The sky over Emberhelm was the colour of old iron, restless with the promise of rain.
Drax stood on the outer wall, eyes on the valley below, where the last of the summer haze clung to the river. Beside him, Taranis rested both hands on the stone, watching the horizon as though it might bite.
“You’re quieter than usual,” Drax said.
“I’m listening.”
“To what?”
“The wind,” Taranis murmured. “It changes when something’s coming.”
A raven cut the sky, wings beating hard against the weather. It landed on the wall, a thin strip of leather tied to its leg. Drax caught it, untied the strip, and read the message aloud:
Strangers on the ridge. Armed. Not raiders. Moving slow.
Taranis’s jaw flexed. “Slow means they know we’re watching.”
“Could be traders.”
“Could be worse.” His gaze didn’t leave the valley. “Tell the scouts to shadow them. No contact. Not yet.”
Drax nodded, but his eyes caught something else his brother’s hand, hovering near the hilt of his sword even now, when there was no battle to fight.
The Sacred Grove
The grove smelled of damp earth and crushed mint where the rains had touched the leaves. Nessa sat with Caelum in the shadow of an ancient oak, rocking the carved crib gently with her boot.
“You were born into a dangerous world,” she whispered to the child. “But so was I.”
The voice came from behind her, thin as wind through reeds. “Danger shapes the strong, girl.”
Nessa turned. An old woman stood between two leaning yews, her green cloak patched and frayed, her hair a braid of white and ash. Her eyes were the pale grey of morning frost.
She stepped forward without asking, bent low over the crib, and traced the runes with a fingertip.
“Sky-born,” she murmured. “Storm-blessed. He will outlive his father’s crown… but not his father’s shadow.”
Nessa’s hand closed over the dagger at her belt. “What does that mean?”
The woman only smiled a sad, knowing curve of the mouth and stepped back into the trees. By the time Nessa reached the grove’s edge, she was gone.
The Council Stones
The gold circle gleamed beneath a bruised sky. Thirteen seats. Twelve filled.
Rayne’s voice carried first. “We should send the child away. Somewhere safe.”
“Safe?” Drax’s tone was a low growl. “You mean hidden.”
“Hidden is alive,” Rayne countered. “And alive is better than lying in the earth when prophecy catches him.”
Draven shifted in his seat, eyes down. “He’s a spark in dry grass. If the wrong hands reach him”
Lore’s voice cut through. “If fear writes the next chapter for us, we lose the right to call ourselves the Ring. Better we strengthen our walls than scatter our own blood to the winds.”
“You speak like someone who’s never buried a child,” Rayne said flatly.
Drax’s hand tightened on the stone armrest. “And you speak like someone who’d rather be rid of a burden than bear it.”
The silence that followed was sharp enough to bleed.
Rayne’s Quarters
Taranis didn’t knock. The door slammed against the wall as he stepped inside.
“You think I won’t hear what you say about my son?”
Rayne looked up from his table, unbothered. “Your son? Or your weakness?”
Taranis’s hand hit the table hard enough to rattle the cups. “If you move against him”
“If I wanted him gone,” Rayne interrupted, “he would be gone. I don’t need the Ring’s blessing for that.”
Taranis’s eyes narrowed. “Then you’re waiting.”
Rayne leaned back, smiling without warmth. “You’ve already faltered, brother. All I have to do is let the sky finish the work.”
The Outer Gate
The scouts returned at nightfall, mud on their boots and rain in their hair.
“They’ve reached the lower valley,” one said. “Twenty of them. And they’re asking for the Stormborne child by name.”
The Ring gathered in the torchlit hall, arguments sparking like flint. Some called for parley, others for steel.
Taranis stood apart, Caelum in his arms, the boy’s small hand gripping the edge of his father’s cloak.
“They will not take him while I breathe,” he said, and there was no room for doubt in his voice.
Final Beat
As orders rang through Emberhelm, Rayne stood in the shadows of the hall, Draven at his side.
“The warlord has chosen love over reason,” Rayne murmured. “Now we wait for the sky to fall.”
Outside, lightning flashed over the valley once, twice before the rain came.
Smoke still curled above the hills, but for now, the killing had paused. The Ring had demanded silence, and the land obeyed with the uneasy stillness of a wolf watching from the edge of firelight.
Taranis sat by the river, sharpening a blade he hadn’t drawn in days. The sound was steady, comforting a ritual older than words.
“You missed your council seat,” Nessa said behind him.
He didn’t turn. “Let them speak in circles. The wind will tell me what they decide.”
She stepped closer, arms folded, eyes sharp as ever. Her hair was damp from the river, her scar still raw but healing.
“You’re their warlord whether you wear a crown or not,” she said. “They listen for your storms.”
“I’m tired of storms,” he said, standing slowly. “I want peace.”
She raised an eyebrow. “Peace from war? Or from yourself?”
That hit deeper than he expected. He turned, finally, and faced her. “Do you ever stop fighting?”
“Only when I’m sleeping.” A half-smile appeared on her face “And sometimes not even then.”
He studied her in the fading light the blood on her hands that hadn’t come from mercy, the way she stood like someone expecting betrayal at any moment. And yet, she was still here.
“They called me cursed,” he said. “Storm-marked. Said I was born to end things, not build them.”
Nessa’s gaze didn’t waver. “Then build something anyway. Let the curse bite its own tail.”
He stepped toward her. Close enough to feel her breath, to see the flecks of gold in her eyes.
“You speak like a seer,” he said.
“I speak like a woman who’s already lost too much to superstition.”
He wanted to reach for her but didn’t. Instead, he offered his hand. Just his hand.
She stared at it like it was a blade, then took it.
No vows were spoken. No gods were called.
But something passed between them in that moment not love, not yet. Something older.
Something true.
Later that Night Emberhelm
Lore lit the sacred fire at the centre of the stone ring. The flame flared blue for a moment unnatural. Ominous.
Draven flinched. Rayne smiled.
“Balance is shifting,” Lore muttered, eyes on the flame. “Something has stirred it.”
Drax stood at the edge of the circle, arms crossed. “He’s with her again.”
Rayne’s voice was soft and snake-slick. “Then let him be. Let him forget his duty.”
Draven shifted uneasily. “If Taranis lets her in, he could let in worse.”
“Or better,” Lore countered. “She may be a sword that cuts both ways.”
Rayne’s grin widened. “Then let’s see what she severs first.”
Outside the circle, a storm began to gather. Quiet, coiled. Watching.
The Circle of Stones, Emberhelm The storm broke slowly, not with thunder, but with footsteps.
Boots echoed between ancient stones as Taranis stepped into the sacred ring, his cloak still damp from river mist. Nessa walked a pace behind him, her eyes wary, her scar bright under the firelight.
The brothers stood in silence as he approached. Drax by the child’s cradle, Lore near the flame, Draven wringing his hands in shadow. Rayne stood like a blade left out in the cold smiling, but never warm.
Taranis’s voice cut through the stillness like flint on steel.
“I know what you speak when I’m not here. I hear it in the wind. I feel it in the ground. You question my loyalty because I do not sit with you every day. Because a girl now walks beside me.”
He looked at each of them in turn not as brothers, but as warriors who once bled beside him.
“Let me be clear. My oath to Caernath stands. I have not broken it. I will not.”
He turned briefly to Nessa, then back to the Ring, his voice rising with quiet fury.
“But I am not made of stone. I am not your thunder without end. Like you, I bleed. I grieve. And I deserve gods be damned to feel joy. To be loved.”
A gust of wind swept through the circle, snuffing one of the smaller fires. The shadows leaned in.
Taranis stepped closer to the central flame, gaze hard now.
“One of you will betray me. I don’t know when, or how. But it will be for power, land, and coin. That truth rots in the air. But hear me now.”
He unsheathed his blade, slowly, and drove it into the earth beside the flame.
“If you seek to take my crown, then come for me openly. Not with poison. Not with lies.”
