortal gladiator Lupus. The Storm of the North must walk in chains through their sacred flames to renew Rome’s favour.

They called it The Ceremony of Chains.

As the ship docked, the air thickened with incense and fear. Bronze masks watched from the shore senators, generals, augurs, all gathered to witness what none understood.

“Bring him forth,” ordered a centurion.
Marcus obeyed, his jaw tight. He had seen Taranis survive pits that killed a hundred men, storms that tore stone apart. As he led him down the ramp, he murmured under his breath, “Don’t give them what they want, Lupus.”

Taranis smiled faintly. “I never have.”

They chained him to the altar of basalt, the metal glowing as the fire licked the air. The priests began their chants words of dominion, of empire everlasting.

But the wind shifted. Smoke twisted against their rhythm, curling into strange shapes wings, or storm clouds forming in defiance.

Then the first crack of thunder rolled across the sea.

The Emperor rose, hand trembling on the railing. “What is this?”

Marcus stepped back, eyes wide. “It’s him, sire. The storm doesn’t serve you. It never did.”

Lightning tore through the sky, striking the temple spire. The crowd scattered. Chains melted, ringing against stone like falling bells. Taranis stood midst the fire, eyes burning gold, his voice carrying across the chaos.

“Your empire fed on storms. Now taste one.”

When the smoke cleared, the altar was empty.

Only the scent of ozone and a single iron shackle remained cracked, blackened, and humming softly like a heartbeat.

© 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.

further Reading

The Prophecies and Tales of Taranis Unfolded

October 9, 2025
Unseen Forces: The Rise of Taranis in Rome

An artistic interpretation titled ‘The Shadows of an Empire’ by StormborneLore, showcasing intricate patterns and vibrant colors.

The Whispering Blades

“You’ll see the arena again, Lupus when the Empire finds another crowd worth impressing. But empires fade. Storms… they wait.”

“So what then? More isolation for the beast brought out to haul rocks or is he permitted to do what he wants?” another guard asked, half mocking, half wary.

Marcus didn’t answer at first. His gaze lingered on the prisoner the golden-eyed giant who once made cities tremble. Even in chains, there was something unyielding about him. The air seemed heavier when he stood too close, as if the storm itself remembered him.

“Let him work,” Marcus said finally, voice low. “If the gods haven’t broken him by now, we won’t.”

Taranis lifted the stone in silence, the weight nothing to him. His eyes met Marcus’s through the drifting ash not with hatred, but understanding. Men like Marcus were cracks in the Empire’s armour, and he already felt the storm beginning to seep through.

That night, whispers spread through the camps. The slaves spoke of tools vanishing, guards turning blind eyes. The strange marks carved into the rock walls of the caves symbols of the storm.

The Ordo was no longer training in secret. It was beginning to move.

The Whispering Blades

It began with the disappearance of a centurion. No body, no blood just his helmet left beside the sea. Then came the merchant ships that docked with half their crew missing and their cargo of weapons gone.

Rome’s prefects called it piracy. The guards called it witchcraft. But Marcus knew better. He had seen the marks black circles intersected by lines like lightning. Carved into the stones where the missing men last stood.

The storm’s sigil.

On the island, Taranis moved through shadow. The Ordo had become something more not merely prisoners, but a network. Smugglers, spies, deserters, slaves. Men who owed no loyalty to Rome but to one another, bound by the mark and by his word.

Their blades were not drawn in open rebellion but in silence. Messages replaced banners; coded phrases replaced oaths. In the dark corners of the empire, the name Lupus became a warning. A curse whispered between soldiers before they slept.

And from time to time, Marcus would find strange bundles left near the guardhouse. Parcels of food, maps, and notes written in a language he did not know. The storm was moving faster than he was capable of reporting.

One night, a messenger boat came through rough seas bearing the Emperor’s seal. A new order had been given:

“Transfer the prisoner known as Lupus to Sicily. The Emperor demands his presence for a special ceremony.”

Marcus read the scroll three times. The words were clear, yet something in him hesitated. He looked toward the cliffs, where lightning split the horizon. The faint echo of a hammer striking iron rang out in the volcanic dark.

The storm was preparing to leave its island.

In the morning, Taranis stood by the docks, chains freshly bound. The soldiers dared not meet his eyes. As he stepped aboard, the sea hissed against the hull, and the sky grumbled above them.

Marcus saluted him not as a guard, but as a soldier to another.

“The gods will tire before you do, Stormborne,” he said quietly.

Taranis smiled faintly, the expression like distant thunder.
“They already have.”

