The morning mist hung thick over the Roman fort, curling around the walls and the sentries like ghostly serpents.
Taranis Storm’s wrists ached where iron had bitten into bruised flesh, his ankles raw from chains. Yet the fire inside him refused to be tamed. Marcos had warned him that this day would test more than his body. It would probe the limits of fear, endurance, and wit.
The centurion led him across the courtyard. Other prisoners lined the path, eyes wide with terror or jealousy. Weak men, broken men, some shaking in expectation of death. None dared speak.
“Today, you fight for Rome’s amusement,” the centurion barked, voice carrying over the square. “The arena awaits. Survive, or die beneath their eyes.”
Taranis allowed a faint smirk, almost imperceptible. Chains or no chains, sword, axe, or spear he had survived worse. The storm was within him, and storms do not break.
The first trial: Damnatio ad Bestias.
Lions, their muscles rippling beneath tawny manes, were released into the sand. Their growls rolled like thunder, a sound meant to unnerve men and mark the end of hope. Taranis was pushed forward, unarmed, the chains clinking with each step. The crowd leaned forward, eager for carnage.
The first lion lunged. Taranis dropped low, letting its momentum carry it past him. Spinning the chain to trip the beast, a subtle but devastating movement learned in the wilds of Staffordshire. Another lunged, jaws snapping, claws tearing sand.
He moved like the wind low, sharp, unpredictable. He stood baiting, dodging, spinning chains like whips, forcing the predators into missteps against one another.
Blood rose in clouds around him, yet he remained untouched. When the final lion recoiled and the centurion’s mouth twitched a mix of disbelief and begrudging respect. Taranis exhaled slowly, chains clinking, storm-controlled and silent.
The second trial: Gladiatorial combat.
He was given crude weapons a short sword nicked from years of use. A small round shield marred by countless hits, a spear bent at the tip. Combatants approached with mockery, expecting an untrained barbarian to stumble, falter, and bleed.
Taranis did not falter. He did not rush. Each movement was a calculation, using the terrain, his chains, the enemies’ weight and momentum against them. The first pair charged together, one with sword, one with shield.
Taranis pivoted, letting the chains tighten around their legs. As he ducked beneath the sword, delivering a clean strike to the opponent’s flank.
The second soldier hesitated, startled by the unexpected precision. Taranis did not smile he simply waited for the next assault, reading, predicting, exploiting every weakness.
A guard whispered to another, “He’s no ordinary man… he fights like the storm itself.”
By midday, the arena was a battlefield of skill, endurance, and cunning. A third pair entered, wielding axes. Taranis dodged and parried, chains tangling in the sand and catching his enemies off-balance. His movements were fluid, almost artistic — a storm in motion, controlled yet deadly.
Between bouts, he observed fellow prisoners some cowering, some quietly strategizing, watching him with awe. He nodded subtly, acknowledging their respect without breaking focus. Alliances were unnecessary here; survival was enough.
Two massive bears were released simultaneously, roaring, claws digging into the arena floor. Taranis analyzed their pattern one slower, one feinting left before striking right. He baited them, using his chains to trip and distract, pushing one into the other’s path. The crowd gasped as claws met flesh, teeth snapping on fur instead of his own body. His footwork was precise; his breathing measured; his mind sharpened like a blade.
When the bears finally withdrew, exhausted or bested by circumstance, Taranis stood alone in the sand. Sweat streaked with blood and mud clung to his skin. He raised his head, grey eyes surveying the watching centurion. There was no fear in him. Only storm.
The centurion approached cautiously, expression unreadable. “Enough. You will live… for now. But know this: Rome does not forgive defiance. Your survival is theirs, not yours.”
Taranis’s gaze swept over the spectators and fellow prisoners alike. Some bowed in awe, some averted their eyes in fear. Marcos leaned against the wall, one eye glinting with pride. Even in chains, Taranis Storm had not been broken.
That night, in the darkness of the cell barracks, he traced patterns in the dirt beneath his chains. The arena had been a spectacle for Rome, yes, but also a proving ground for him. Every movement, every dodge, every strike had been a lesson in patience and precision. Each enemy, each beast, each whisper of fear from the crowd had been data to be remembered, stored, and used.
The storm waited. It always waited. Taranis knew the chains bind him. swords scratch his skin, lions and bears roar, but they could not break him.
He smiled faintly to himself, letting the chains clink softly. Rome had given him a stage, a spectacle, and a lesson. And when the right moment came, the storm would strike and it would not be for their amusement.
The dawn was cold, a thin veil of mist curling over the ramparts of the Roman fort. Taranis awoke to the metallic tang of iron and the distant clang of the blacksmith’s hammer.
His chains clinked softly as he shifted. The cold biting into bruised wrists, but the fire in his chest remained unbroken. He had learned to sleep with storms in his mind; the thunder never ceased, even when the sky cleared.
The sentries passed with measured steps, their eyes avoiding his. Even in chains, Taranis carried the weight of warning: a storm was bound, not broken.
Marcos stirred beside him, shoulders tense with age and pain. “They move you today,” he muttered, voice low. “Legionaries say they march prisoners to the amphitheatre. Another show… or training for others. Rome’s curiosity is insatiable.”
Taranis flexed his wrists against the iron, listening to the rhythm of the camp. The clatter of swords, the measured steps of patrols. The faint murmur of Latin all part of the pulse of this cage. He did not fear. He calculated.
The centurion arrived just as the morning sun began to pierce the mist. A figure of red and bronze framed against the wooden palisade.
“Stormborne,” he said, voice sharp, “prepare to march. Rome watches, and your survival is… optional.”
Taranis rose slowly, chains rattling in protest.
“Optional,” he echoed, smirk tugging at his lips, “like the wind choosing which trees to break.”
The march was silent, the prisoners lined in pairs, shields clinking and armor scraping. Taranis felt the eyes of the Romans on him, not all hostile.
The Curiosity and caution blended in the same gaze. Word had spread of his defiance surviving crucifixion. But unyielding under whip and sword and whispers of the “Storm of Emberhelm” made even hardened legionaries pause.