His eyes flicked to Rayne just a heartbeat.
“Because I will forgive a blade. But I will not forgive a coward.”
The wind stilled. Even the stones seemed to listen.
Drax stepped forward first, his voice low and steady.
“My brother, I believe you. And should the time come I will not stand behind you. I will stand with you.”
Lore said nothing, but he placed his palm on the stone rune before him the sign of silent accord.
Draven looked down, unable to meet anyone’s gaze.
Rayne only smiled, slow and wolfish.
“You speak of storms and love as if either can save you,” he said softly. “But I wonder, brother… which will break you first?”
After Taranis walks away from the fire:
Nessa followed a few paces behind him, silent until they were beyond the edge of the circle. She spoke without looking at him.
“That wasn’t a warning. That was a reckoning.”
Taranis’s voice was low.
“They needed to hear it. And I needed to remember who I am.”
“And who is that?” she asked.
He paused, fingers brushing the hilt of the blade still buried in the earth behind them.
“A man who has been many things. But never loved and still whole.”
Ash fell like snow across the field, and the cries of dying men echoed over blood-stained earth. Taranis stood at the crest of the hill, his blade soaked, his breath ragged, eyes scanning the fray. His cloak snapped behind him, storm-charged and wild.
Then he saw her.
A blur of red hair and steel. She moved like fire unleashed cutting down two warriors with a rhythm so brutal it bordered on poetry. A deep scar crossed her cheek, fresh blood mingling with the old. Her spear spun once, twice, and buried itself in the chest of a man charging from behind.
She turned. Their eyes locked.
For a second, the war fell silent.
Taranis stepped forward. So did she.
They met in the no-man’s land between sides, blades raised not in anger, but instinct. Neither lowered their guard.
“You’re no foot soldier,” Taranis said, circling. “What are you?”
She didn’t smile, but her voice held a grin.
“I’m the reason you’re bleeding, warlord.”
He looked down. A shallow cut across his ribs. He hadn’t even felt it.
“I’d remember a woman like you,” he muttered, lowering his blade. “Name?”
“Nessa. And I don’t need saving.”
“I wasn’t offering,” he replied, “just watching the storm arrive.”
Her eyes narrowed. “You think this is a storm?” She stepped closer. “You’ve not seen anything yet.”
Then — the horn blew. Her side was retreating. She looked over her shoulder, then back at him.
“I should kill you,” she said.
“You should,” Taranis agreed, “but you won’t.”
She held his gaze another heartbeat… then turned and ran, vanishing into smoke and flame.
He stood alone, the sound of her name still echoing behind his ribs like thunder.
A Week Later Riverbank Clearing The village was in ruins blackened timbers, smoke curling from half-dead hearths. Survivors were few, and even they shrank from him as he passed. They whispered of a warrior woman who had held the bridge alone until the flames took her horse and half her shield arm.
Taranis followed the trail until it ended in a clearing by the river. And there she was.
Kneeling in the shallows, Nessa washed blood from her skin. Her armor was battered. Her shoulder bound with torn linen. But her spine was straight, and her hand never strayed far from the dagger at her hip.
“I should have known,” she said, not looking up. “Storms always return to the wreckage.”
Taranis didn’t smile. “You survived.”
“I always do.” She rose, eyes sharp. “Here to finish what we didn’t start?”
He stepped forward. “I came to offer a truce.”
She scoffed. “Why? Because I didn’t kill you the first time?”
“No,” he said. “Because I want to know why you fight like a warrior, but bleed like someone with nothing left to lose.”
Her jaw clenched. “You think you can read me, warlord? You think I’m one of your stories?”
“No,” Taranis said quietly, “but I know the look of someone trying to die just slowly enough to call it bravery.”
She drew her dagger, fast as lightning. Held it to his throat.
“Careful. You don’t know me.”
“I know enough,” he said, unmoving. “Your people are scattered. Your command is gone. And yet you stood alone at that bridge for strangers.”
“That’s more than you’ve done lately,” she snapped. “You walk the land like a ghost and leave nothing behind but ashes.”
His hand rose not to his weapon, but to gently press her dagger aside.
“I’m tired of ghosts,” he said.
They stood there, breath mingling, battle-scarred and burning. Neither of them moved. Neither of them lowered their guard.
But the space between them began to change.
“Besides I fight for those I deem worthy. That includes the people of Emberhelm.” Taranis smirked. “You’ve shown me you’re a friend of Emberhelm.”
He extended his hand.
“Who are you?” she asked.
“Taranis,” he said. “Who are you, my lady?”
“Nessa.”
The Night of Lammas.
That night, the people of Emberhelm feasted beneath the stars.
Lammas the first harvest was a time of bread and song, fire and gratitude. Children danced between torches, and the scent of roasted grain filled the cooling air. Drums echoed off the stones, old and deep, like the heartbeats of the land itself.
Taranis stood at the edge of it all, watching, half in shadow. Nessa leaned against a pillar beside him, arms folded, hair loose from its braid.
“I thought you’d be dancing,” he said.
“I don’t dance for tradition,” she replied. “Only for survival. Or joy.”
“Is this not joy?”
She looked around. The laughter. The flames. The peace however temporary. “Maybe.”
A silence fell between them, not awkward, just heavy with the unspoken.
“Come with me,” she said at last.
No orders. No questions. Just a truth spoken plainly. He followed.
They slipped from the celebration like ghosts, weaving through the orchard paths behind Emberhelm. The air was thick with ripening apples and the hum of distant music. When they reached the old stone lodge near the outer walls, she pushed the door open with one hand and led him in without a word.
There were no declarations. No romance wrapped in flowers or oaths. Only need.
Their bodies met like storm and flame fast, urgent, tangled with the memory of battle and the ache of survival. There was laughter when his armor refused to loosen, curses when her hair caught on his clasp, and a growl low in his throat when she bit his shoulder hard enough to mark.
Neither knew what the next day would bring. That was why it mattered.
That night, they made love like warriors with a fierceness born of loss and the tenderness of those who had bled for strangers.
Later, tangled in furs, the fire crackling low, she lay with her head against his chest.
“If I die tomorrow,” she murmured, “I’ll die warm.”
“You won’t,” he said, but his fingers curled tighter around her waist.
Outside, the stars burned cold and bright, and the first autumn wind began to stir.
He placed his hand gently on her belly.
“You and my son will live.”
Whispers in the Dark.
The next morning, the Ring summoned Taranis.
The gold circle at the council stones shone under a pale sky. Thirteen seats twelve filled. Lore was already speaking when Taranis entered, his voice low but urgent.
As he took his place, Nessa moved through the old halls of Emberhelm alone, her instincts sharp. Her step slowed when she passed the northern storeroom. Voices carried.
Rayne.
“We wait until the snows. When the passes are blocked, and he’s far from Emberhelm, we strike. The Ring will fall without him.”
Another voice, unsure. “He’s your brother.”
“Which is why I know his weakness.”
Nessa froze, the words burning into her mind.
Betrayal was coming.
And she was carrying the only thing that might save him.
Battles became rare. Raids grew smaller, born less from conquest and more from desperation. The crops suffered under strange seasons. Hunger took more than steel ever could. But with hardship came strange progress sharper tools, tighter village bonds, cleverer defences. Old powers shifted. The land quieted, not in peace, but in waiting.
And in that uneasy quiet, Taranis was content.
For the first time in years, he did not lead an army. He pursued a girl instead one with a scar beneath her eye and a laugh like war drums. She gave as good as she got, and that delighted him. The village wives said she would either tame him or kill him. The bards were divided on which would be the better story.
Meanwhile, I, Drax, his brother by blood and blade, walked a different path. I raised my people among the hills and rivers of Caernath. Children on hips, grain in hand, my wife laughing in doorways. I had earned my peace, or so I believed.
