The punishment was isolation not exile, not quite. Taranis, though still only a babe by the tribe’s reckoning, was watched but not spoken to. No brothers played with him. No mother’s lullaby wrapped him in comfort. He was to be observed, not nurtured. Fed, but not spoken to. Cared for, but not loved.
It was said the elders feared what he would become. A child with glowing hands who healed a broken mind just as easily break others, they whispered.
And so, silence fell over him like a second skin.
But the boy the boy did not stop being hungry.
On the third day of his confinement, Taranis wandered just beyond the shadow of the chief’s hut. He was old enough to walk, too young to know danger. And he was hungry.
He saw berries.
They gleamed with dew, small and red like droplets of blood upon the brambles. They looked like the ones Nyx used to give him in summer. He plucked them, popped one in his mouth, and smiled.
Within minutes, the world tilted.
Taranis clutched his belly, his body shaking. His legs gave way as a cry tore from his throat not of pain alone, but of betrayal.
The world blurred. The air thickened. He vomited violently and collapsed into the underbrush.
From the edge of the village, Nyx saw the fall.
“FATHER!” she screamed, racing ahead before any guards stop her. “Taranis! Taranis!”
Conan came running, as did Lore and Boldolph, the great black wolf. Lore scooped the child into his arms, his skin already burning with fever again, his lips pale and trembling.
“What’s he done?” Lore cried.
“Berries,” said Morrigan softly from the tree line. “The bitter kind. Poisonous to children.”
Nyx was sobbing now, her hands over her mouth. “He didn’t know. He was hungry. He was hungry and no one fed him.”
Father turned to the elders, fury flashing in his eyes.
The elders said nothing.
That night, the laws were rewritten.
Taranis would not be left alone again. He would still be watched, still be studied but never again forgotten.
Because even a stormborn child needs more than destiny to survive.
Whisper not his name too loud, Lest storms descend and fire shroud. The child who walks ‘twixt wolf and flame, Was never born to live the same.
His cradle rocked in winds that roared, His breath was thunder, wild, untoward. At one moon old, he called the stars At two, he broke his brother’s bars.
The elders spoke with furrowed brows, “This one will break our sacred vows.” But in his hands, a light did grow, Too pure to burn, too fierce to slow.
He healed the sick with dragon’s grace, And sorrow fled his glowing face. Yet fear, like roots, took hold and spread “He brings both blessing… and the dead.”
Some say his eyes hold forest lore, The wolves’ old grief, the fae-folk’s war. Some say his blood recalls the flame Of gods who walked with no true name.
What tribe can hold a storm so wide? What fire endures when fear must hide? So mark these words on bark and bone, The Stormborne never walks alone.
For when the wind begins to wail, And branches sing a deathless tale, Look not for mercy, shield, or guide. The fire within the child will rise.
Thank you for reading.
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Taranis stood before Drax, his bare feet silent on the cold earth. A soft golden light shimmered around his small hand as he reached up and gently placed it on Drax’s forehead. His voice was quiet, yet steady words none had taught him falling like raindrops from his lips.
“The dragon and the wolves told me,” he said, eyes glowing faintly with an ancient knowing.
Lore stepped forward, startled. “The dragons? You mean a tribe, little one?”
But Taranis did not answer. Instead, Drax stirred, groaning as colour returned to his face. His eyes fluttered open lucid for the first time in moons and the golden glow around Taranis vanished. The boy collapsed into Lore’s arms, suddenly limp but breathing.
Lore caught him, heart pounding. He looked back at Drax, who now sat up slowly, blinking into the firelight.
“What were they doing to you, Drax?” Lore asked, still holding his youngest brother close.
Drax’s voice was hoarse, but calm. “Cleansing the darkness. They say I must walk the coals soon burn the madness away.”
Lore frowned, tightening his grip on the child. “Well… this little stormborn saved your life. Whatever you believe, that’s truth.”
Just then, Conan their father, the chief appeared in the doorway, drawn by the strange stillness and the fading light.
Taranis stirred, his head against Lore’s chest. “My fault, Father,” he murmured in a drowsy voice. “He was hurting… so I fixed it.”
Father stepped ahead slowly, kneeling before them. His eyes flicking from the barely conscious Drax to the sleeping child in Lore’s arms. His voice was heavy.
“He’s only one year old… and he’s healing the broken?”
Lore nodded. “He called it the gift of wolves and dragons.”