They crossed the outer hills and entered the amphitheatre grounds. Dust rose from the packed earth, carrying the scent of sweat, straw, and fear. The arena awaited not yet for combat, but for demonstration, for Rome’s fascination with endurance.
Taranis’ chains were secured to a central post. Around him, other prisoners fidgeted and whispered. He noticed the boy from the march days ago. A little child of six years old hiding behind a stack of crates, pale fingers gripping a fragment of bread. Their eyes met, and Taranis gave a faint nod not reassurance, not command, just acknowledgment.
A guard stepped forward, coiling a whip in his hand. “Today, we measure the storm,” he said in Latin, the words sharp as steel. “Let us see if the barbarian bends to Rome.”
Taranis let the chains pull taut, shoulders braced. “Storms bend only to themselves,” he whispered, almost to the wind.
The first demonstration began. Spears and short swords were thrust toward him, each movement designed to test, to gauge. Taranis shifted with the grace of the hunted and the hunter intertwined. As he continues deflecting, twisting, and using the very pull of the chains to redirect momentum.
Every strike met resistance, every thrust was countered. The audience of soldiers murmured in disbelief.
Marcos watched from the side, leaning heavily on his staff. “Still untamed,” he muttered. “Still Emberhelm.”
The sun climbed, and with it, Taranis’ endurance was tested further. Roman instructors pressed harder, pushing his limits, yet he remained unmoved, his grey eyes sharp as lightning.
When at last the centurion called an end, sweat streaming and blood staining the mud, Taranis did not collapse.
He simply lowered his gaze, catching a brief glimpse of the distant hills beyond the fort. Freedom waited there, somewhere beyond chains and Roman order.
As the prisoners were herded back to their quarters, Taranis’ mind raced. Rome could cage him, whip him, measure his endurance, but it could not touch the storm in his heart. The pulse of Emberhelm beat in every step, every breath, every thought of revenge, strategy, and survival.
That night, as firelight danced across the walls of the fort and the whistle of wind through battlements echoed like distant thunder, Taranis sat, chained but unbroken, and whispered to himself:
“Let Rome watch. Let them wait. Storms do not obey. Storms endure. And storms return.”
Night in the Roman fort was never truly silent. Even beneath the canopy of stars, there was always the creak of timber. The shuffle of soldiers on watch, the hiss of oil lamps dying in the cold wind. Yet somewhere beyond that human rhythm, another sound pulsed faint, rhythmic, like the heartbeat of the land itself.
Taranis listened.
He had learned to hear through walls of stone and iron. The whispers of chains, the breath of the wind through narrow slits.All were messages if one knew how to listen.
Marcos stirred nearby, groaning as he rolled against the rough bedding. “You hear it again,” he murmured, voice barely a rasp. “The storm that waits?”
Taranis’ eyes were half-shut, the dim firelight carving hollows beneath his cheekbones. “The storm doesn’t wait,” he said softly. “It watches.”
He turned the small iron shackle at his wrist, feeling for the weak link not yet ready, but close. Every night he tested it. Every day, he marked the rhythm of the guards, the rotation of their watch. Patience, he reminded himself. Storms struck only when the wind was right.
Beyond the barracks, the faint roar of the sea carried inland. Somewhere past those black waters lay the route to Gaul and beyond that, Rome. The thought of being caged beneath marble arches made his blood run colder than the chains.
The door creaked open. A shadow slipped inside small, quick, hesitant. The boy from the arena. He carried a satchel and a half-broken torch.
“They’ll see you,” Marcos hissed.
The boy shook his head. “The north wall guard sleeps. He drinks too much. I brought you this.” From the satchel, he pulled a narrow blade no longer than a hand, its edge dulled but serviceable.
Taranis took it without a word, his fingers brushing the boy’s for a heartbeat. “Why?” he asked.
The boy’s voice trembled. “Because you didn’t kill me when they told you to. Because the others they say you were a king once.”
Taranis looked up then, eyes grey as frost. “A king?” He almost smiled. “No. A storm given form. And Rome can chain storms, but it can not make them serve.”
The boy swallowed, uncertain whether to fear or believe him. “Then what will you do?”
Taranis turned the blade in his hand, the firelight glinting off the iron. “Wait,” he said. “And remember.”
He hid the weapon within the straw bedding, marking its place with a small twist of rope. Then he looked toward the sliver of moonlight cutting across the dirt floor. A thought of home of the high ridges above Emberhelm, of his brothers’ faces fading in memory. Rayne’s eyes full of guilt. Drax’s silence. Draven’s quiet grief.
He did not hate them. Not yet. But the distance between them had become as sharp as any blade.
When dawn came, the fort stirred again the horns of the morning watch echoing across the fields. The centurion approached, flanked by two guards.
“Stormborne,” he said, voice cold. “The governor himself has taken interest. You are to be moved south to Londinium within a fortnight.”
Taranis met his gaze. “To be paraded, then? Or displayed?”
Taranis’ jaw tightened, but his eyes betrayed nothing. Inside, the storm turned once more.
He whispered beneath his breath, too low for the Romans to hear:
As the guards led him from the barracks. He caught a glimpse of the horizon low clouds gathering over the hills, rolling in from the west. It was almost poetic.
“Emberhelm still breathes.”
That night, the chains whispered again not with fear, but with promise. The weak link shuddered beneath his fingers. And when the next storm broke over Viroconium, it would not be made of rain.
The march south had stripped the world of meaning. Days blurred into rain and dust, dawn into dusk, until even time seemed shackled beside him.
By the time they reached the Roman fort near Corinium, Taranis Storm no longer knew how many nights had passed.
Only the rhythm of iron and boots. The murmur of Latin commands, and the distant echo of thunder in his bones.
The fort loomed ahead stone and order built upon the bones of chaos. Walls cut sharp against the grey horizon, guarded by rows of pikes and men who moved like clockwork. To Taranis, it felt wrong. A place without wind, without life.
Every sound was contained, controlled, sterile. Even the air smelled of discipline oil, smoke, and iron.
The storm in him recoiled.
They dragged him through the gates in chains. Soldiers gathered, curious and cautious. Some spat, others stared. Whispers followed him like ghosts daemon, barbarus, filius tempestatis. Son of the storm.