Lore, always the wisest of us, had vanished into his libraries. He said little, but he read much stars, omens, bones, spells. His son was growing fast, and Lore spoke often of unity, of law, of councils instead of kings.
Even Draven kept to himself in those days, unsure of where to cast his loyalty. And Rayne, well… Rayne’s silence was never a good sign.
Then the rumours came.
Another village, wiped clean. A warlord found burnt and broken, no enemies in sight. Smoke and whispers. They say a giant walked the battlefield, crowned in fire and storm. One witness swore she saw a great horned beast at his side. Another swore it was a dragon, wings spread across the sky like nightfall.
The name on their tongues? Taranis.
And with his name, the same plea echoed once again from the mouths of elders, farmers, and war-chiefs alike: “Take the crown.”
He refused. For the thirteenth time.
No matter their offerings gold, land, blood-oaths he turned his back on kingship. He called no banners. Built no fortress. No throne. Yet still he came when battle called. He turned tides, struck down tyrants, disappeared again into wind and legend.
And so, we formed the Ring not a court of nobles, but of equals. Thirteen warriors, leaders, seers, and voices of the old ways. It stood for balance, for judgment, for law older than any written word. At its centre: a circle of sacred stones, each carved with the oath of Stormborne.
And there, in that ring, Taranis spoke not often but when he did, the skies listened.
We thought we were building something unbreakable.
But we were wrong.
Because while we looked outward at the world beyond the hills, a darker storm gathered within us. In the silence of Lore’s spells, in the smile behind Rayne’s eyes, in the omens Draven refused to speak aloud.
The Thirteenth Ring was strong. But it only took one brother’s betrayal to crack the stone. And so the storm began to turn inward.
“Where’s the mother?” I asked.
“Her village was attacked. They slaughtered her while she screamed my name,” Taranis said.
The circle of stones stood solemn beneath a heavy sky bruised with gathering storm clouds. Within the sacred ring, thirteen seats carved with ancient runes and oaths bore silent witness as the brothers gathered once more.
Taranis sat with the weight of years pressing upon him, the child cradled carefully in Drax’s strong arms a fragile ember amidst the gathering darkness. The air was thick, charged with the unspoken dread of a prophecy unfolding.
Lore was the first to break the silence, stepping forward with measured grace. His voice was calm but sharp as flint, each word deliberate and coldly reasoned.
“Brother,” Lore said, eyes fixed on Taranis, “you speak of betrayal as if the serpent has already struck. Who do you suspect? Who harbors this poison within our bloodline?”
Rayne’s lips twitched into a mocking smile, his gaze a knife’s edge glinting in the half-light.
“Perhaps,” Rayne replied smoothly, “the betrayal lies not in our veins but in the stubbornness of one who refuses the crown. The storm we fear may well be born of his silence.”
Draven shifted uneasily on his stone, fingers twisting nervously as he swallowed hard.
“I… I cannot imagine we would turn against our own,” Draven stammered. “We are brothers forged in battle. Our oaths hold us true.”
Taranis’s gaze snapped sharply to Draven, eyes burning with bitter warning. “Blood is thicker than loyalty,” Taranis said quietly, “but fate is the thinnest thread of all easily severed, and often broken by the weakest hand.”
I stood from my seat, the strength in my voice like a hammer striking an anvil. “I swear to all here, I will raise this child as my own, guard him with my life. No harm will come to him under my watch.”
Rayne’s eyes narrowed dangerously. “Loyalty is a coin with many faces, brother,” Rayne said softly, stepping closer. “What of your people? Your wife and child? When the scales are tipped, whose cries will you hear first?”
Lore raised a hand, tracing the worn runes on his stone seat with thoughtful fingers.
“We stand at a crossroads. The old gods grow silent; new faiths rise from the south and east. It is no betrayal to seek survival. Perhaps adaptation is the true path.”
Taranis’s jaw clenched, muscles taut with anger and grief. “Survival without honor is death,” he growled. “One of you will fracture this Ring. When that stone breaks, the whole will crumble. Mark my words.”
A sudden gust of wind swept through the circle, rattling the ancient stones like a voice from the past. The child stirred in my arms, a small cry cutting through the tension like a knife.
The brothers’ eyes flickered to the babe innocent yet burdened with the weight of prophecy.
Silence fell again, thick with dread and unspoken accusations.
Rayne smiled then, colder and sharper than any blade. “So be it,” he whispered. “Let the storm come. I will be ready.”
From the edge of the circle, Draven lowered his gaze, his hands trembling. Behind closed eyes, fear and uncertainty warred in his heart a battle he dared not share.
Lore’s eyes scanned the sky, already darkening with rolling thunder. “We must decide soon,” Lore murmured, “for if we do not act, the fates will decide for us.”
Taranis stared out over the ring, his voice low but resolute.
“The time of peace is over. The Ring must hold or all we built will fall to ruin.”
He stood slowly, setting the child gently in my arms before turning toward the path out of the circle.
As he walked away, his figure a storm-shadow against the fading light, the brothers remained each wrestling with the secrets they now carried.
The morning mist clung to the earth like breath held too long.
Taranis stood barefoot in the frost-hardened dirt, his cloak wrapped tightly around his shoulders. Before him, the children the eleven pulled from the pit stood in an uneven line. Some shivered. One held a stick like a sword. Another clenched it like a club.
“Not to hurt,” Taranis said. His voice was calm but carried weight. “To protect.”
He walked along the line, placing his hand gently on each child’s shoulder. Their eyes were wide. Some still flinched. But none ran.
Boldolph sat at Taranis’s right, silent and unmoving, a guardian of the moment. Morrigan circled the clearing with the patience of a winter wind, occasionally brushing a child’s ankle with her tail when their stance faltered.
Solaris stood at the edge of the clearing, arms folded. He watched Taranis with an unreadable expression.
“They’re too small,” he said quietly.
Taranis turned.
“So was I,” he replied.
He took a staff from the ground and twirled it with precision, the end cutting the air in a slow arc.
“If we wait for them to grow, it will be too late.”
That evening, the fire burned low. The children huddled close to its warmth, whispering stories they were beginning to remember stories Taranis had told them about the wolves, the fire, the storm.
Solaris sat apart from them, alone with the thoughts that had haunted him for weeks.
He rose when all were asleep. He moved through the shadows, past the bones of old tents and the ghosts of gallows, until he reached the western tree line.
From inside his tunic, he pulled a strip of black cloth, worn thin and embroidered with a single red claw.
He tied it to a crooked branch. Then he whispered.
“Tell them the storm is coming.”
His voice cracked.
“Tell them… it’s Taranis.”
He turned, vanishing back into the mist.
It happened at dawn.
Taranis led a scouting party through the ashwoods Boldolph at his side, two scouts ahead, three boys from the training ring carrying supplies. The fog was thick, the silence heavier than snow.
They never saw the first spear.
It took one of the scouts through the chest. Another cried out and was silenced. The boys ran or tried to but two were taken by horsemen bearing the sigil of the Black Claw.
Taranis fought like a storm obsidian pendant flashing in the smoke, staff and blade spinning but by the time the sun broke the treetops, four were dead, two missing, and the forest was soaked in blood.
He returned on foot, armour torn, a wound above his eye leaking down his face.
Grael met him at the gates.
“They were waiting for us,” the warlord said grimly.
Taranis nodded.
“They knew we were coming.”
“Someone told them.”
The circle was cleared at dusk. Warriors formed the ring. The children watched from behind Morrigan’s flank. The fire crackled but did not comfort.
Solaris stood in the centre, unbound. He didn’t run. He didn’t plead.
Taranis entered last, blood still dried in the cracks of his skin.
“You warned them,” he said flatly.
Solaris bowed his head.
“I did.”
“Why?”
“Because they would have killed my children,” Solaris said softly. “I was trying to stop a war.”
Taranis stepped closer, gaze unwavering.
“You started one.”
The words were quiet. Measured. Final.