Conan exhaled, rubbing his weathered jaw. “Then we’d best prepare. Whatever storms are coming, they’ll start with him.”
“You calling the council father?” Drax asked “I will be punished he’s just a child “
“You have many matters to deal with Drax. little Taranis actions his disobedience to rules not to come here and what ever he did to you will be dealt with in due course a water cleansing, more gathering to keep him from wandering “
“How do you feel brother?’ Lore asked
“Clear minded, like what ever was heavy in me is gone. I feel love for the little one shame for wanting him dead. I’m not expecting you to trust me”
“Trust is earned, ” father said and looked to two men ran. “let him out but no contact with the others no binds this time. I see his food is low let him gather but watch.”
The men nodded no one other a selected group of tribal elders. Had been permitted to talk to my brother for months. Now the discipline was slowly lifting. The men moved their heads indicating for him to move out still not a word broke.
“Now ostracism starts he outside being watched and we can see him but he can’t interact with us?” Nyx asked
“Yes if he talks to us or the tribe he will receive harsher punishment. One of which was decided to remove his tongue As I’m not killing my own kin. He either follows the council and gets well or he will remain how he is until he dies” father said with a heavy heart “this is the first time I’ve seen him in months and your mothers not seeing him like that a once big strong man now skin and bones this isn’t just punishment for him but for us “
I never thought of it like that the cheif and his wife punished for their sons actions. A powerful man within our tribe powerless to protect his son against the elder councils decisions. After a while we carried the little one out and to home. The largest hut of them placing him on his bed.
That night a meeting was called the elders had demanded with my father. But little Tanaris was still sleeping crying in his sleep and burning up.
I walked to the edge of our camp “BOLDOLPH WHERE ARE YOU” Lore shouted seeing a giant of a wolf beautiful black like the nights sky with a gold five pointed star and red fiery moon on his chest and red fiery eyes
Boldolph strode over putting his head in mine nudging it
“You’re upset young one” Boldolph said his mind connection with mine
“I am my friend, your the tribes sacred ally. Your wiser than you know but did you tell my brother Taranis how to heal?” Lore asked the wolf
“I did ” a small grey wolf lowered his front half as if bowing to Boldolph. “I’m sorry sire, I heard the bright one crying and sought to help him. He missed Drax “
“He hardly knows Drax, father forbade any meeting between them unless Drax was bound and flanked by men. You had no right to interfere silver ” Lore replied
“He ran straight in to the condemned mans hut. Pure disobedience when I called him to stop. Drax could have killed him but my brother used the chant Drax said its like a heavy weight was lifted. Now Taranis is sick with fever .
“Your father?” Boldolph asked glancing angry ar the white wolf
“The tribal elders have called council I’m worried this weakens fathers position. If they lose trust in father, if they consider my baby brother ” Lores voice dropped as he looked to the earth
Boldolph launched at silver growling and teeth bared ready to rip the older wolf apart but a pure white wolf red five pointed star and gold sun on her chest
“STOP THIS ” she snapped at the other wolves parted
“Morrigan it’s an honor to see you again “Conan said kneeling to her level “Boldolph let’s wait for council if my family and I find ourselves displaced then kill silver by all means if it makes you happy”
Taranis lay silent in his cradle, just moments after birth. He didn’t cry, didn’t scream only watched with wide, storm-coloured eyes. I sat by his side, listening to the rising argument between our father and eldest brother, Drax.
“No one will hurt you, baby brother,” I whispered, “not while I and the others still draw breath.”
“Lore,” came our mother’s voice, tired but clear, “you’ll be good to him, won’t you? He’s weak…”
I turned to her and gave a gentle nod. “Yes, Mother. And so will you. You’ll teach him to gather berries and cook. And Father will teach him to hunt. He has eleven older brothers, we’ll teach him everything. But… what is Father going to do about Drax?”
I cradled Taranis in my arms, gently rocking him the way I’d done with the others. Even then, he felt… different. Lighter and heavier at the same time.
“We’ll protect him,” Mother whispered. “But if Drax doesn’t stay quiet, your father may have him silenced.”
There was pain in her voice, thick with grief.
“Drax is being ostracised,” Father said later that day.
“He’s moved to the empty hut. My men are watching him. But Lore my boy you are to be chief when I enter the eternal sleep. Drax has forfeited his claim.”
“Yes, Father,” I replied, handing the baby to him before leaving for council training.
Many moons passed.
