Tag: horror

The Chronicles of the Gold Ring Chapter Four.

The Storm Beneath the Cradle

An artistic representation featuring a vibrant blue sky, a radiant sun, and a colorful tree, embodying the themes of nature and rebirth.

The fires of the Ring had long since burned low. Smoke and judgment still clung to the stones, but the voices were gone scattered into the dark like leaves. The echoes of debate, of accusations half-spoken and oaths half-broken, were swallowed by wind.

Only Taranis remained.

He stood at the centre of the stone circle, not as a warlord or seer or storm-marked legend, but as a man uncertain of what to do next.

At his feet, a small crib newly carved, rough-edged but lovingly made sat in the shadow of an ancient standing stone.

Runes spiralled along its frame like protective thorns. Inside, the child slept, his breath barely stirring the wolfhide blanket that covered him.

Taranis stared. Watched. Listened to nothing but the sound of his son’s heartbeat soft, fragile, real.

“He’s mine,” he whispered.

The words fell like an oath.

He hadn’t spoken them aloud until now. Not to the Ring. Not even to himself. But the moment he looked into the child’s eyes, he had known.

There in that small, storm-dark gaze was the same flicker that had burned in his own since birth. A fire that would not die, even when beaten. Even when left in chains.

“I wasn’t sure,” he said, as if the child could hear him. “But now I am.”

Footsteps approached quiet but familiar. He didn’t turn.

Drax entered the ring with Aisin beside him. Her dark braid caught what little moonlight remained. She wore no armor, no crown but her presence always arrived like both.

They stood silently for a while, watching him.

“We thought you’d already gone,” Aisin said gently.

“I couldn’t,” Taranis replied. “Not yet.”

He gestured toward the crib, voice taut.

“I know what you’re thinking. That I’m out of character. That I’ve gone soft.”

He turned toward them now. His eyes were storm-lit, ringed with exhaustion. But beneath that a rawness neither of them had ever seen.

“He’s mine,” Taranis repeated. “There’s no denying it now.”

Aisin moved to the crib. She looked down at the child with the quiet reverence of a priestess before a sacred flame. One hand reached out, slow and certain, to brush the boy’s brow.

“He’s strong,” she said. “But quiet. Like he already knows too much.”

Taranis exhaled hard. His voice wavered a rare thing.

“If it’s too much… if he’s too much to carry…”
“We’re not strangers to raising children,” Drax said.
“This one isn’t just any child,” Taranis replied. “He’s my child. And I was no angel.”

He looked to Aisin, then Drax his oldest brother, his iron pillar.

“I can take him elsewhere. To a quiet place. Far from the weight of prophecy. Far from the Ring. Just say the word.”

Drax frowned.

“You’d give him up?”

“I’d shield him,” Taranis corrected. “From this. From me.”

Aisin turned to him, calm and sharp all at once.

“You fear yourself more than your enemies?”

“Yes,” he said. “Because I dream of betrayal, but never the face. I wake with my hand on my blade. I feel hunted in my own mind.”

He swallowed.

“I don’t trust myself near him. Not like this.”

Drax stepped forward and gripped his brother’s arm.

“Then trust us.”

Aisin nodded. “He stays. He is blood. That’s enough.”

Taranis closed his eyes. A moment of stillness passed between them.

Then he whispered, “His name is Caelum.”

The name rang like truth in the circle.

Drax smiled faintly. “Sky-born. Storm-blessed.”

“Let’s hope he lives to become more than that,” Taranis murmured.

Later – The Grove Beyond Emberhelm

Rayne stood in the dark, half-shrouded by the charred remnants of an old grove. Draven hovered nearby, shoulders hunched.

“So. He’s claimed him,” Rayne said, not asking.

“He named him Caelum,” Draven replied.

Rayne smiled thin, sharp.

“That’s dangerous. Naming something is binding it to fate.”

“He’s a child, Rayne.”

“No,” Rayne said. “He’s a threat. A future. A soft spot waiting to be pierced.”

Draven said nothing. He looked at the ash, not the stars.

“You said we’d only observe,” he whispered.

Rayne stepped closer, boots silent against the earth.

“And we are. But sometimes watching is how you choose the moment. Let the warlord get sentimental. Let him love.”

He leaned in, voice silk-wrapped iron.

“Love makes good men hesitate. And hesitation… kills kings.”

© 2025 EL Hewitt. All rights reserved.This story and all characters within the StormborneLore world are the original creation of EL Hewitt. Do not copy, repost, or adapt without permission.

Further Reading

The Library of Caernath

July 31, 2025
THE WILDERNESS YEARS PART 2

By EL Hewitt

Taranis stood for hours, his injured back pressed against the tree. Two men watched his every move.