The ship set sail toward Sicily. Behind them, the island burned in the dawn. A black wound sealed by smoke, hiding the thousand blades that whispered beneath it.

The storm was no longer waiting. It was coming ashore.

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Further Reading

The Prophecies and Tales of Taranis Unfolded

October 8, 2025
Empire’s Fall: The Story of Taranis Stormborne

Artistic depiction reflecting the themes of dominance and rebellion in ‘The shadows of an Empire’ by StormborneLore.

The chains had not grown lighter with time, only quieter. Iron had long since given way to gold, yet weight was still weight . Taranis Stormborne felt every ounce of Rome’s fear in the links that bound him.

The ship that bore him south groaned through black waters. The guards would not meet his eyes. Some crossed themselves; others muttered old charms beneath their breath. When lightning flared over the horizon, a single flash revealed the island ahead jagged, volcanic, crowned with smoke.

His new world. His cage.

They called it Vulcarum Minor, a place for Rome’s unwanted gods.

The emperor had decreed he would not die, only vanish buried in salt and silence, where storms not reach. Yet the sea itself seemed to bow as the chained gladiator stepped onto the black sand. The air shimmered with heat and the scent of sulfur; the cliffs glowed faintly with fire beneath the stone.

There were others there broken soldiers, condemned priests, thieves who had stolen from temples. Men without names. And when they saw him, some whispered, “The Unbroken One.”

At night, when the guards slept, he spoke to them not of rebellion, but of memory.

Of oaths that outlast empires.
Of the storm that lived in blood and bone.

Soon the whispers changed shape. The condemned began to mark their shields and cuffs with a blackened handprints. A sign of allegiance in the dark. They trained by moonlight, silent and tireless, forming a circle beneath the cliffs.

Taranis called them his Scutorum Nigrorum the Black Shields.

Not an army, not yet.
A brotherhood. A promise.

As weeks became years, their network grew beyond the island. Soon ferrymen, smugglers, slaves who vanished and reappeared with gold, soldiers who served two masters. The storm’s reach was returning, invisible and patient.

When thunder rolled across the straits of Sicily, the guards whispered it was a warning from the gods.
But Taranis knew better.

It was a reminder.

That no empire lasts forever.

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© 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.

Further Reading

The Prophecies and Tales of Taranis Unfolded

October 8, 2025
Exile and Legends: The Story of Taranis and His Chains

The Echoes of Chains

A hundred years had passed since the storm was bound.

A hundred winters since Taranis Stormborne’s chains had sung beneath Rome’s hand yet still, his name whispered across the camps and the courts like a ghost too proud to fade.

In the hall of the Legion’s veterans, laughter rose among the embers.
Drax, Draven, and Lore sat together with old friends, all bound by immortality, all marked by the centuries. The world had changed around them Rome had fallen, risen, and reshaped itself but some wounds did not age.

“They want to see how far they can push him before he dies,” one of the legionnaires said, swirling wine dark as blood in his cup. “The Empire’s still obsessed with him. Calls him champion now.”

Draven’s brow arched. “Champion?” he repeated, half with scorn, half with disbelief. “The Emperor’s champion? Then he’s no prisoner he’s a prize.”

Another man leaned closer, the firelight cutting sharp lines across his face. “Word is they’ll grant him exile. An island of his own. Somewhere the storms never touch.”

Lore laughed softly though there was no warmth in it. “Exile,” he said. “Rome’s mercy always comes wrapped in iron.”

Marcos older than them all, though untouched by time raised his cup. “Your brother’s no man anymore,” he said quietly. “He’s a story they can’t kill. A weapon they don’t understand.”

The hall fell silent. Only the fire spoke a low hiss, a breath of smoke curling upward.

A woman’s voice, cool as silver, broke the quiet. Calisto, immortal like the brothers, leaned against the pillar’s shadow. “Calisto owns your brother now,” she said. “Gladiator. Slave. Sold to noble women to keep their beds warm and their secrets buried.”

Draven’s hand tightened on the table. “You speak lies,” he growled.

Marcos shook his head slowly. “Not lies. Rome believes a man can be broken if he’s humiliated long enough.” His eyes darkened. “They never understood what blood he carried.”

Drax stared into the fire, jaw set like stone. “Then they’ve forgotten what happens when storms remember,” he murmured.

Outside, thunder rolled faintly over the hills distant, but coming closer.

October 7, 2025
Unlocking Ancient Powers: Lore Stormborne’s Awakening

The Whisper Beneath Stone

Artistic representation of Lore Stormborne, featuring intricate patterns and vivid colors, symbolizing his connection to ancient powers and storms.