Drax had become more unstable touched by something dark. He talked to shadows. He thrashed like a wild animal when approached. Still, Father refused to have him killed.
But Drax had never been allowed near Taranis unbound not since the moment of his birth.
One afternoon, I sat carving a storm sigil into a flat stone when a scream echoed across the camp. It was Stone, a tribal woman and healer. I dropped my tools and ran.
Inside the birthing hut, Taranis barely four months old was standing unaided.
“L… Lore?” the baby said softly.
I froze. My heart thundered in my chest. “Yes… I’m Lore. You’re Taranis the stormborne one.”
No child had ever spoken or walked at that age. He was already taller than most children twice his age. His voice was clear. His steps were steady.
Our parents rushed in.
“Conan, he’s doing it,” Mother said, her voice laced with awe and fear. “But it’s far too early.”
Father’s eyes scanned the room. He bent down and lifted Taranis, pride and dread wrestling in his expression.
“Stone,” he said quietly, “you saw nothing. And neither did you, Lore.”
“Drax is here for visitation today,” I reminded him, uneasy.
“The shaman has blessed him. He’s… clear enough,” Father replied. “But I will not kill my own blood.”
“Dadda?” Taranis said with a toothless grin. “Momma. Daddy. Lore.”
“That’s right, my charmed one,” Father said softly. “And you are?”
“Tabaris,” he chirped, mispronouncing his own name.
“Close. It’s Taranis,” Father corrected gently.
“Taranis,” he said again, tapping his chest. “Me Tanaris. You Daddy. That Mommy Sweet Voice. That Lore.”
I chuckled. “That’s right, little one. I’m your brother Lore. That’s Stone. And these are your other brothers. Do you know their names?”
“Lore… Oak, Willow… River, Sky… Star…”
He paused, hiding his face bashfully.
“You did brilliantly,” I reassured him. “You’re only three moons old and already speaking better than most of us at one year!”
Time flew.
Taranis walked and talked far too early. At one year old, he was disappearing from sight vanishing, even. He was growing rapidly, faster than any child the tribe had ever seen.
One morning, he wandered toward the hut where Drax now lived, under guard by two warriors.
“What you doing, little brother?” Rain asked, trailing behind him.
“Why Drax in there alone?” Taranis asked, blinking up at the warriors.
“He’s touched,” Rain said. “They say a vengeful spirit cursed him.”
Taranis tilted his head. “I heal him,” he said matter-of-factly.
Before I stop him, he dashed toward the door.
“TARANIS! NO! STOP RIGHT NOW!” I shouted.
“I heal!” he giggled.
Rain and I exchanged looks. “Get Father!” I barked.
We followed him inside. Drax sat cross-legged, staring at the wall. He didn’t move, didn’t speak.
Taranis approached him with no fear and touched his hand. A strange, gentle glow pulsed from his palm.
“I call on my sacred friends,” he whispered, “to heal my brother Drax.”
Father’s eyes had changed flashing a pale shade of red.
Thunder cracked as he stepped into the cave. Ready to lay eyes on Mother and the newborn she had fought to bring into the world.
We stood behind him in silence, all of us but one.
One brother, whose eyes held no joy. Only fear. Only the taste of blood.
“Thirteenth son of the thirteenth son,” he muttered. “Born during a storm… and an eclipse. Even the dragons have fallen silent. And the wolves, they’ve stopped howling.”
Just then, as if the forest itself heard hima sound split the trees in two.
Boldolph.
His howl rose like thunder turned voice, a cry so powerful the very air seemed to flinch.
Artistic depiction of Boldolph, the powerful wolf, alongside symbols of mythology and nature.
At his side stood Morrigan, his bonded mate white as new snow. She gave a low, haunting cry and pressed her head gently against his.
Then the dragon stirred.
It lifted its head, wings stretching wide like a storm reborn.
And with a roar that lit the sky, it rose.
Fire molten and blinding erupted from its throat, painting the clouds in gold and crimson.
And there, across the eclipsed heavens, the name appeared.
TARANIS.
Burning. Brilliant. Undeniable.
As if the stars, the storm, and the breath of the gods themselves had spoken as one:
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.
Exiled at Eight tells the story of Taranis Stormborne.
A flicker of life enters a world that is both brutal and beautiful. From the moment chieftain Connor held the little boy wrapped in wolf fur, he knew his son was different.