From a wrapped bundle at his belt, Taranis pulled a collar carved bone, etched with runes. Not the iron of chains. Something older. Something sacred.
“You are not my enemy,” Taranis said. “But you are no longer free.”
“You will serve. You will teach. You will live in the light of what you did and what you chose not to.”
He placed the collar around Solaris’s neck. It locked with a soft click.
Solaris did not resist. He simply whispered, “Thank you for letting me live.”
Taranis didn’t answer.
Days passed. The air grew colder. But the children trained each dawn, and the wolves stayed close.
Solaris taught them how to cook, how to read the skies, how to find warmth when the earth turned bitter. Taranis taught them how to fight but more than that, how to stand. How to speak without fear. How to remember.
“We were broken,” he told them. “But we are still here.”
A council formed. Not by title. By oath.
Grael stood with arms crossed, nodding at the children now sleeping beside the fire. Morrigan lay curled with the youngest boy against her ribs. Boldolph prowled the border like a guardian carved from ash and stone.
Taranis drew three sigils in the dirt.
A flame. A storm. A shadow.
“We are not a camp anymore,” he said. “We are Caernath.”
The Seer who had first named him stepped forward, voice wind-carried.
The campfire had burned low when Solaris approached the general.
Taranis knelt nearby, his wrists loosely bound, the bone collar still tight against his throat. The punishment mask lay beside him, waiting.
“Sir?” Solaris said cautiously. “Are we binding him again?”
Grael didn’t answer immediately. He watched the boy the blood-crusted bruises, the unspoken tension in his shoulders, the way his eyes never stopped scanning the shadows.
“He walks beside the horse now,” Grael said. “Not behind it. That’s earned.”
“But he’s still tethered?” solaris said
Grael nodded. “Until he earns trust with more than fire.”
Solaris stepped closer, lowering his voice. “And the food? He eats with us now?”
“He eats what he earns. No more. No less.” grael said
Taranis stirred then, lifting his head. His voice cracked as he spoke.
“Now I’ve got one foot in both worlds… the world of a chosen, and one of an outcast.” He looked at them both. “One move and I could be executed. The other move, and be honoured.”
Solaris winced as the mask was fitted back over the boy’s face.
“Why the mask again?” he asked.
“To remind him,” Grael said. “And to remind us.”
“Of what?”
“That chains and power aren’t opposites. They’re a balance.”
Taranis tried to move from grael and the other warriors tried to move his head so the mask wouldn’t go on as a dragon flew over head
“Put it on” grael ordered
“No I’m human just like you”
Taranis jerked back, blood still dried in the corners of his mouth. The dragon’s shadow passed again overhead, and something ancient stirred in his chest not rage, not fear, but refusal.
“I said no!” he growled, voice muffled but defiant.
Solaris stepped between him and the other warriors. “Wait. He’s not”
Too late.
One of the guards lunged forward, grabbing the mask. Taranis shoved back, throwing his shoulder into the man’s chest. The warrior stumbled, caught off guard by the boy’s strength.
Another grabbed his arm but Taranis twisted, slammed his elbow into the man’s face.
Blood sprayed.
Chaos erupted.
Three warriors tried to restrain him now. Grael did not move. He watched.
Taranis fought like a cornered wolf. Wild. Desperate. Silent.
The mask hit the ground and cracked in two.
When they finally wrestled him down, he was bleeding from the nose and lip, panting like an animal. His wrists were raw, eyes wild.
But he was smiling.
“You see me now?” he said through gritted teeth. “I’m not yours.”
Solaris stood frozen. The broken mask lay at his feet.
Grael finally stepped forward.
“Enough,” he barked.
The warriors pulled back.
Taranis didn’t rise. He waited.
“Let him up,” Grael ordered. “And don’t touch him again tonight.”
“But sir” a guard started.
“I said don’t.”
Grael looked down at the broken mask, then at the blood on Taranis’s knuckles.
“You broke it,” he said flatly.
“I’d break a hundred more,” Taranis spat.
Grael didn’t respond. Instead, he knelt.
“You want to be seen? Fine. Then let the clans see what you are.”
He picked up the shattered halves of the mask.
“You’ll wear no disguise. No shield. Not until you earn a new one.”
Taranis met his gaze. “Good.”
Grael stood.
“But remember this, boy there’s a cost to being seen. You can’t take it back.”
Taranis said nothing.
The dragon roared again in the sky.
Solaris knelt beside him later, whispering, “You’re going to get yourself killed.”
Taranis looked at the stars.
“Or freed.”
“What will it take for him to be freed?” Solaris asked
“Freedom for him? He crippled your brother, he killed a farmer, used by the gods themselves, stories say he killed a bird as a child and his village was killed before his exile freedom is a long way off. What do you say grael ?” A warrior asked
Grael remained silent for a long while. The fire crackled. Embers danced. “I say,” he murmured, “we’ve seen men freed for less… and killed for more.”
He tossed the shattered mask into the flames.
“If he was sent by the gods, then they’ll test him again. Until then, he walks. He bleeds. He earns.”
A warrior scoffed. “And when the next village sees that face?”
“Then let them decide,” Grael said. “Fear him. Pity him. Curse him. But they’ll see him without the mask. And so will we.”
Taranis didn’t flinch. He stared into the fire, as if daring it to speak.
Grael remained silent for a long while.
The fire crackled between them. Sparks drifted upward into the night, like fleeing ghosts. Taranis sat still, blood streaking his jaw, the collar tight around his throat. The broken mask lay shattered near the flames.
He stepped forward and tossed the mask into the fire. It hissed as it cracked deeper, flames licking the black bone.
A warrior scoffed. “And when the next village sees that face? He crippled a boy. His own kin say he’s cursed. What do we tell them?”
“Tell them the truth,” Grael replied. “He wears no mask because he broke it. He walks unchained because I said so. And if that offends them, they can challenge it by trial.”
Another man spat. “The Seer warned us he carries the fire without flame. You think a prophecy makes him safe?”
“I think,” Solaris said quietly, “he didn’t run when he could’ve. He fought. He stood. He bled beside us.”
Silence settled again.
Then Grael turned to his men, sweeping his eyes across the ring of warriors.
“Fine,” he said. “Let the clans decide. Those who want him gone, speak now.”
A few murmurs, but none stepped forward.
“Those who would test him, not as a slave, but as a warrior raise your blades.”
One sword lifted. Then another. And another.
Not all.
But enough.
Taranis watched them. His chest rose and fell slowly. The embers reflected in his eyes.
“So be it,” Grael said. “Tomorrow at first light, he joins the line. No chains. No mask. One trial. If he survives the boy becomes flame.”
A hush fell across the camp.
Solaris leaned down beside him. “You’ve got one shot.”
Taranis looked up, a flicker of defiance in his eyes.
“Then I’ll make it burn.”
The company reached the ancient ruins just after dusk.
Twisted trees clawed at the moonlight, their roots entwined with blackened stones. Smoke drifted from old hearth pits, and torches lined the perimeter of what once had been a stronghold now just skeletal walls and broken pillars.
They called it the Bones of Fire, where traitors, exiles, and monsters were judged in the old ways.
Taranis was unshackled but flanked by two guards. His collar still bit into his skin, and dried blood streaked his jaw. He walked unbound, but every step echoed like thunder. Warriors lined the central circle, murmuring. Some remembered his defiance. Others remembered the dragon.
At the heart of the ruins stood a black stone altar scorched by lightning, older than the clans themselves. Grael waited there, sword at his side, expression unreadable.
A Seer stood beside him the same woman from the fire, robed in bone and shadow.
“This place,” Solaris whispered, stepping beside Taranis, “is where they test souls.”
“I thought I already failed,” Taranis said, not looking at him.
“No. This is where they see if you can rise.”
The crowd hushed as Grael raised his hand.