He smiled faintly. They weren’t wrong.
The cell they threw him into was little more than a pit of stone and shadow. The walls sweated damp, the floor slick with moss.
Above, a slit of light cut through the dark too narrow to touch the ground. He sat in the half-dark, wrists raw and heavy with iron. The silence of Rome pressed close, cold and absolute.
He did not pray. He waited.
When the footsteps came, they came as they always did measured, deliberate, Roman. The door creaked open, spilling lamplight like a wound across the floor.
Three entered.
A centurion, broad and cold-eyed, his crimson cloak pristine even in the grime. A scribe, pale and thin, clutching a wax tablet as if it were a shield.
And a woman cloaked, silent, her gaze as sharp as a blade. Her presence was wrong for this place; too poised, too knowing.
“Taranis of the Stormborne,” the centurion began, voice clipped and ceremonial.
“You stand accused of rebellion against Rome. The murder of imperial soldiers, and the disruption of trade along the Salt Road. Do you understand these charges?”
Taranis raised his head. His hair hung in dark, tangled strands, but his eyes were steady the colour of gathering thunder.
“I understand,” he said. “You’re afraid.”
The scribe faltered mid-stroke. The centurion’s jaw tensed. Only the woman’s expression remained still.
“You will answer with respect,” the Roman said.
“I already have.”
The blow came fast a strike across the face that turned his head with the sound of split skin.
Taranis straightened slowly, blood sliding from the corner of his mouth. His stare did not break.
The silence that followed was heavier than the hit.
The woman stepped forward. When she spoke, her accent carried the soft inflection of the East Greek, or something older.
“You fought well,” she said. “Even Rome admits that. There are ways to survive this. Serve us. Lead men under our banner. Take Roman land, a Roman name. You need only kneel.”
Taranis smiled faintly, the expression more weary than cruel.
“Rome offers gold to every man it fears. But my kind do not kneel. We weather.”
She tilted her head slightly. “Weather breaks.”
He met her eyes. “Only if it stops moving.”
For the first time, something flickered in her expression curiosity, maybe even a trace of respect.
The centurion, however, had no such patience. “Enough. He will be moved south to Londinium in three days. If he refuses Rome’s mercy, he will die as a slave.”
The woman’s gaze lingered on him a moment longer before she turned away. “He won’t bend,” she said quietly. “Not yet.”
They left him in the dark once more. The door slammed shut. The iron bolts fell into place.
Taranis exhaled slowly. The air was thick with the scent of blood and damp stone.
He tasted iron on his tongue metal, blood, defiance.
The light from above had shifted again, sliding across the wall like the movement of time itself.
He whispered, barely a sound. Not to gods, nor ghosts, but to the storm that still lived within his chest. It was quiet now, resting waiting. But it would come again. It always did.
When the night settled deep, the sound of rain returned, gentle against the stones.
In that rhythm, he found memory of his brothers’ faces in the torchlight. Drax’s steady eyes, Rayne’s trembling defiance, Draven’s silence. He had told them he would return. He intended to keep that promise.
The fort around him slept in its illusion of control.
But beyond the walls, clouds were gathering over the hills slow, patient, inevitable.
The rain had thinned to a whisper, though the earth still drank its memory. The camp at Viroconium lay beneath a pall of grey the banners limp. The fires low, the air thick with the scent of wet iron and trampled earth.
From the timber walls came the faint murmur of Latin, measured and precise, a language of order wrapped around conquest.
Taranis Storm knelt in the mud outside the command tent, wrists chained, head bowed. The iron bit deep, the skin at his wrists raw and darkened with rust and blood.
The mark of the Stormborne ring had already been scrubbed from his armour. He was no longer heir, no longer rebel merely a trophy of Rome.
But even stripped bare, even silent, there was something in his stillness that unsettled the soldiers. Some swore the air shifted around him, that the faint tremor of thunder haunted the edges of his breath.
Others avoided his gaze altogether, crossing themselves as they passed. A man broken should not look like that unyielding even in ruin.
Inside the tent, the light was dim, filtered through canvas streaked with rain. The scent of oil lamps mingled with the metallic tang of blood. He had been made to wait hours, until the flap stirred, and three shadows crossed the threshold.
Drax came first.
Older now, heavier in both body and soul. The broad shoulders that had once carried their people’s trust. Now bore the eagle of Rome, its gold thread dull in the half-light. He paused by the entrance, rain dripping from his cloak, his eyes lingering on Taranis longer than words fill.
Behind him, Rayne entered, slower. His face was pale with sleeplessness, the hollows beneath his eyes deepening the cold fire in his gaze. He did not meet Taranis’s eyes. The torchlight caught the edges of his features sharp, beautiful, worn.
Draven followed last. He moved like a shadow quiet, deliberate, almost ghost like. His cloak brushed the ground, damp from the mist outside. When his eyes lifted, they carried both sorrow and warning.
No one spoke at first. The silence was a living thing, heavy and raw, pressing between them like the weight of the storm itself.
Then, slowly, Taranis lifted his head. The light touched his face. Revealing the dark bruises along his jaw. The faint smear of dried blood across his temple and eyes. Eyes that still burned with the calm fury of the storm.
“Brother,” he rasped, voice rough but steady. “Have you come to finish what Rome began?”
Rayne’s jaw tightened. “I came to make sure you lived.”
“Lived?” A hollow laugh escaped him no warmth, no humour. “They’ll march me south in chains, Rayne. You traded the Circle for a collar. Don’t pretend it was mercy.”
Drax’s tone was even, but heavy. “Enough. You both know what’s done can’t be undone. I took the oath so the rest of us survive. So that our kin would not hang from Roman walls.”
“And what of honour?” Taranis’s gaze snapped to him. “Or do we trade that too for a few more winters of peace and a Roman coin to buy it?”
Draven shifted in the corner. “Peace doesn’t last, brother. It only changes its face.”
Rayne’s voice cracked through the air, sharp as the wind. “You think I wanted this? You think I didn’t bleed the same as you when the Circle broke? I saw no victory left to take I chose survival!”
“You chose fear,” Taranis said softly. “And fear has a longer memory than Rome. It will rot what’s left of you.”