The baby’s bright grey eyes sparkled with curiosity and wonder, hinting at future heartache, nightmares, and beauty.Five Years Later
“He’s alone again, I see, Drax,” Knox said to his best friend and the chieftain’s son.
“World of his own, father says. He’s different from us,” Drax replied, glancing at his little brother before shielding a strike.
“Nice try,” Drax smirked.The chieftain and his wife watched Taranis, worry and stress etched on their faces. Neither knew how to handle their youngest son, who paled in comparison to his brothers.
Taranis was a tall child, standing almost five feet, muscular from birth a blessing many remarked on. His striking grey eyes were like a stormy night. In contrast, his brothers were broad-shouldered and hardened by years of hunting and battle, already warriors in training.
One cool morning, as the damp scent of earth and pine filled the air, Taranis wandered near the edge of the forest. “Everything you see is ours, my son the woods, the green fields,” he recalled his father’s voice in his mind.
The more he walked, the louder the birds sang and the more he heard the roar of Pendragon, the king of dragons.
The howl of Boldolph whistled through the trees as he picked up a stone and threw it in the air. Suddenly, the stone flew from his hand and struck a small black bird.
It fell silent, wings broken, heart still. Taranis ran to the young bird, tears streaming down his face. Kneeling beside it, he pressed his hands gently on its broken wings, willing them to heal.
As time seemed to slow; the forest quieted. Miraculously, the bird shuddered and breathed, gradually returning to life. With a flutter, it soared free again.
The chieftain raised an eyebrow as he looked to his people, then back to his son.
“What is dead should stay dead,” one man stated.Soon, the entire community murmured in hushed tones.“ENOUGH,” the chieftain said, addressing the council of elders.
“Sir, we will call a meeting,” Janus stated. A woman with clouded eyes and a trembling voice approached quietly. She gazed deeply at the boy and spoke a chilling prophecy.
“The boy who mends what death has touched shall walk a path both blessed and cursed, a flame born of feather and storm.”Taranis looked at the old woman with a defiant smirk and his deep grey eyes, as if he wielded a storm at any moment.
He didn’t understand it, nor did he care.
“He’s old enough to train as a guide with the spirits,” another man said. “He’s five; he’s a man now.”
“No, he’s a man who can work, but he must follow his brothers and me as warriors and hunters,” Chieftain Connor stated.
The year passed quickly, and everyone focused on the warring neighbors while crops failed, turning life upside down. At six years old, the harshness of life hit hard.
When men and women charged the camp, and the clash of spears echoed.
Within minutes, the noise stopped abruptly on both sides. With uncanny fierceness, Taranis moved like a whirlwind of rage and grace. His strikes were swift and precise, as if guided by a primal force beyond his age.
“It’s like he’s a god,” Lore said, while his brothers watched in awe and fear, uncertain of what this meant for their youngest brother.
Beneath the warrior’s fire, though, was a boy barely understanding the cost of blood and death.
“I helped protect us, right, father? I’m good?” Taranis asked, but he stopped when Drax pulled him away, aware of how fear could lead people to do stupid things.
“I’m a warrior, not a seer!” Taranis cried as he was taken away.“Shh, little brother. You’ve seen too much for one day.”
“From today, my son Taranis will train with his brothers. Should another fight arise, he will be ready,” Chieftain Connor said. Another war came, but this time it was one they wouldn’t win.
As the years went by, he trained and grew into a skilled fighter. At eight years old, he stood on the hills as his friends developed coughs and fevers like never seen before, while the village was struck by a shadow darker than any blade.
A sickness crept through the children like a silent predator.Mothers wept, fathers raged, and the once vibrant laughter of youth faded into silence and sorrow. Soon, the people began to whisper, like cold wind slipping through cracks.
Was this the curse Janus spoke of? Was Taranis’s strange power a blight upon them?
“Exile Taranis!” one voice boomed. “Execute him!” another shouted. “Sacrifice him to appease the gods!”As time passed, more voices joined in as fear turned to blame, and blame hardened into calls for exile.
“We find, for the sake of the clan, we must exile Taranis,” Janus said.
Taranis stepped beyond the only home he had ever known. As he looked back at his brothers and father.
“I didn’t do it. Please, this isn’t because of me,” Taranis pleaded. But the forest that once whispered secrets now felt endless and cold.
Alone, he battled with the cruel balance between lost innocence and a destiny forced upon him.Yet beneath the storm of doubt, a fierce flame burned a hope to find meaning, reclaim his place, and someday heal what had been broken.
StormborneLore 