“Taranis of no clan. Slave by judgment. Exile by blood. Chosen by storm or cursed by fire,” the general said. “You stand here not as a man, but as a question. The people demand an answer.”
The Seer stepped forward, her voice like wind through hollow bones.
“You are accused of rebellion, violence, and breaking the old order. But the gods remember your name. So the trial shall be by the elements by Fire, by Bone, and by Storm.”
Murmurs rippled through the crowd.
Grael gestured, and three warriors brought forth the tools: a flame bowl carved of obsidian, a bone blade wrapped in cords of sinew, and a weathered spearhead struck once by lightning.
“You will face each,” the Seer said. “If you fall, your death is justice. If you rise, you walk reborn.”
Solaris stepped forward. “He saved us. He held the line”
“And still the trial stands,” Grael said. “This is not for you, Flamekeeper. This is between him and the gods.”
Taranis stepped into the circle.
“I’m not afraid,” he said.
“You should be,” the Seer whispered.
They began with Fire.
Taranis knelt before the obsidian bowl. Flames danced without smoke. The Seer extended her hand.
“Reach into the fire. Take the coal. Speak no sound.”
He did.
Pain erupted, white and total, but he did not scream. The coal branded his palm. Smoke curled from his clenched fist but his jaw never broke. When he stood, the mark glowed faintly.
Next came Bone.
He was handed the blade and told to carve a single rune into his chest a mark of truth.
“Only the worthy know which symbol to choose,” the Seer said.
Taranis hesitated.
Then slowly, he pressed the blade to his chest and etched a spiral. Not of chaos, but of growth the same symbol the Seer had once placed in his hand. Blood streamed down his ribs. Still, he stood.
Then came Storm.
They placed him at the peak of the ruin, where the wind screamed like a thousand dead warriors. He had to face the sky and remain standing until the gods answered or until the storm broke him.
Lightning gathered. Thunder rolled.
The dragon came.
Not with flame, but with presence a black silhouette circling high above.
After the fight taranis was dragged back to the hut. He knew the boy was harsh on other slaves and couldn’t miss the looks of hatred in some of the villagers eyes. The mask now back in place along with the tether and binds meant he couldn’t move his head. As soon as his hut was reached he stepped in and the door shut behind him.
He sat in the corner of his hut prisoner of war common, exile and excommunication was common but his life was far from the normal. He was more than a slave he was a tool to be forged and weilded at graels command. He was left with his thoughts uncomfortable and in pain as solaris walked in with a warriorand healer.
“Grael ordered fir you to see the healer. ” the Warrior stated “if we remove the mask you going to be good?”
Taranis tried his hardest to nod after a few minutes the mask was off.
“Are you OK? Grael said you can talk for a bit ” solaris said
“I’ve had worse you know that, thank you for everything.” Taranis said “how’s your brother?”
“Hes awake, says he can’t feel his legs but father told him to take it that the gods punishment for lying and dishonoured our ancestors. The wolves came they sit outside “
“Are they going to kill me?” Taranis asked
“No but your new master Grael is not an easy man. We move out in the morn, you’ll leave this behind you and fight. battles and wars, deliver food and water to troops train. One of our men needs a pack horse you’re it.” The Warrior said “but you’ll meet dragons”
“A pack horse?” Solaris asked
“Tanaris will be in binds and harnessed all the warriors belongings attached to this boy and the boy tethered to a horse. One thing falls then it’s the whip but he will be fed and watered “
“Just like with the water I spill a drop I’m beaten. It’s a slaves life solaris, I might survive or I might die but if I die it’s in battle”
“Honourable death” the Warrior said
“If that’s my future so be it.” Taranis said hearing the chieftain and freezing
“I want him dead Grael”
I want him dead, Grael!” the chieftain shouted from the edge of the fire circle. “That boy humiliated my son. The slaves whisper his name like he’s some hero!”
Grael didn’t flinch. He stepped forward slowly, hands clasped behind his back.
“Then teach your son not to lose.” “He can’t walk!” the chieftain barked. “Then perhaps next time, he’ll stand with honour before charging at one who’s already bleeding.”
Taranis stayed kneeling, the tether tightening each time he moved his neck. He didn’t dare speak but Solaris stood beside him, jaw clenched.
“He’s a slave, Grael. You’re a general why defend him?”
Grael stepped into the firelight.
“Because he fought. Because your warriors complain when it rains, but this one trains while bleeding through the mask. He obeys orders. He endures.”
A silence settled over the camp.
“Kill him,” Grael said flatly, “and you lose me. You lose your general, and every warrior loyal to my command.”
The chieftain said nothing for a long time.
Finally, he spat into the dirt.
“Then he’s your problem. But if he steps out of line he dies.” The chief stated seeing taranis being dragged for the final whipping.
Grael nodded once. “Fair.”
He turned to Taranis. “You leave at dawn. You’ll carry a warrior’s gear. You’ll bleed if you drop it. But you’ll eat. And if you survive… you may earn more than chains.”
They didn’t let him sleep and two guards sat with him watching every move he made and woke him up when he fell asleep.
He was bound to the horse before the sun rose. Packs were strapped to his chest, shoulders, and hips weapons, cloaks, food, firewood, even a spare shield. His arms were still tied at the wrists. A long leather tether looped from his collar to the saddle.
When the horse moved, he had to follow he struggled as his hands and ankles was secured and tried to fight out.
“Move like a beast,” one warrior sneered, “or we treat you like one.”
Solaris walked beside him for a while, silent. He didn’t speak until the ridge came into view.
“You won’t die today, Taranis.”
“I might.”
“No,” Solaris said. “I heard the wolves howl last night.”
By midday, the warriors halted for water and cold ashcakes. Taranis was given a small share enough to stand, not enough to rest.
One soldier deliberately dropped his pack just to watch Taranis stumble and get whipped.
“One drop, boy,” the punisher whispered. “One drop and I taste your blood again.”
But still he walked.
That night, they made camp near the edge of the highlands. The wind carried the scent of pine and smoke. The sky churned with clouds.
Taranis sat tethered to a post beside the horses, his mask unhooked for only minutes as he drank from a wooden bowl.
He didn’t speak. He listened.
The warriors talked of raids and dreams. Some whispered about dragons. One swore he’d seen a shadow in the sky.
“It was just a bird.”
“A bird doesn’t shake the trees when it lands.”
“Shut up. The general says we ride at dawn. We’ll see no dragons.”
But Taranis felt it.
There was a change in the air not wind, but something deeper. Older.
That night, chained and exhausted, he dreamed of fire. Of wings. Of eyes that glowed like suns.
And of a voice, not his own, whispering in the dark.
“The storm remembers you.”
The battle faded. Clawclan retreated, dragging their wounded into the trees.
Taranis collapsed onto his knees.
Solaris limped to him, his cheek slashed open. “You saved us,” he whispered.
Grael stepped forward. He looked down at the boy who, only days ago, had been whipped, starved, and muzzled like a beast.
“You’re bound. And still you fight.”
Taranis didn’t speak.
“You could’ve run. You didn’t.”
Still, silence.
“I said you’d be a tool. Maybe you’re more than that.”
He reached down and, without a word, cut the tether with his dagger.
“You still wear the collar. But from now on… you walk beside the horse.”
Taranis looked up just long enough to nod.
And far above them, in the grey sky beyond the trees, something passed overhead. Something large. Something with wings.
No one saw it clearly.
But Taranis looked to the sky and whispered, under his breath:
“I remember you.”
“They talking about him?” A warrior asked
“Yes I remember his birth, the sun and moon crossed the wolves howled and dragons roared. He’s been chosen by our ancestors and gods but the Seer said he was cursed “
Taranis looked to the boy then grael “am I to be the pack horse?’
Grael didn’t answer right away.
He crouched down, blood drying on his jaw, and looked the boy in the eye.
“You were meant to carry our burdens. Now you carry our survival.”