Rayne turned away, jaw clenched, the lamplight trembling against his cheek. “You’d have doomed us all for pride.”
“And you’d damn us for obedience,” Taranis countered.
The space between them trembled with tension brothers bound by blood and broken by choice.
Drax broke it first, his breath slow, his tone heavy with command. “They take you south tomorrow. I can do nothing more without risking every name tied to ours. Whatever happens after this live. Find your chance.”
Taranis’s lips curved, a ghost of the old stormborn grin. “I will. And when I do…” His eyes rose, burning through the gloom. “I’ll remember who stood, and who knelt.”
For a heartbeat, no one moved. Only the rain, soft and relentless, filled the quiet between them.
Draven looked away first, eyes glinting with something close to grief. Drax’s shoulders sagged, his silence an admission. Rayne lingered his hand hovering at the tent’s edge, uncertain, trembling.
“Taranis…” he began.
“Go,” came the answer, quiet but final. “Before you remember what it means to be one of us.”
But as Rayne turned to leave, Taranis’s voice cut through the rain again lower, heavier, carrying the weight of prophecy. “You know what you’ve done, brother. You’ve condemned the poor those I sheltered, the villages I defended. Rome will use your choice to bleed them dry.”
His gaze flicked to Drax, then Draven. “Do what you must to live in my absence. Keep them safe if you can. But remember this the storm doesn’t die. It only learns patience.”
The words hung in the air like thunder before the break.
Rayne hesitated, his throat tight with something between guilt and defiance. “If you live to see freedom, Taranis… will you forgive me?”
Taranis met his eyes grey meeting grey — and said nothing.
Outside, a trumpet sounded the signal for the night watch. The guards were coming.
The brothers turned, one by one, each carrying their silence like a wound.
Drax’s heavy boots faded first. Draven followed, his steps ghost like. Rayne lingered, then vanished into the rain.
Alone again, Taranis knelt in the mud and closed his eyes. The iron dug deep, but his breath was steady. The storm was not gone merely waiting beyond the hills, patient and unseen.
And somewhere, far to the south, Rome’s banners rippled in the wind ready to claim the storm for themselves.
The roads ahead were quiet, the wind carrying the scent of burnt heather and distant sea. Each hoofbeat of my mount reminded me that the choice I had made was mine alone, and yet its echo stretched far beyond my chest.
Whispers followed me like shadows. Some were real the wary eyes of villagers, the wary glances of traveling merchants. Others were imagined, the scornful voices of my brothers, of Taranis, of the Ring itself. I did not flinch. Survival was colder than fear, sharper than guilt.
The circle was gone, fractured beneath my hand, yet its memory clung to the land. I felt it in every hollow, every mound, every stone left untouched, as if the earth itself remembered the covenant we had sworn. I had broken it not for power, not for spite, but for a chance to bend fate toward life.
Rome was patient. I knew that. And I knew too that the storm I had once sought to command in Taranis’s fury could now rise in me, subtle, quiet, lethal if misjudged. The choice of the traitor is never simple. It is measured in survival, in timing, in knowing the cost before the world dares to demand it.
Ahead, a ridge cut the horizon, the pale sun glinting over the salt flats. I pulled my cloak tighter, letting the chill remind me that I was still breathing, still moving, still in control of this shattered path.
The Ring was broken. But perhaps, in that fracture, a new pattern could emerge. One I alone might trace.
I rode past the remnants of burned villages and overturned carts, careful to keep to the high ground. From this distance, nothing looked alive; yet every shadow could be a scout, every rustle a whisper of accusation. I had betrayed the circle, but I had not betrayed survival. That distinction, razor-thin, I carried like a blade at my side.
Even so, the memory of Taranis lingered. I imagined him, bound in chains, his eyes storm-grey beneath a sky that mirrored his wrath. Some part of me hoped he hated me. Another part the part I refused to acknowledge wished he would understand.
I reached the edge of a woodland and dismounted. The quiet crackle of dead leaves underfoot reminded me of my childhood in Compton, of paths once walked under open skies, where choice had been play, not consequence. Here, choice was survival. Choice was betrayal.
A messenger approached, a thin man with a letter sealed in the eagle of Rome. I took it with careful fingers, breaking the seal only when I was certain no eyes watched. The words were simple, direct, and chilling:
“Keep the Ring moving. Keep the pieces apart. Rome watches, and the storm will be rewarded or crushed at our discretion.”
I folded the letter slowly, feeling its weight far heavier than the paper it was written on. Rome had not forgotten, and neither had the Circle though I was its only witness now.
I paused at a stream, letting my mount drink, listening to the water whisper over stones. I thought of my brothers, of Drax, of Lore, of Draven. Each had reacted differently to Taranis’s capture, to my choice. Some with anger, some with fear, some with silent, unspoken questions. And some… had already begun to take paths I could not predict.
Even here, on the open road, I felt the pull of power, subtle and insidious. The Ring had been broken, yes, but its legacy endured. That legacy could guide me—or consume me.
As night fell, I made camp beneath a lone oak, its twisted branches scratching the dark sky like fingers of fate. I allowed myself a single, quiet thought before sleep claimed me:
The storm does not always strike. Sometimes it waits, gathers, watches… and then it returns, quiet, inevitable, unstoppable.
The following morning, I rode again, the mist curling around the trees like living breath. Villagers had begun to recognize me, whispers trailing my passage. Traitor. Survivor. Coward. Protector. All names carried weight, none carried comfort. I ignored them. Survival required more than comfort; it required cold calculation.
By mid-morning, I encountered a small party of mercenaries scouts from a northern lord, curious about the broken Circle. They eyed me cautiously, their hands brushing the hilts of swords. I allowed a faint smile, enough to disarm suspicion. Words were sharper than steel when wielded carefully.
“I go where the path leads,” I said, voice steady. “I am alone. None should follow.”
They studied me, hesitated, then nodded, scattering into the woods. Even in my isolation, the choices of others shifted around me. Allies, enemies sometimes the line blurred, sometimes it vanished entirely.