Rain fell soft upon Emberhelm not in sheets, but in threads, weaving through the night like strands of memory. Each drop whispered against the walls, tracing paths down stone carved before empires rose. The air smelt of iron, damp moss, and prophecy.

Lore moved through the Hall of Echoes with deliberate silence. The torches burned low, their flames bending in strange rhythm, as though swayed by unseen breath. Beneath the central arch lay the dais of oath and upon it, the gold ring.

It shimmered faintly in the half-light, a pulse of life within metal. Not the glow of firelight, but of something older.

Lore hesitated before it. His reflection warped in its surface his eyes darker, sharper, his face marked by the faint runes of bloodline and burden. “The ring of storm and oath,” he murmured. “The bond of the five.”

He reached out. The moment his fingers brushed it, the hall sighed.

A low hum filled the air not from stone or wind, but from within.

Then came the voice.

“Brother…”

The word was barely sound more vibration, more memory. It coiled through him like smoke through glass.

“Taranis…” Lore whispered, his voice trembling. The name itself seemed to awaken something. The torches guttered. The shadows around the walls began to move not randomly, but with purpose, forming the faint outlines of chained figures, of men bowed beneath lightning.

The ring pulsed again, once, twice. Gold bled to storm-grey.

“Show me,” Lore said. “Show me where he walks.”

The pulse deepened and suddenly, the hall was gone.

He stood in mist. Iron gates loomed before him, slick with rain. Beyond them, sand bloodstained and torn an arena. He heard the roars of lions, the clash of blades, the chanting of a foreign crowd. And there, in the centre, Taranis bare-armed, chained, and unbroken. His eyes like stormlight.

“Still he stands,” Lore breathed.

The vision shattered like glass beneath a hammer. He was back in the hall, gasping, knees to the stone floor. The ring still glowed in his palm, its pulse slowing to match his heartbeat.

He knew then: his brother lived but the bond between them had stirred something greater. The old powers beneath the land the ones the druids had whispered of were waking again.

A new sound reached him. A voice, aged as winter bark.

“The ring calls the storm again,” said Maeve, the seer. She stepped from the shadowed archway, her staff crowned with raven feathers and iron charms. “You’ve felt it too the pulse of the deep earth, the cry of the stones.”

Lore rose slowly. “He lives. I saw him. Rome cannot hold him.”

Maeve’s gaze was sharp, knowing. “No but when the storm returns, it will not come gently. Bonds such as yours were not forged for peace. The land remembers its oaths, Lore Stormborne. The blood remembers. And blood always calls for blood.”

He turned toward the open window, where thunder rolled faintly beyond the hills. The storm clouds were gathering again not yet upon them, but coming.

“Then let it come,” he said softly. “We are Stormborne. We do not kneel to the Empire. We endure… and when the sky breaks, we rise.”

The gold ring flared once more, bright as lightning and somewhere far to the south, in a Roman cell slick with rain, Taranis felt it too.

October 7, 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 Chains of Blood and Brotherhood

The storm had not yet left his veins. Even in exhaustion, Taranis’s breath came sharp as lightning through rain. The iron on his wrists bit deeper with each movement, the weight of Rome’s victory heavy, but not finished.

He heard them before he saw them the measured tread of Caelum and Marcos. The murmur of soldiers giving way as they entered the cell yard. The torches flared against the damp walls, shadows stretching long like reaching fingers.

“Uncle Marcos,” Caelum’s voice was quiet but edged with fear. “Can those chains come off him?”

Marcos paused beside the centurion who held the keys. His gaze lingered on Taranis, bloodstained and silent, the faint curl of defiance still etched into his mouth. “They can,” Marcos said slowly. “But they won’t. Not yet.”

Caelum’s jaw tightened. “He’s bleeding. If he dies”

“He won’t,” Marcos interrupted, eyes never leaving Taranis. “He’s too stubborn to die.”

Taranis lifted his head then, a slow, deliberate motion. “You sound almost proud, Marcos.” His voice was hoarse, roughened by sand and roar, but steady. “Tell me how does it feel, watching Rome chain another son of the storm?”

Marcos stepped closer, the metal of his own armour glinting in the firelight. “It feels like survival,” he said quietly. “A lesson you still refuse to learn.”

“Survival,” Taranis repeated, the word tasting like ash. “You call it that. I call it submission.”

The centurion moved between them, keys jangling. “Enough talk.” But Marcos lifted a hand not to command, but to stay him.

“Let him speak,” Marcos said. “Words weigh less than chains.”