Taranis looked down at his wrists. The rope marks were deep. He flexed his fingers slowly testing the damage, testing the truth of the moment.
“Then I carry it,” he said quietly. “Until I break… or become something else.”
A few warriors exchanged glances.
One spat. Another bowed his head.
“Let him sleep near the fire tonight,” Grael ordered. “No post. No chains. The wolves already guard him.”
Taranis blinked.
“What about the mask?”
“That’s your punishment,” Grael said. “And your shield. When you’ve earned the right to speak freely, I’ll take it off.”
He turned to walk away, but paused.
“You fight like a beast. You serve like a soldier. But the way you looked at the sky… you don’t belong to either.”
“Then what do I belong to?” Taranis asked.
Grael didn’t answer.
That night, they laid him near the fire. Not close enough for comfort but not tied like an animal.
He lay on his side, the stars overhead flickering like coals in the stormclouds.
Solaris sat a few feet away, rubbing his wounded cheek.
“You saw it too, didn’t you?” Taranis whispered.
“The shape in the sky?”
Taranis nodded.
“It wasn’t a bird. It was watching.”
Solaris didn’t reply, but the fire cracked loudly. The wolves had not returned but they were near.
And from the distant hills, a single, low roar echoed through the trees.
Taranis closed his eyes.
“I remember you,” he whispered again.
The following morning taranis worked on preparing food for the warriors his keepers and master even though the mask was on tight he tried to remove it
“Leave it ” grael ordered “let the villages we pass through see you, now we rebind your hands but you walk next to your escorts horse. “
The following morning, Taranis worked on preparing food for the warriors, his keepers, and his master. Though the mask was tight across his face, he kept trying to loosen it with his bound hands.
“Leave it,” Grael ordered. “Let the villagers we pass through see you. Now we rebind your hands but you walk beside your escort’s horse.”
Taranis said nothing. He only lowered his head and allowed them to tie his wrists. He wasn’t sure if it was obedience or something colder, something heavier settling over him like rain.
They passed through two valleys and a narrow ridge before making camp near the edge of a standing stone circle. Some of the warriors murmured uneasily. Even Grael gave the stones a wide berth.
That night, they made no fire.
Taranis was tethered again, not far from the edge of the trees. The air turned colder, sharper. Mist crept along the earth like breath from a wounded god.
No wolves howled. No birds sang.
And yet, he heard something.
It was not sound. It was presence. A warmth in the back of his skull. A shimmer in the spine.
He shifted in the darkness, straining against the binds. The mask scraped his face. He whispered to no one:
“Are you still watching me?”
Then something answered.
Not with words. With flame.
The world tilted. He saw fire not burning but dancing. Wings that cast no shadow. Eyes that looked through memory, through bone, through time itself.
He saw wolves white and black running beside him. He saw the collar fall. He saw the whip break. He saw himself standing atop a high ridge, cloaked in storm.
And the dragon. Always the dragon.
Massive. Black. Eyes like dying stars. Its breath shimmered with lightning. Its wings spread wider than the sky.
“You are not made. You are called.”
The voice was thunder in his chest, in his blood. His limbs burned but not with pain. With recognition.
“You are not theirs. You are ours.”
He fell.
He didn’t remember hitting the earth, but when he woke, the sun had not yet risen. His shirt was soaked with sweat. The tether was still tied but something was different.
The mask was gone.
He sat up, panicked, reaching for it, expecting punishment.
But there, in the grass before him, was a single black scale.
No one else was near. Not Solaris. Not Grael. Just the wind, and the watching stones.
And footprints.
Not human. Not wolf.
Clawed. Burnt into the soil like coals had kissed it.
He stared at them, wide-eyed, breath catching in his throat.
Behind him, a voice broke the silence.
“I heard you cry out.”
It was Grael.
Taranis turned, expecting fury but Grael only studied the ground.
He knelt, picked up the black scale, held it to the sky.
“I’ve seen this once before,” he murmured. “When I was a child, a dragon fell on the coast and scorched the rocks. My father said it was an omen. A war was coming.”
Taranis didn’t speak.
Graell looked at him. Not as a slave. Not as a tool.
As something else.
“Did it speak to you?” he asked.
Taranis hesitated. Then, slowly, nodded.
“It remembered me,” he whispered.
Grael studied him for a long time.
Then, instead of shouting or binding him tighter, he tossed the scale back into the dirt.
“We leave at sunrise,” he said. “But you ride now. No pack, no tether.”
“But?”
“Don’t argue. The wolves walk tonight. I won’t have them mistaking my general for a jailer.”
He left without another word.
Taranis looked once more at the scale.
He didn’t pick it up.
He didn’t need to.
Because far above, in the mist just clearing from the trees, he saw it.
A black shape. Not flying circling.
Watching.
The trail narrowed where the pines grew thicker. Roots tangled like veins across the path, and a wet mist clung low to the earth. It was the kind of mist that swallowed sound, choked movement, and stirred old tales of spirits that walked in silence.
Taranis walked beside the horse, arms still loosely bound, though the reins were slack. No mask, but the bruises where it had been were livid. He moved stiffly, eyes always searching. Behind him, Solaris coughed twice, limping slightly from his wound.
They passed under an arch of old stone weathered, moss-covered. No one knew who had built it. Even Grael avoided looking at it for too long.
“Hold,” came the call. Grael raised a hand. The warriors stopped. The silence was heavy, too heavy.
Birds had vanished. The wind had gone still.
Taranis felt it first. Not fear instinct. A tremor through the earth. He reached for the horse’s mane, steadying it. The animal was restless, nostrils flaring.
Then movement.
From the mists came arrows.
Three struck the front scout before he could cry out. Grael shouted and drew his axe, but shadows surged from the trees on both sides. Raiders or worse. Perhaps Clawclan remnants, or wild clans untamed by any banner.
The battle was chaos. Horses reared, warriors scattered. Solaris was knocked to the ground. Grael fought like a bear, roaring commands.
Taranis didn’t hesitate.
The bindings fell away in the confusion a mercy or a mistake, he didn’t know. He grabbed a dropped spear and ran.
Two raiders cornered Solaris. One raised a club.
Taranis screamed a guttural, wordless sound and drove the spear through the attacker’s side. Blood sprayed his face. The second turned too late. Taranis tackled him, fists flying.
It wasn’t grace. It was rage. Raw survival.
Behind him, Solaris scrambled up, eyes wide.
“Taranis!”
But the boy didn’t stop. Another warrior was down the horse wounded. He yanked the reins and shouted, forcing the beast to rise and kick. Then he turned, grabbed a fallen axe, and joined the circle around Grael.
They fought back-to-back.
The mist swallowed screams.
The enemy fled at last dragging bodies, howling curses.
Taranis stood bloodied, panting, face cut and limbs shaking. Grael stared at him.
“You broke formation,” the general said.
“I saved Solaris.”
“You disobeyed orders.”
Taranis nodded.
“And?”
Grael’s mouth twitched.
“And you live. That’s more than can be said for six of mine.”
He turned to the surviving warriors. “Form ranks. Bury the dead. Leave the cursed.”
Taranis felt the weight of that last word. But no one bound him again.
Solaris came to him later, pressing a bandage to his side.
“You shouldn’t have done that.”
“They would’ve done worse if I hadn’t.”
He stared at the mist, which still hung beyond the stones.
“They were hunting me, I think. Not you.”
Solaris didn’t answer. But he didn’t argue.
That night, the dragon circled again. But this time, Taranis didn’t flinch.
He stood outside the camp’s firelight, head raised to the clouds.
And whispered, “I’m not done yet.”
Vision and the Flame
The sun had barely risen, and the mist still clung to the hills like a shroud when they set out again. Taranis rode beside the horse now, his wrists still bound to the mane, but the pack had been removed. His shoulders ached from days of carrying warrior burdens, but now they felt strangely light too light, as if something unseen pressed down instead.