Hours later, I made camp near a ruined chapel, overgrown with ivy and stones worn smooth by centuries. Flames licked at damp wood as I pondered the Circle, Taranis, and the pieces of the Ring now scattered across Britain. I could feel their influence, subtle, almost like a heartbeat beneath the earth. The storm of Emberhelm was not gone. It only waited.
A shadow moved near the edge of the firelight. I tensed, hand brushing the hilt of my dagger. The figure emerged: an old acquaintance, one of the scouts I had trained alongside in youth. His face betrayed both awe and fear.
“You broke the Circle,” he whispered, voice shaking. “And yet… you ride on.”
“I did what was necessary,” I said simply. “The Circle survives only in memory if we all fall. I intend to endure.”
He nodded, unease clinging to his gaze. “And Taranis?”
The name struck like a lance, but my expression remained calm. “He lives. That is enough for now. The storm is his. And perhaps it will return to me when I need it most.”
Night deepened. I lay beneath the ivy-draped stones, listening to the forest breathe. Each rustle, each call of distant creatures reminded me that life persisted, even when the world was fractured.
Survival, I reminded myself again, was not glory. It was endurance, patience, and the quiet shaping of what must come next.
And somewhere, far beyond the reach of my sight, the echoes of Emberhelm stirred, waiting for the right moment to rise again.
The heavy wooden door slammed shut behind him, sealing Taranis in a narrow cell. That smelled of damp stone and old iron.
The sound echoed like a distant drum . For a long moment, silence claimed the space as if daring him to break it. No guards, no soldiers, no jeers. Just the cold walls, the narrow slit high in the stone, and the faint, rhythmic pulse of the world beyond.
Taranis lowered himself onto the floor, legs folded, wrists free of chains but shackled at the ankles. The red marks from yesterday’s lashes ached like embers under his skin, a constant reminder of Roman cruelty. Yet he welcomed the pain; it was familiar, honest. Fear, he knew, had no place here.
A sliver of morning light cut across the cell. Illuminating dust motes that danced lazily like sparks from a distant fire. He watched them drift, tracing patterns he alone can read. Shapes of storm clouds, of wolves circling, of the great oak at the cairn.
Memory and instinct intertwined. Here, in solitude, he listened. Not just to the camp, but to the wind, the earth. Even the faint murmur of the brook beyond the palisade.
The door rattled. A shadow fell across the stone floor.
“Eat,” the guard said, tossing a small bowl of gruel onto the floor. He lingered, eyes sharp, measuring Taranis with a caution that bordered on fear. For a moment, the barbarian’s gray eyes met his, unyielding and calm.
The guard shifted uneasily and left. Taranis did not touch the food. Instead, he pressed his palms to the stone. The feeling its cold strength, imagining it anchoring him to the earth while the world beyond spun on.
Hours dragged. The sun arced across the sky outside, shifting the thin line of light that fell into the cell.
Taranis lay back, listening to every sound. From the distant clatter of armor, the muted shouts of guards. The whisper of wind through the treetops past the camp. Even the faint murmur of water in the brook he remembered from home. Each sound became a pulse, a heartbeat he measured and wait upon.
Isolation tested patience. It forced the mind inward, to a place where anger is contained and sharpened into strategy.
He closed his eyes, recalling every strike he had delivered. Every arrow loosed, every lesson of wind and rain and earth. That had been hammered into him long before Roman chains. The storm inside did not weaken it grew.
Marcos appeared at the bars as dusk began to fall, shackles clinking with each step. His one good eye flicked across Taranis’ face, noting the lines of exhaustion and defiance alike.
“Rome believes it can break you with walls and emptiness,” Marcos said quietly. “They do not know the storms from which you come.”
Taranis allowed a faint smirk. “Walls mean nothing to a storm,” he whispered, almost to himself, letting the words settle in the damp air.
Marcos crouched, lowering his voice. “Patience. They will test you again. Always. But storms… storms wait for the right moment to strike.”
From outside the cell, a shout echoed, steel striking wood. The centurion’s voice barked orders to the camp. Taranis’ ears picked out every detail. The rhythm of the soldiers’ movements, the soft shuffle of feet on mud, the clink of armor.
Observation became weapon as much as axe or bow. He cataloged every detail, storing them in the back of his mind.
Night fell, but the world did not sleep. Moonlight cut across the cell in a pale line. He flexed his ankles against the shackles, testing the limits. Each movement was a meditation, a rehearsal of strikes, sidesteps, and throws.
He imagined the centurion in the ring. The Roman soldiers flanking him, and planned counterattacks not just for survival, but for leverage.
The boy from the earlier day appeared at the doorway, clutching a piece of bread. He offered it quietly, eyes wide with tentative trust. Taranis did not take it, but he pressed his fingers briefly against the boy’s in silent acknowledgment. Even in chains and isolation, small acts of loyalty and courage mattered.
Taranis pressed his palms to the cold stone once more, listening to the pulse of the world beneath the camp. Every sound was a warning, every shadow a lesson. Rome had tried to crush him with crucifixion, lash, and intimidation. It had failed.
And as the night deepened. A low rumble of distant thunder rolled across the horizon, almost imperceptible at first, then gathering in strength. He smiled faintly, feeling it in his chest. Rome had not yet learned this: storms do not serve. They return.
Taranis closed his eyes, letting the cold stone and the rising wind guide him. He did not know when they would return to test him, or what cruelty they would devise next.
But one thing was certain: the storm had only paused. The reckoning would come. When it did, Rome would feel the force of a tempest it had tried to chain.
Dawn broke over the Roman camp like a blade drawn through fog. Grey light pooled across churned mud and sharpened stakes, catching on helmets and spearheads lined in perfect order.
The night’s rain had thinned to mist, and every droplet clinging to the leather tents shimmered like glass. The smell of smoke, sweat, and iron hung heavy in the air the scent of empire.
Taranis stirred. His back ached where the whip had bitten, skin raw beneath crusted blood. Yet the fire inside him burned brighter than pain the storm had not passed. It gathered.
Across from him, Marcos watched with his one good eye. The old fighter’s face a map of old wars and fading loyalties. “Rome wants to see storms broken,” he murmured, voice gravel-deep. “They’ll test you again today. But storms… storms don’t break. They shift. They wait.”
Taranis tilted his head, a faint smirk cutting through exhaustion. “And if they try?”
