Tag: horror

The Aftermath

(Anglo-Saxon Cycle – c. 430 AD)

The rain had softened to a whisper by the time they carried Thunorric back to Rægenwine’s Inn.

Mud clung to their boots, streaked dark with blood and ash. Behind them, the Chase lay heavy and silent, as if the forest itself were holding its breath.

Rægenwine threw open the door.
“Get him to the hearth,” he ordered. “And mind that floor it’s new.”

They laid Thunorric on a bench near the fire. The outlaw was pale beneath the soot, breath rasping shallow. His cloak was soaked through, half-torn, the linen beneath blackened where blood had seeped through the binding.

Leofric crouched beside him, his right hand bound where the Saxons had taken the quill fingers. He tried to help but winced when his wrist trembled.
“Hold still,” he said quietly, voice cracking.

“Always tellin’ me that,” Thunorric muttered, managing a faint smirk.

Dægan pressed a cloth to the wound, jaw tight.
“You should’ve let me handle it.”

“You’d have talked ’em to death,” the outlaw rasped.

“Better than bleeding for it.”

“Maybe,” Thunorric whispered, eyes flicking toward the fire, “but the world don’t change through words, brother. It changes when someone dares to move first.”

Leofric looked between them, the candlelight trembling in his hand.
“And yet without words, no one remembers why it mattered.”

The silence that followed was heavy thicker than smoke.

Rægenwine broke it with a sigh.
“Gods save me, you two’ll argue even when one of you’s dyin’.”

Thunorric laughed once a short, broken sound that still carried warmth.
“Not dyin’, just tired.”

Outside, the storm grumbled one last time before fading into the hills.
Eadric stood at the door, watching the mist roll through the trees.
“They’ll be back,” he said. “Saxons don’t like losin’.”

“Then they’ll find us waitin’,” Dægan said.

Leofric met his gaze.
“How many storms can we survive?”

“As many as it takes,” the lawman replied.

James sat by the wall, knees tucked to his chest, eyes wide in the flicker of the fire. He’d seen battles in stories, never in flesh.

His father looked smaller now, human, but somehow more powerful for it . Not because he couldn’t die, but because he refused to.

Leofric reached across the table with his left hand, placing a quill beside the parchment.
“Rest,” he said softly. “The story will keep till morning.”

Thunorric closed his eyes, and for a moment, it was quiet enough to believe him.

James stirred from his place by the hearth, rubbing sleep from his eyes.
“Will Da be well?” he asked, voice small but steady.

Thunorric’s eyes flickered open, a tired grin crossing his face.
“Ah’m awlroight,” he rasped. “Takes more’n a Saxon spear to stop your old man.”

James nodded, though his lip trembled. He reached for his father’s hand, small fingers curling around calloused ones.
For a moment, even the fire seemed to soften its crackle.

Rægenwine watched from behind the counter, muttering,
“Ain’t nothin’ that’ll kill a Storm-kin not till the world’s ready.”

The boy smiled at that, and the brothers exchanged a glance that said more than words ever.

Author’s Note

After the chaos of The Law and the Storm. This quiet chapter shows what comes after the fight. When strength gives way to silence and survival becomes its own courage. The Storm-kin endure not because they can’t die, but because they refuse to fade.

Copyright Note© 2025 E. L. Hewitt / Stormborne Arts. All rights reserved.Unauthorized copying or reproduction of this artwork and text is prohibited.

Thank you for reading.

Further Reading

The Prophecies and Tales of Taranis Unfolded

The Chronicles of Drax

Chronicles of Draven

Join the Adventure in Tales of Rayne’s Universe

Ancient Magic and Myth of the Stormborne

November 3, 2025
The Hollow Years: When the Eagles Fled

Interlude

The banners of Rome had fallen long ago, but Drax still rode as if the legions would return. The road through Pennocrucium was broken now, weeds spilling through the cracks where once the eagles marched. His armour no longer shone, the crimson cloak dulled by weather and war. Yet he wore it still not for pride, but remembrance.

He had buried too many men to abandon the law.

To the north, word spread of ships black-prowed, heavy with warriors from across the sea. To the west, the Picts pressed down through mist and mountain. Between them, the land lay hollow, ruled by whoever still raise a blade.

From the shadows of the trees, smoke curled not of hearths, but of hidden fires. The Black Shields were at work again.