Behind them, the standing stones faded into the fog, silent witnesses to whatever had happened the night before.
Solaris walked beside him.
“You dreamt again, didn’t you?” he asked.
Taranis gave a slow nod.
Solaris leaned in. “Was it him?”
“I think so. Not a man. Not a god. Not… entirely dragon either.”
Solaris frowned. “Then what?”
Taranis didn’t answer.
Grael rode ahead, silent but alert, his eyes scanning the ridgeline as if expecting danger. The rest of the war party followed in a narrow column. They were headed toward the cliffs of Mornhallow, where Clawclan had last been seen regrouping.
By midday, they halted to rest at a wide outcrop overlooking a valley. Taranis was allowed to drink, but his hands remained bound. Solaris crouched near him with a waterskin.
“You’re changing,” Solaris said quietly. “Even they see it. Some of the warriors bowed their heads this morning when you passed.”
“I’m still a slave.”
“You’re something else too.”
Taranis turned away, but not before Solaris caught the flicker of doubt in his eyes.
The sky darkened again before the meal was finished. Smoke not campfire smoke, but thick, rising plumes was seen in the east. Grael gave the signal. They moved quickly, descending the ridge, navigating goat trails that wound between crag and cliff.
By the time they reached the valley floor, the earth trembled.
At first, they thought it was an earthquake. But no quake smelled of sulfur. No quake hissed like breathing from beneath the earth.
And then came the roar.
Not beast. Not storm.
Something older.
The horses bucked. One warrior fell and screamed as his leg snapped under a panicked hoof.
Taranis barely stayed upright. His tether snapped and he fell, face-first into the mud. The mask bit into his skin.
Solaris was shouting. Grael drew his blade.
Then the sky opened.
A shape black and massive hurtled through the clouds. It didn’t land. It circled once. Twice.
And then it vanished beyond the cliffs.
Silence followed. Every man stared.
“Did we just”
“A dragon,” another whispered. “Not a tale. Not a shadow. A real one.”
Taranis rose slowly. His knees shook. Not from fear but from recognition.
“That’s the one,” he muttered.
Solaris helped him up.
“You knew it would come.”
“I don’t know how I knew. But it saw me again.”
Before anything more could be said, the sound of warhorns echoed from the east.
Clawclan.
They hadn’t been retreating. They’d been setting a trap.
Grael didn’t hesitate.
“We hold the ridge. Shield line at the rocks. Archers up high. Taranis stay behind.”
Taranis stepped forward.
“No.”
Grael turned. “You’re not armed.”
“Then arm me.”
For a moment, the general stared at the boy.
Then he nodded once.
Solaris tossed Taranis a short spear and a wooden shield with a dented rim.
“You know how to use these?”
“I’ll learn fast.”
They made their stand on a narrow path between two jagged boulders. Only five could pass at once. Perfect for defense, if they could hold.
Clawclan came like thunder painted warriors, snarling and shirtless, brandishing stone blades and axes. Their faces were streaked with blood. Their chants shook the cliffs.
Taranis took his place beside Solaris, shield raised, heart pounding.
“Steady,” Grael called. “Let them come.”
And they did.
The first wave slammed into the shield wall. Taranis staggered but held. He drove his spear forward, felt it sink into flesh. A scream. Blood sprayed across his mask.
Another came, swinging wildly. Taranis ducked. The shield cracked from the impact, but he held the line.
Beside him, Solaris shouted and slashed.
More fell.
More came.
Then the sky split again.
A streak of flame carved across the cliffside. Rocks exploded into the air. The Clawclan halted mid-charge. Some turned and ran.
Above them, the dragon hovered.
Its wings didn’t beat they ruled the air.
Its eyes twin suns fixed on Taranis.
And it roared.
This time, Taranis didn’t flinch.
He stepped forward, mask dripping blood, shield broken, spear held in both hands like a torch.
And the dragon landed.
Right before him.
The warriors fell back. Even Grael froze.
But Taranis walked forward.
Closer.
Closer.
Until the dragon lowered its head.
And spoke.
Not aloud. Not with words.
But in fire, and wind, and memory.
“You remember me. And I… remember you.”
Taranis knelt.
Not as a slave.
Not as a beast.
But as something becoming.
The dragon blinked once.
Then, with a gust that knocked warriors off their feet, it took flight.
And vanished again into the clouds.
Solaris approached, wide-eyed.
“Why you?”
Taranis looked up, face pale beneath the blood and ash.
“I don’t know.”
Grael finally stepped forward, voice low.
“I do.”
Taranis stood.
“You are the storm’s child,” Grael said. “Not born to chains, but tested by them.”
And no one, not even the elders, spoke against it.
They reached the war camp by dusk.
The Clawclan had vanished into the trees, routed and broken. The warriors murmured as they set up their shelters some glanced at Taranis with wide eyes, others crossed themselves when he passed. The dragon’s presence still hung over them like a storm that refused to break.
Taranis was no longer tethered.
He walked freely hands still raw, the mask still slung at his belt, but his stride had changed. Even Solaris noticed it.
“You walk like one of us now,” he said.
“I’m not.”
“You’re not one of them either.”
Grael called the warriors to the central fire. It blazed tall and angry, fed with cedar and hawthorn. The general stood before it, arms crossed.
“We lost three. The rest live. And we saw a dragon today,” he began.
No one argued.
He looked to Taranis.
“This boy stood when others fell. He held the line. He walked forward when we stepped back. And the dragon” he paused, “bowed its head to him.”
A few warriors whispered. One spat again, but more now watched with quiet awe.
“Some say he is cursed. Others, chosen.”
A new voice cut the air.
“The prophecy speaks of one who carries fire without flame.”
Everyone turned.
A woman stepped from the darkness.
Tall, hooded, robes stained with travel and blood. Around her neck hung bones carved with ancient sigils.
“The Seer,” Solaris whispered.
Taranis stood still as she approached. She carried no weapon, yet everyone stepped aside.
She looked into his face without blinking.
“You have seen it,” she said.
He nodded.
“The wings. The storm. The breath that burns without smoke.”
Another nod.
“You wear no mark, and yet you are marked. You are not born of dragons, but they know your name.”
Grael stepped forward, cautious. “You spoke of this before?”
“I saw it in the flames when he was born,” she replied. “I warned the elders. They said he was cursed that wolves would follow him, that chains would bind him, that thunder would weep at his death.”
Taranis narrowed his eyes.
“At my death?”
She touched his shoulder. Her hand was cold. “You must die to rise.”
The fire cracked loudly.
Grael frowned. “Speak plainly.”
The Seer turned toward the flame. “He must break. Only then will the storm choose him. And only then will the dragon name him.”
Taranis looked at her sharply.
“The dragon has no name?”
“None that mortals are worthy to speak,” she said. “But it may grant him one. If he survives what’s coming.”
Solaris stepped forward. “What is coming?”
She didn’t answer. Instead, she reached into her cloak and drew out a pendant obsidian carved with a spiral.
She placed it in Taranis’s hand.
“You’ll know when to use it.”
He stared at the stone. It was warm. Pulsing, almost. Like a heartbeat.
The Seer turned to go.
“Wait!” Taranis called.
“What am I?”
She paused at the edge of the firelight.
“You are not yet.”
And then she vanished into the dark.
The camp slowly quieted. No one laughed. No one sang. They drank in silence.
Taranis sat beside the fire, the pendant still in his hand. Solaris joined him.
“You believe her?”
“I don’t know what I believe,” Taranis whispered. “But I remember that dragon. Not just from this week. From before. From… childhood. Dreams.”
Solaris tilted his head. “You think it’s the same one?”
“I know it is.”
The wind shifted. Smoke curled into the stars.
“Then you’re not just a slave, Taranis,” Solaris said. “You’re the start of something.”
Taranis stared into the fire.
“I don’t want to be.”
“Too late.”
He closed his fist around the pendant.