Marcos shrugged, rough amusement in his tone. “Then you show them the wind can cut as deep as the sword.”
Trumpets blared as the camp came alive in a heartbeat. Orders barked in Latin, armor clattered, horses stamped restlessly against their ropes. Two guards approached, eyes cold, hands twitching near the whips at their belts.
“On your feet,” one barked.
Taranis rose slowly. Chains clinked. His shoulders squared, each movement deliberate. The iron at his wrists and ankles was heavy a reminder that for now, he belonged to Rome.
Yet even bound, he carried the air of something untamed. The guards kept their distance, as though the storm in his eyes strike.
They led him toward a cleared space at the edge of the camp. A makeshift ring had been marked out with stakes and rope a place for training, punishment, or testing.
The centurion stood nearby, expression carved from granite. The boy from last night watched from behind a cart, pale fingers gripping the wood. He didn’t dare speak.
The centurion’s voice carried over the murmurs. “The barbarian survived crucifixion,” he said in clipped Latin. “He has killed Roman soldiers with sword, axe, and bow. Let us see if his storm can be harnessed or if it dies in the mud.”
Taranis met his gaze.
“Let him watch,” he murmured in Brythonic the tone sharp, almost ceremonial. The centurion frowned, not understanding, but the words left a chill in the air.
A guard offered him a practice axe, a short sword, and a small round shield. The weapons were worn, dulled, mockeries of what he once wielded but they would do.
He ran a thumb along the axe’s handle, testing the balance. The first bout began.
Two legionaries stepped into the ring, boots sinking into wet earth. They grinned, confident, soldiers against a chained barbarian. Taranis didn’t move until they struck.
The first swing came from the right clean, practiced.
He stepped aside, caught the motion with the rim of his shield, and turned it aside. The counter came low and fast a backhand with the axe that cracked into the soldier’s guard, splintering the wood. Mud sprayed. Gasps followed.
The second soldier lunged from behind. But Taranis ducked, dragging his chain taut to trip him, then drove an elbow into his ribs.
He rose without looking back. Breathing steady. Eyes cold.
He didn’t grin. He didn’t boast. He simply waited.
The crowd quieted. Even the centurion lowered his stylus for a moment.
“Again,” he said.
Another pair entered. Then another. By the third round, Taranis’s arms burned and his wrists bled where the chains bit into skin. Yet his movements only grew sharper measured, adaptive, each strike like thunder rolling closer.
Marcos leaned toward a watching soldier. “That’s no wild man,” he muttered. “That’s a storm that learned to fight back.”
By midday, silence had fallen across the ring. The spectators no longer laughed. They watched uneasy, enthralled, afraid.
The centurion finally raised a hand. “Enough,” he ordered. “Feed him. Let him rest. He will fight again tomorrow with steel.”
Taranis tilted his head, the faintest smirk touching his mouth. “Feed the storm,” he murmured, “and see what it grows into.”
The boy crept closer, slipping a crust of bread from his tunic and setting it by his side.
Taranis nodded once not gratitude, but recognition. A gesture between survivors.
As they led him away, one of the younger guards spoke quietly, incapable of concealing his curiosity. “They say you fought crucifixion itself and lived. What man survives that?”
Taranis turned his head slightly. The grey in his eyes caught the light. “Not a man,” he said. “A storm that forgot to die.”
Marcos barked a laugh, shaking his head. “Gods help Rome,” he said. “They’ve chained lightning and think it’ll sit still.”
When they finally removed his restraints for cleaning, Taranis flexed his wrists, skin bruised and torn. He studied the marks, then smirked.
“At least they removed the restraints,” he said quietly. “I grew up fighting in them.”
The centurion said nothing. The sky grumbled overhead thunder rolling distant but deliberate.
Then, softly, as if remembering something half-buried in blood and rain, Taranis spoke again.
“They put me up,” he said, eyes fixed north. “Nailed me in on the hill at Salinae”
Marcos frowned. “And yet here you are.”
Taranis flexed his fingers, old scars catching the light. “I ripped myself off,” he said simply.
Silence cracked through the camp. Guards shifted. Somewhere, a dog began to howl.
“Rome thinks it crucified me,” he murmured. “But the dead don’t stay nailed not when the gods still have use for them.”
Thunder answered. Closer this time.
Rome had not yet learned that storms do not serve. They return.
The smoke of Emberhelm still clung to the hills when I rode east, following the path we had carved in blood and ash. Behind me, the storm of Taranis’s fury faded, replaced by the steady march of Rome’s legions.
My heart did not leap at his capture only a calm, cold certainty. Survival, I had told myself. Survival for the people, for the line of the Ring.
They would call me traitor. They would whisper my name with venom. Let them. History is written by those who endure, not by those who fall screaming in the mud.
I thought of the thirteenth stone, split and silent, and of my brothers, scattered like crows in a gale.
Drax’s eyes had burned with anger. Lore’s had flashed with prophecy. Even Draven had known, in the briefest flicker of fear, that the world had shifted. And yet… no fire of regret touched me. Only the quiet pulse of inevitability.
Taranis would survive, I knew that. He always did. But survival alone was not enough. Rome would temper him, break him, and in that forging, perhaps he would learn that not all storms are born to rage. Some are meant to settle, to bring change unseen.
I rode on, keeping my gaze forward. The wind carried the salt from the sea, the same salt that Rome coveted. Every step away from the shattered circle was a step into the future I had chosen. And in that future, perhaps the people would live.
I was no hero. I was no villain. I was Rayne, and the Ring was broken.
The rain had followed them south. Turning the clay of Staffordshire into a sucking mire that clung to boots and hooves alike.
The Romans marched as though it were paved stone beneath them, shields squared, helmets gleaming dull beneath the Grey sky. Between their ranks, chained at wrists and neck, walked Taranis Storm.
Every step tore at his ankles where the iron bit into flesh. Every breath was smoke and ash and memory. Behind him lay the broken circle of stones, the Black Shields scattered or slain. Ahead, only Rome.
The villagers came out to see. From hedges and low doors they watched the prisoner dragged past their fields, whispers coming like crows. The Stormborne, Ring-bearer. Betrayed. Some spat into the mud, others lowered their eyes.