Drax halted his horse beside the stream. In the rippling reflection he saw a face harder than he remembered. The boy who had once followed Rome’s banners now hunted ghosts of his own blood.

“Brother,” came a voice from the treeline.

Taranis stepped out, cloak blackened, a scar like thunder down his cheek. His men lingered behind him, masked in soot and ash. Outlaws. Rebels. To the poor, heroes.

“The Picts strike from the north,” Drax said, hand on his sword. “You have joined me in holding the border.”

“I hold what matters,” Taranis answered. “The people. The fields Rome left to burn. You guard ruins, Drax I guard the living.”

For a heartbeat, silence two worlds staring across a stream. Then the sound of hooves echoed through the trees.

Draven rode between them, shaking his head. “Enough. We’ve bled too long for banners that mean nothing.” He threw down a pouch of grain. “There’s famine in the villages. We fight each other while children starve.”

From deeper in the wood, Lore watched through drifting smoke. In the caves beneath Cannock Chase he had tended the cairns of their ancestors. Lore kept the fire burning through the endless grey. He whispered to the flame: keep them, all of them, even when they forget the old names.

And Rayne, ever the exile, carved symbols into the stones near the water’s edge runes of storm and warning. Ships will come. The sea brings change.

That night, as the brothers parted beneath a blood-red sky, the wind carried the faintest sound not thunder, but the creak of oars. Far beyond the estuary, lights moved upon the water.

The first of the Saxons had come.

And in the hollow of Britain’s heart, the Stormborne name still burned

Copyright Note

© 2025 E. L. Hewitt / Stormborne Arts. All rights reserved.
Unauthorized copying or reproduction of this artwork and text is prohibited.

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

Read more from the Stormborne Brothers:
[Lore – The Flame Beneath the Chase]
[Draven – The Quiet Road]
[Rayne – The Carver of Ghosts]
[Taranis – The Black Shield’s Oath]

If you enjoyed this story, like, share, or leave a comment. Your support keeps the storm alive and the chronicles continuing.

Futher Reading

The Prophecies and Tales of Taranis Unfolded

The Chronicles of Drax

Ancient Magic and Myth of the Stormborne

Chronicles of Draven

Join the Adventure in Tales of Rayne’s Universe

November 2, 2025
Harvesting Nature’s Gifts: The Journey of Lore

A vibrant, artistic depiction of a tree with colorful leaves set against a dark background, symbolizing the mystical elements of nature.

By E.L. Hewitt — StormborneLore

Dawn came slow over Cannock Chase, the sky still holding tight to the colours of night.

Mist clung to the ground, pale as breath on cold glass. The trees stood quiet as watchers in old cloaks.

Lore walked barefoot through the wet grass, collecting what the earth offered.

Yarrow first pale and feathery, growing in shy clusters where the sunlight would later reach. Good for blood and fever, and for protection against spirits that lingered too close.

He cut it gently, whispering, “For the ones who yet breathe.”

Rowan bark next, peeling in thin curls beneath his knife. The tree shivered, though no wind touched it.

Rowan remembers, the old women used to say and Lore believed them.

Last came the resin pine tears hardened in the bark of a fallen giant, still sweet, still golden.

He held it to his nose, breathing in the scent of memory.
Smoke. Rain. Home.

Above him, the crows gathered.

Three at first.
Then five.
Then a dozen, their wings murmuring like pages turning.

They did not caw.
They simply watched.

Lore did not fear them.
The crows of the Chase were older than any Druid’s words.
Older than Rome’s roads.
Older even than the songs of the first tribes.

They followed him as he walked between the birches. Their trunks ghost-white, rising from the mist like bones of giants sleeping beneath the soil.

The air felt listening.

The trees breathed slow.

The old gods waited.

Lore spoke softly, almost too low to hear:
“Stormfather. Bound-Brother. Wild King. I hear you.”

The leaves stirred, though the air was still.

And then

A whisper.
Not with sound, but with bone and blood.

He rises.

Lore’s heart tightened.
No fear only certainty.

The crows took flight at once, black wings cutting the dawn sky. They flew south, toward the marsh track near Landywood, toward the low birches where the Black Shields rested.

Toward Taranis.

Lore closed his fist around the resin.

“The storm remembers,” he murmured.

And he followed the crows.

© 2025 E. L. Hewitt / Stormborne Arts. All rights reserved.
Unauthorized copying or reproduction of this artwork and text is prohibited.