Caelum’s eyes flicked between them, confusion and pain warring in his young face. “He fought lions, Uncle. Bears. He lived through what no man should. Why must you treat him like this?”

“Because,” Marcos

“You know they say deaths the final lesson?” Taranis grinned…Marcos’s eyes hardened, but not with anger with something closer to grief.

“Death teaches nothing,” he said. “It only silences the unteachable.”

Taranis laughed then a low, ragged sound that echoed off the stone like distant thunder. “Then maybe silence is what Rome fears most. A man who dies still defiant who doesn’t give them their spectacle.”

The centurion stepped ahead impatiently. “Enough of this.” He seized Taranis by the shoulder, but the bound warrior’s gaze did not waver.

“Do you see it, Caelum?” Taranis rasped. “Chains don’t make a man loyal. They only show who fears him most.”

Caelum swallowed hard, torn between the authority of his uncle and the raw conviction before him. “Uncle… he’s right. Rome fears him.”

Marcos turned sharply. “Rome fears no man.” Yet even as he said it, his voice faltered, as if the walls themselves disagreed.

A moment of silence fell the kind that breathes between lightning and thunder.

Then Taranis whispered, “You once said the blood of the storm can’t be trained. You were right. It can only be bound… for a while.”

The torches flickered, shadows dancing like spirits around the three men the Roman, the youth, and the storm-bound prisoner.

Marcos finally turned away. “Clean his wounds,” he said curtly to the centurion. “He fights again at dawn.”

As they left, Caelum lingered by the gate, his eyes locked on Taranis’s. “I’ll come back,” he said softly.

Taranis’s faint grin returned. “Then bring thunder, boy. Rome hasn’t heard enough of it yet.”

The cell door slammed shut, iron against stone but somewhere, deep beneath the fortress, thunder rolled.

© 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.

Futher Reading

The Prophecies and Tales of Taranis Unfolded

October 7, 2025
The Chains that Speak

The clang of steel echoed across the Roman training yard. The sun was still low, its pale light glinting off helmets and polished shields. Taranis moved like shadow and storm, his chains rattling as he fought against three centurions in succession.

Every strike he gave was measured, precise but every parry cost him pain. The iron bindings cut into his wrists, leaving a thin red line that deepened with each movement. He refused to yield.

Caelum stood at the edge of the sand pit. His tunic far too fine for this place a youth of maybe sixteen, bright-eyed and restless. His gaze never left Taranis.

“uncle Marcos,” he said quietly, turning to the older man beside him. “Can those chains come off him?”

Marcos didn’t answer at once. His face was lined from years in service, his eyes as sharp as the swords he trained with. “Chains are the only reason he’s still alive, Caelum,” he said finally. “Without them, some fool would call it fear instead of discipline.”

“But he’s fighting for us now.” Caelum’s voice carried, defiant.
“For Rome, at least.”

Marcos’s jaw tightened. “For survival. That’s different.”

In the pit, Taranis struck low, sweeping a soldier’s legs out from under him. Before turning the momentum into a twist that sent the next centurion stumbling backward.

The last one hesitated, shield raised, watching the way. Taranis breathed steady, like a man waiting for the storm to break.

The chain coiled once, twice then snapped out, wrapping the shield edge and dragging it down. The sound of the soldier hitting the ground was followed by silence.

Caelum took a step ahead. “He’s more Roman than half your men.”

Marcos shot him a warning look. “Careful, boy. You sound like your mother.”

The youth smirked faintly. “She says the same.”

When the training was done, the soldiers dispersed, muttering under their breath half respect, half fear. Taranis knelt in the dust, hands bound before him. Marcos approached, tossing him a canteen.

“You could have killed them,” Marcos said.

Taranis drank, the water streaking through the dust on his face. “You didn’t tell me to.”

Marcos grunted, half a laugh, half frustration. “One day, that mouth of yours will get you killed.”

“Maybe,” Taranis replied. “But not today.”

Caelum stepped closer, watching the bruised wrists, the marks the chains left behind. “You’re not like the others. You don’t fight for their gods.”

Taranis looked at him not unkindly. “No. Mine are older. And they don’t care who wears the crown.”

The boy tilted his head. “If I asked you to fight for me instead of Rome?”

Marcos snapped, “Enough!” But Taranis only smiled slow, deliberate, dangerous.

“Then, little wolf,” he said softly, “you’d better be ready to pay the price.”

Above them, thunder rolled faintly in the distance, though the sky was still clear.

© 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.

Further Reading

The Prophecies and Tales of Taranis Unfolded

October 7, 2025