A few, bold enough to remember, lifted hands in the old sign of the ring. when the soldiers were not looking.
At the front of the column the standard rose a square of blue cloth. That had been painted with a face in iron helm, cheeks daubed red with victory.
The mask grinned as though in mockery. The Romans called it their mark of order. To Taranis it was something else: the face of the empire that had swallowed his people.
He fixed his gaze on it as they dragged him past the rise where the heath opened wide. He thought of Boldolph and Nessa, of the wolf in the trees. He remembered the cairn and the promise beneath the oak. The chain jerked and he stumbled, but he did not fall. Not yet.
The centurion rode beside him, face shadowed beneath his crest.
“You see the banner, barbarian? Rome wears a smile even when it breaks you.”
Taranis lifted his head, eyes dark as storm clouds. “Smiles fade. Storms do not.”
The soldiers laughed, but unease rippled through their ranks all the same. For the wind carried his words across the heath, and even bound in chains, Taranis Storm did not sound broken.
By dusk the column reached the ridge where the woods thinned and the land opened to heath. Smoke already rose ahead straight, disciplined pillars from square fires. The marching camp of Rome.
The soldiers moved with the same precision as their shields: digging trenches, raising palisades, planting stakes.
Every camp was a fortress, stamped into the soil like a brand. The ground of Cheslyn Hay, once quiet pasture, now bristled with iron.
Taranis was dragged through the gate cut into the new rampart. The ditch still stank of wet clay, the sharpened stakes gleamed with fresh sap.
Inside, order reigned the tents in perfect rows, fires burning with measured rations, horses tethered and groomed. No laughter. No chaos. Just Rome.
The banner with the painted helm was planted at the camp’s centre. Beneath it the centurion dismounted, barking orders in clipped Latin. Slaves scurried to fetch water and oil for the men.
A scribe scratched notes into a wax tablet, not once looking up at the prisoner he recorded.
Taranis stood, wrists bound, staring at the banner. Its painted grin leered back at him, mockery frozen in blue and black.
Around him the soldiers muttered in their tongue some calling him beast, others trophy.
A soldier shoved him down beside the fire trench, close enough to feel its heat on his raw wrists.
“Sit, storm-man. Tomorrow the legate will decide whether you march to Wroxeter or Luguvalium. Either way, Rome will bleed you for sport.”
The word spread through the camp: arena.
Taranis lowered his head, though not in submission. He closed his eyes and listened. Beyond the walls of the camp, the wind still carried the smell of rain-soaked earth.
The whisper of fox and owl. And beneath that, deeper still, a memory: wolves circling, dragons wheeling, the voice of the tree.
Rest, child of storm. The road is not ended.
When he opened his eyes again, the firelight caught the glint of iron. Not on the chains, but in his gaze.
Even in Rome’s order, storm can find a crack. And cracks spread.
The fire burned low, and the camp settled into its rhythm. As guards pacing in pairs, dice rattling in the barracks-tents, the low cough of horses in their lines. The rain had eased, leaving the air damp, heavy with smoke.
Taranis sat in silence until he felt movement beside him. A figure shuffled forward, ankles hobbled, wrists bound with rope rather than iron. The man lowered himself onto the earth with a grunt.
“Storm of Emberhelm,” he rasped in Brythonic, his accent from the northern hills. “I thought the tales were lies. Yet here you sit, same chains as me.”
Taranis turned his head. The prisoner was older, his beard streaked white, his face cut with old scars. One eye clouded, blind. The other burned sharp as flint.
“And who are you,” Taranis asked, “that Rome keeps alive?”
The man chuckled, though it ended in a wheeze. “They call me Marcos now. Once, I was Maccus of the Ordovices. I led men against the Eagles before your birth.
Rome does not waste good meat. They break us, bind us, and sell us to the sands. I’ve fought in two arenas. Survived them both.”
Taranis studied him. The weight of years hung from his shoulders, yet there was steel still. “Then you know what waits.”
“Aye.” Marcos lifted his bound hands, showing knotted scars across his forearms. “The crowd roars for blood. Some fight once and die. Some fight a hundred times and die slower. But all die.”
The fire popped. Sparks leapt into the dark.
Taranis leaned closer, his voice low. “Not all. The storm endures.”
Marcos’s eye narrowed. “You think to outlast Rome?”
“No.” Taranis’s mouth twisted into something not quite a smile. “I think to break it.”
For the first time, the older man was silent. He searched Taranis’s face, weighing his words. Then he gave a slow nod.
“If you mean what you say, Storm of Emberhelm, then I’ll stand at your side when the time comes. Better to die tearing the eagle’s wings than caged beneath them.”
Chains clinked as they shifted nearer the fire. Around them the camp slept, unaware that in its shadow two sparks had met. Sparks that yet become flame.
The guards had thrown scraps of barley bread to the captives, little more than crusts softened with rain. Most fell on them like dogs, clutching and hiding their share as if it were treasure.
But when the boy, thin as a willow switch, glanced to where Storm sat, his brow furrowed. The man beside him Marcos noticed at once.
“What’s wrong, lad?” the old warrior asked, shifting his chains.
The boy’s voice was a whisper. “Why haven’t they fed him?” His gaze fixed on Taranis, who had taken nothing. His hands still resting on his knees, his eyes far away. as if listening to some thunder only he hear.
Marcos gave a grunt. “Rome plays its games. They starve the strong first. Weak men die quick, but a beast like him…” He lowered his voice. “They want to see how long he lasts. How much fury stays in him when his belly is empty.”
The boy clutched his crust but then held it out with trembling fingers. “He should eat.”
Taranis turned his head at last. His eyes, Grey as storm clouds, fell on the offering. He did not take it. Instead, he placed his bound hand gently over the boy’s.
“Keep it,” he said. His voice was rough, hollow from thirst, yet steady. “Storms do not starve. But you” he pressed the bread back into the boy’s palm, “you must grow.”
For a moment, silence hung around them. The boy swallowed hard, then nodded, biting into the bread with tears in his eyes.
Marcos watched, the ghost of a smile tugging at his scarred face. “A storm, indeed,” he muttered.