And far in the distance, where the cliffs met the clouds, the dragon watched.
Grael walked up the hill toward the restrained boy. He knelt before the clan’s leader.
“You called, and I came. Is this the boy you spoke of?” Grael asked, glancing toward the child bound to the stone.
“Yes. The other clans call him Stormborne, or say he’s cursed. He’s been with us seven years now,” the leader replied.
“The mask?” Grael asked.
“He threatened to kill the clan. And me. The mask is punishment. He hasn’t had food or water for two days. He killed a farmer.”
“Boy!” Grael barked at a nearby child. “Go fetch broth and ashcake. I can’t train a half-starved slave.” He smirked, adding, “But he remains under punishment.”
As the boy ran back to the village, Grael stepped forward. In a single motion, the mask was unhooked. Grael knelt by the water.
“Are you thirsty?” he asked.
Taranis looked to his master, seeking permission to speak.
“Answer him,” came the order.
“Yes, sir. Very,” Taranis whispered. The rope pulled tight at his throat, but he managed a faint smile as Grael offered water.
“Why did you take the man’s life?” Grael asked.
“I didn’t mean to. I was trained to obey the family. I heard my master’s eldest say, ‘Kill the farmer.’ I followed the order.” Taranis hoped Grael might listen—unlike the others.
“So your punishment is for following orders?” Grael rubbed his chin.
“The ridge is, sir. This stone is.”
“And the mask?”
“I spoke defiance. I threatened the clan. I’m just an exile. They want me to remember it.”
“I know who you are. The mask stays. But under my command, you’ll be fed and watered. Training will be punishing ĺso harsh you’ll wish you were back on this rock.” Grael studied the boy.
“Roake,” he called to the clan chief, “this boy is already half-starved. But if he is who you say he is, he’ll become a beast of a warrior. How long left on the rock?”
“Until sunrise. One more night in the mask two sunrises in total. But tonight we celebrate. You’ve arrived, and we have business.”
“Indeed,” Grael said. “And he is my business. Have you seen the dragons and wolves nearby?”
“Yes. They raised this one until my son, Solaris, and I found him. He was curled into a white wolf, half-dead from fever and hunger.”
“They still cry for him, Father,” Solaris said, approaching with a bowl of porridge and wild berry drink. Without a word, other slaves joined him and began to feed Taranis.
“Take him down once he’s eaten. Keep the binds on. He’ll fight Rock if he wins, the mask is removed. If he fails, we add stone to his punishment,” Grael said, glancing at the boy’s hands.
Taranis was cut down and led back to the training circle. Grael himself loosened the ropes. “Until I trust you,” he warned, “you’ll remain bound—even in battle.”
Taranis stayed silent as a spear was tossed toward him and the match began. Rock, a short but muscular man, charged and struck Taranis’s arm. Taranis moved fast, twisting around each blow, using his restraints to his advantage. Blow for blow, he met the attack until finally, Rock crashed to the ground.
Taranis hesitated.
“Kill him! He’s worthless!” the clan leader shouted.
“No one’s worthless,” Taranis said, breathing hard. “No matter what we are.”
“Sixty lashes!” the chieftain roared. “Spread over three days.”
“Chief,” Grael interrupted, “don’t tie him to the rock. Let him walk through the village under my warriors’ guard. At dawn, he fights two of my men. Let him train and work in the mask if you must but feed him. Water him.”
Grael turned to Taranis. “You talk like a chieftain, but you wear binds. You are the property of your master just like his house is his, just like this land is his. Never forget it. You’re a strong warrior, but you’ve much to learn. Tonight, you will serve my meal masked and restrained.”
The warriors dragged Taranis by the tether to the flogging tree. His arms were stretched wide as the branch was brought down.
Taranis bit his tongue, stifling screams. He hadn’t just disappointed Grael he’d embarrassed him. His eyes scanned the slaves watching faces of black and white, eyes wide, breaths held. His legs buckled. His will broke.
“Lift him! He still has ten to go!” the punisher growled.
They hoisted him upright again, forced to endure every final strike. Among the gathered slaves, whispers began.
“We are not just meat… We are people. Like our masters.”
“ANYONE DARES DEFY ME, YOU’LL GET THE SAME!” the chieftain bellowed. But the whispering didn’t stop.
Something had been seeded.
Later, Taranis was carried to a hut. A woman entered with herbs and cloth.
“I know you can’t talk with the mask on,” she said, kneeling beside him. “But Grael sent me to tend your wounds. What you said… gave the others hope. Dangerous hope.”
Taranis nodded, noticing the slave brand on her arm.
“Water and food,” she said, motioning to a guard. The mask was removed briefly.
“Careful. He bites like a wolf,” the man muttered, tightening the tether.
She ignored him and began to feed Taranis warm, fruity porridge. Blissful after starvation. As a warrior-slave, he received small privileges others didn’t.
Moments later, guards grabbed him again.
“Dig the fire pit.”
Taranis met the man’s eyes and didn’t move.
“GRAEL! HE’S REFUSING ORDERS!”
“DO AS YOU’RE TOLD!” Grael barked.
Taranis obeyed. Pain burned through every movement, but he didn’t complain. Hours passed.
“Now the troops need water,” Grael said.
A yoke was placed across Taranis’s shoulders, buckets tied at either side.
“ANY spillage, whip him,” Grael ordered, knowing full well the task was nearly impossible.
That night, as the feast began, the druid sang of warriors and spirits. Taranis, masked and tethered, served Grael’s meal.
“Have you tried this before, boy?” Grael asked, eyeing the meat on his plate.
Taranis shook his head, unable to answer.
“Hold it, slave,” one of the chieftain’s sons barked.
“I challenge the slave to a fight to the death,” the eldest declared.
“He will win. Are you sure?” Grael asked.
“My son wants justice for the farmer. Let him fight,” the chieftain said proudly.
“So be it,” Grael agreed. “After the meal, we’ll have entertainment.”
“What does he get if he wins?” a child asked.
“He’ll live to breathe another day,” Grael replied. “Perhaps an extra ration.”
It didn’t sound like much—even to Taranis but it was more than most.
“Then let him fight without the binds,” Solaris challenged. “Or are you afraid?”
“Very well. No restraints.”
Taranis nodded. At least the fight would be fair. He stepped into the fighting stones. Grael unshackled him.
“I hope you win,” he said. “You could give us the edge in battle. If you lose at least you’ll die with honour.”
“Yes, sir.”
Taranis refused a weapon. His opponent came in fast with a staff, but he ducked, twisted, and struck. The collar remained, but without the tether, he moved freely. They clashed with raw force until the chief’s son crashed to the ground, groaning and bleeding.
Taranis stood over him. One final stamp would end it.
“I refuse to kill the chieftain’s son,” he said, dropping to one knee.
“I command you kill him!” Grael shouted.
“I cannot. I will not take a sacred life unless in battle.”
“You may be a slave,” Grael said slowly, “but you act with honour. A killer obeys orders. A warrior knows restraint. You know the difference.”
“Place him back in binds. He lives to breathe another day,” the chieftain said. “And tend to my son, who lives with the shame of defeat. The gods have spoken Taranis followed his orders. It is proven.”
As wolves howled in the distance, the crowd fell silent.
“Take him to the hut,” Grael ordered. “Not the rock. He’s a warrior. He will still be punished but he’s earned the right to stand.”
I did not choose the chains, but I learned their shape. Learned the weight of silence, the taste of hunger, the way rope sings when it bites through bone.
They thought the collar would teach me stillness. But stillness is not silence, and I was never empty.
I remember the wolves beneath moonlight, the breath of frost against my skin, the old songs in my blood that no blade can carve out.
I am not the boy you cast away. I am not the beast you tried to break. I am the howl that returns when you think the dark is done with you. I am the storm that waits beneath your quiet sky.
Let the mask bite. Let the tether burn. I do not beg. I endure.
StormborneLore 