Thank you for reading.

If you enjoyed this story, like, share, or leave a comment. Your support keeps the storm alive and the chronicles continuing.

If you want to read more about Lore please see Ancient Magic and Myth of the Stormborne

To follow Tarans The Prophecies and Tales of Taranis Unfolded

October 24, 2025
Rome’s Shadow: Taranis and the Fight for Freedom

By E.L. Hewitt — StormborneLore

The mists of Cnocc clung low across the fields when Taranis turned north.
Rain soaked the cloak across his shoulders, each drop heavy as guilt. Behind him, the standing stones of the old circle faded into grey half memory, half warning.

A handful of men followed, what was left of the Black Shields. Some limped. Some bled quietly into the mud. Yet none complained.

They cut through the marsh track at Landywood, the ground sucking at their boots.

“Bloody mire,” grumbled one of them Caedric, a smith from the Chase. “If Rome don’t catch us, we’ll drown in the bog.”

Taranis gave a faint smile. “Better the bog than their chains. Least the land buries its dead with honour.”

The men laughed, low and rough, their voices carrying through the mist.
Overhead, crows turned circles against a sky bruised with stormlight.

By midday, they reached the edge of Cannock Chase. The trees rose dark and close, their branches whispering in the wind.

Here, the old tongue lived still the rustle of leaves. Carried the same sounds as the words once spoken in Mercia before Rome built her roads.

“Best not light a fire,” said another man. “The smoke’ll draw ‘em down Watling Street.”

Taranis shook his head. “The legions keep to stone. They fear what grows wild. That’s our road, not theirs.”

They made camp near the brook, the water brown with silt.

Taranis knelt, washing his hands, watching the red earth swirl away downstream.

He thought of Drax his brother in law and blood. Who wasvstanding in that Roman armour like a stranger wearing their father’s ghost.

“Praefect Drax,” he muttered. “You walk in the eagle’s shadow now. But one day, even eagles fall.”

As the others settled, Taranis sat alone beneath a birch tree. The thunder rolled again to the south, echoing over the hills of Pennocrucium.

He closed his eyes and let the sound find him not as omen, but as promise.

“Let Rome march,” he said softly. “The storm remembers.”

By nightfall, the brook had gone still only the soft hiss of drizzle on leaves broke the quiet.

The Black Shields huddled beneath the birches.Their cloaks steaming faintly where the rain met the last of the day’s warmth.

A small fire burned low, more ember than flame. They sat close to it, speaking little. The world had shrunk to mist and memory.

From the shadows, a young scout pushed through the undergrowth, mud streaking his face.

“Riders,” he whispered, breath sharp with fear. “South o’ Watling Street. Legion banners silver eagle, red field. A dozen strong, maybe more.”

Taranis looked up, his eyes catching what light the fire still gave. “Which way?”

“East,” said the boy. “Toward Pennocrucium.”

That word hung like ash. Rome’s fort Drax’s post.

Caedric spat into the fire. “Then your brother’s hounds are sniffin’ their trail back home.”

“Mind your tongue,” Taranis said, but without heat. “Drax walks a path I wouldn’t, but he walks it for his sons. Rome holds chains tighter than iron.”

The men nodded. They’d all felt those chains some on their wrists, some around their hearts.

The fire popped softly. Rain whispered down through the canopy, finding its way to the coals.

“Shall we move?” asked Caedric.
“Not yet.”

Taranis rose, brushing mud from his knees. “If they ride to Pennocrucium, they won’t look for us here. And if Drax stands where I think he does, he’ll turn them aside before dawn.”

He turned his gaze toward the south, where the hills of Cnocc faded into night.

The stormlight there flickered once a pale flash through the clouds.

“See that?” murmured one of the men. “Thunder over Penn. He’s sendin’ you a message, I reckon.”

Taranis smiled faintly. “Aye. Or a warning.”

He knelt by the fire and drew a spiral in the dirt the old mark, the storm’s sign.

“Tomorrow we move north,” he said. “Watling Street’s theirs, but the woods are ours. We’ll strike where the road breaks near the old fort make Rome remember who walks her border.”

The men grinned, weary but alive again.
For a heartbeat, the fire caught, burning bright as dawn.

Above them, thunder rolled once more.
It sounded like a heartbeat slow, vast, unending.