Above the camp, thunder rumbled faintly though the sky was clear.
“I’m fine ” Taranis smirked seeing a whip in someone’s hand and wood
“What’s going on?” The boy asked
The guard with the whip dragged a stake of green wood across the mud, planting it near the fire trench. Two soldiers followed, uncoiling rope and hammering pegs into the ground.
The boy’s eyes widened. “What’s going on?” he whispered, clutching what remained of his bread.
Marcos’s face hardened. “Discipline.” His single eye slid to Taranis. “Or rather a spectacle.”
One of the soldiers smirked. “The barbarian thinks himself storm. Tonight, he learns Rome is thunder.”
They hauled Storm to his feet. Chains clattered, mud spattered across his bare shins. The whip cracked once in the air, sharp as lightning.
The boy tried to rise, but Marcos gripped his arm and pulled him back down. “Don’t,” he hissed. “They’ll flay you too. Watch, and remember.”
Taranis did not resist when they bound him to the post. His wrists were raw, but he set his shoulders square. lifting his chin to meet the eyes of the gathered legionaries. The smirk never left his mouth.
The centurion stepped ahead, whip coiled in his hand, iron studs gleaming wet in the firelight. He spoke in Latin, slow and deliberate, for the advantage of his men:
“This is Rome’s law. Defiance is answered with the lash.”
The first strike fell. Leather snapped against flesh. The soldiers cheered.
Storm did not cry out. His lips moved, barely more than breath: words in the old tongue, prayer or curse, the guards could not tell.
The boy’s knuckles went white around his crust of bread. Marcos leaned close, his voice low. “Look at him, lad. That is what Rome fears most. A man who will not break.”
The whip cracked again. Blood ran down his back.
And yet, when the centurion paused, Taranis raised his head and laughed. a rough, hoarse sound, but laughter all the same.
“You call this thunder?” he spat. “I’ve stood in storms that would drown your gods.”
The camp fell uneasy. The centurion snarled and drew back the whip again. But already some of the soldiers shifted, unsettled by the chained man’s defiance.
The guard sneered as he coiled the whip in his hand, the wood of the handle slick with rain. He pointed it at Taranis.
“On your feet, barbarian. Let’s see if your tongue is sharper than your back.”
Taranis smirked, rising slowly, the chains clinking as he straightened to his full height. The firelight threw shadows across his scarred face, making him seem larger than life.
“Screw you,” he said, the words spat like iron nails.
The boy gasped, his hands clutching the crust of bread. “What’s going on?” he whispered to Marcos.
The old warrior’s one good eye didn’t leave Taranis. “Rome’s testing him,” Marcos said quietly. “They want to see if he breaks before the whip… or after.”
The guard cracked the lash across the ground, sparks leaping from the wet earth. Soldiers nearby turned to watch, eager for the show.
But Taranis only tilted his head, the faintest grin tugging his lips. “Go on,” he said. “Try.”
And in the silence that followed, the storm seemed to shift, waiting.
Taranis straightened, chains rattling as he rolled his shoulders. His eyes met the guard’s without a flicker of fear.
“Screw you, ass,” he growled, voice steady. “I’ve dealt with worse.”
The words landed like a stone in still water. A few soldiers chuckled uneasily, but others muttered, shifting in place. The boy’s eyes went wide, his crust of bread forgotten in his hands.
Marcos gave a dry, wheezing laugh. “Storm’s got teeth. Rome should be careful putting its hand too close.”
The guard snarled and snapped the whip through the air once, twice before bringing it down toward Taranis’s back.
But Taranis didn’t flinch. He stood, broad shoulders braced, chains biting his wrists, and took the first strike in silence.
The circle of stones stood under a bruised sky. The thirteenth stone, already cracked from the battle at Emberhelm, seemed to strain against itself as though it knew what was coming. Thirteen seats. Only twelve filled.
Taranis Storm to his outlaws stood at the centre. His cloak was damp from rain, his wrist still bandaged from the Hill of Ashes. Around him, the brothers of the Ring shifted like wolves uneasy in their own skins.
Drax spoke first. “The Black Shields raid in your name. The people whisper of you, not of us. The balance is broken.”
“It was never balanced,” Taranis replied. His voice was low, bitter. “We bled for fields that gave us no bread. Rome takes salt from our earth while we quarrel. If I raid, it is to feed our people, not to wear a crown.”
Lore’s eyes flicked to the sky. “And yet the crown follows you, brother. The omens have turned. The storm no longer waits.”
Then Rayne stepped forward, the firelight showing the sly curve of his smile. “No storm lasts forever. Some of us have chosen survival.”
From the shadows came the tramp of iron boots. The air filled with the rhythm of Rome square shields, horsehair crests, iron blades that gleamed even in the grey. The circle of stones was surrounded.
Draven’s face went pale. His lips moved as if to speak, but no words came.
“You led them here,” Taranis said.
Rayne did not deny it. “Our people will live beneath Rome’s law. Better chains of iron than graves of ash.”
The thirteenth stone split with a sound like thunder. Dust trickled down its face. The Ring was broken.
Battle erupted. Drax drew steel, Lore called fire from the runes, Aisin shielded the cradle where Caelum slept. Nessa’s blade sang bright before she was dragged into the fray, her cry lost in the clash.
Taranis fought like the storm itself blade flashing, shield breaking, each stroke cutting down another soldier. But for every man he felled, three more closed in. Nets weighted with lead tangled his limbs. Chains of iron bit deep.
He roared once, a sound that shook the stones. Lightning split the sky as if the gods themselves mourned. Then the Romans dragged him down. His black shield shattered under their boots.
“Take him alive,” the centurion barked. “Rome has use for beasts like this.”
When the fighting ended, the circle lay in ruin. Smoke curled from broken fires. Brothers lay wounded or scattered. The thirteenth stone was nothing but rubble.
Taranis, Storm of Emberhelm, was shackled in chains and marched south along the salt road. Behind him, the old world fell silent. Ahead lay the lash, the arena, and the roar of foreign crowds.
He lifted his head once to the sky and whispered through bloodied lips:
“If I must fight, let it be as storm, not as slave.”
StormborneLore 