Copyright Note

© 2025 E. L. Hewitt / Stormborne Arts. All rights reserved.
Unauthorized copying or reproduction of this artwork and text is prohibited.

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

If you enjoyed this story, like, share, or leave a comment. Your support keeps the storm alive and the chronicles continuing.

If you want to read more about Taranis please see The Prophecies and Tales of Taranis Unfolded

October 19, 2025
Volcanic Echoes: The Forgotten Island’s Tale

The Fire of the Forgotten

The island smoldered beneath a grey dawn, volcanic ash drifting in spirals that mirrored the labyrinth of the Black Shields’ training paths. Taranis Stormborne stood atop a jagged cliff, chains long gone, his shadow cast over the men who moved like echoes of his command.

“Strength is patience,” he reminded them, voice low but unyielding. “Silence is more than absence; it is a weapon.”

The men obeyed, their movements precise, their eyes alert to every change in wind or light. Exiles, criminals, and freed soldiers had become something else entirely a force of quiet purpose. In the flickering smoke of the island’s vents, Taranis traced lines in the sand, marking the future with symbols only they understood.

A scout returned, breathless and wide-eyed. “Rumors, Lupus… Rome speaks of shadows in the hills, whispers of an army unknown.”

Taranis nodded, the storm within him mirrored in the sky above. Lightning tore across the horizon. “Let them whisper,” he said. “Every shadow will remind them: the storm bends, but it never breaks.”

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

If you enjoyed this story, like, share, or leave a comment your support keeps the storm alive and the chronicles continuing.

October 10, 2025
Echoes of War: Secrets of the Ash-Strewn Shore

Whispers Across the Sea

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

If you enjoyed this story, like, share, or leave a comment. your support keeps the storm alive and the chronicles continuing.

further Reading

The Prophecies and Tales of Taranis Unfolded

October 9, 2025
The Arena of the Bound Storm

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.

Further Reading

The Prophecies and Tales of Taranis Unfolded

October 5, 2025
The Breaking of the Circle

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.

© 2025 Emma Hewitt / StormborneLore. All rights reserved.Unauthorized copying or reproduction of this content is prohibited.If you enjoyed this story, like, share, or leave a comment. Your support keeps the storm alive and the chronicles continuing.

Further Reading

The Prophecies and Tales of Taranis Unfolded

October 4, 2025
The Quiet Storm

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.

Further Reading

The Prophecies and Tales of Taranis Unfolded

October 4, 2025
The Chronicles of the Gold Ring Chapter Twelve

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Rest Beneath the Tree

At last they came to the tree.

It rose from the earth as though the hill itself had forced it skyward roots tangled deep, bark silvered with age, branches spread wide like the arms of a giant blessing or warning all who passed beneath. The ground around it was hushed, as if even the wind dared not trespass too loudly here.

Storm staggered to its shade and lowered himself to the roots. The weight of his wounds and weariness pressed him down, yet the tree seemed to hold him as gently as a cradle. He breathed slow, leaning against the trunk, and for the first time since the hill of ashes he felt his heart’s trembling ease.

The others made camp nearby, but left him undisturbed. Brianna spread her cloak by the fire, her eyes flicking often toward where he lay. Cadan tended the embers, muttering half-prayers, half-jests. The boy slept curled by the packs, his face still wet with the salt of grief.

Storm closed his eyes.

The world changed.

The tree shone with light, its roots glowing as though molten, its crown alive with whispering voices. Wolves circled him in the half-dark Boldolph and Morrigan among them, their eyes like coals, their howls joining others long gone. Above the branches wheeled Pendragon and Tairneanach, wings stirring thunder in a sky that was not a sky.

The gold ring gleamed on his finger once more. Its weight was not a burden but a bond. And the tree’s voice, deep as the earth itself, rolled through his marrow:

Rest, child of storm. The road is not ended.
Every root remembers.
Every leaf bears witness.
You are bound to us, as we are bound to you.

Storm reached out and pressed his palm to the bark. He felt its strength answer, steadying his own. When his eyes opened, dawn was breaking.

Brianna stood ready with her blade. Cadan was already packing. The boy stirred from sleep.

Storm rose slowly, his body aching but his spirit steadier, and gave the tree one last look. The mark of his hand remained upon the trunk, a faint glow where blood and dream had mingled.

Then he walked on.

© StormborneLore Emma Hewitt, 2025. All rights reserved.

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Futher Reading

The Library of Caernath

August 27, 2025