“Hey, stop right there, slave,” one growled, noticing a hand slipping free. He strode over and punched the teen in the stomach, making Taranis grunt in pain. Then he resecured the hand and looped a rope around the boy’s neck.

“Just move. Go on, make my day, exiled one,” said the stocky, dark-haired guard.

“I just wanted water. It’s right there. Please, Sorrel,” Taranis pleaded.

“You know the orders. Two days without,” said the other man, watching closely. “Your commander will come tomorrow. Commander Greal.”

“Should we secure his head too?” the man added. “No movement at all?”

“No. He’s got the collar, and the rope’s above it. It should be tight. His hands are secured again. We just follow orders. No food. No water,” Sorrel replied.

“Commander Greal? That’s who I’m under?” Taranis managed to spit out. The rope around his neck made it hard to breathe or swallow.

“Yes. He’s coming to train you. You’ll be tethered. Chains, binds ankles, wrists, neck until he says otherwise, cursed exile.”

Taranis swallowed, almost choking.

As the sun rose and the shifts changed, a smith appeared.

“Time to change the collar, but that rope makes it tricky,” he muttered. He carried tools stone and bone hammers, and a strange new collar made of carved deer bone and inlaid stones, blessed by the Seer.

“No please. I’m sorry,” Taranis whispered, trying to hide his fear.

“Hey, Tanar, look at me,” Solaris said gently, stepping forward. “You’re the kid who doesn’t fear anything, right? The one who slept with wolves and rides dragons?”

“Morrigan and Boldolph,” Taranis whispered. “They still howl.”

“Yes. They cry for you.” Solaris crouched. “I know you’re scared. I asked if you could play after this punishment. But you have to stay in the clan’s sight.”

“Really?” Taranis asked, making a face as the smith worked.

The old collar shattered. The Seer stepped forward, chanting softly. The new collar was fitted around his neck tight but precise.

“This is to contain and restrict what you are believed to be,” the Seer said. “It bears your name in the old tongue. Carved by flame. Blessed in shadow. It does not break unless your master wills it.”

“Will it grow with him?” Solaris asked.

“It will last a few years. Then we replace it. But it is a warrior’s collar.”

“Can we still attach the tether?” a guard asked.

“Here,” said the smith, tapping the metal hoop. “The restraints remain the same.”

Everyone in the village looked to the boy some with sorrow, some with fear.

“Master, I won’t run or hurt anyone. You saved me,” Taranis said softly. But the masters voice remain silent, the boy had been their property 7 years nothing would change it.

He was removed from the tree. His hands were bound low at the waist. The sinew cords bit deeper with every hour. A leather tether linked the collar to his wrists, forcing him to hunch forward.

“Walk,” the clan leader commanded.

Taranis took a few difficult steps.

“Father, how long is he in this for?” Calor asked.

“This is punishment. When I see a correction in his behaviour, I’ll allow an alteration.”

After a few steps, Taranis fell.

“Get up,” barked a guard.

The leader grabbed Solaris’s arm. “No. He must do it alone. No one helps him.”

“Fuck you,” Taranis hissed, losing his temper. He tried to turn his head, but the tether tightened around his throat. He struggled. Slowly, painfully, he managed to rise to his knees.

“I’ll kill you for this. One day.”

For that outburst, they dragged him through the camp by the tether. Word spread fast the exile had defied them again.

They brought him to the sacred stone circle.

Taranis staggered. Blood dried at the corners of his mouth. The clan watched not with pity, but quiet judgment.

At the center, the clan leader held a mask.

It was beast-shaped, stitched hide, with a carved bone bit meant to force the jaw open and silent. Leather straps dangled like tongues.

“This is what you become when you threaten your own,” he said. “Not man. Not wolf. Not worthy of freedom.”

He strapped the mask to Taranis’s face. The bone slipped between his teeth. The world became heat, shame, and pressure.

They paraded him around the circle. No words. No cheers. Only the crackle of fire and the quiet of judgment.

Then they brought him back to the tree.

He was secured again tether pulled tight, hands bound low, unable to straighten. A bucket of clean water sat just out of reach.

Solaris and a friend sat nearby.

“I get that he hates us,” the friend muttered. “But this? This isn’t helping.”

“How long’s your dad leaving him like that?”

“He’s planning a fight. Says the slave goes in bound. As punishment.”

Later, a group approached the tree. “He’s fighting the hunter who disrespected your father,” one said. “Only this time, he doesn’t get unbound.”

“That’s death,” Nudge said. “This is a unique slave.”

They dragged Taranis toward the circle again. Tether at his neck. Hands bound. Mask still biting. His feet scraped the dirt.

The hunter was waiting older, heavier, armed with a bone club.

“This one’s half-starved and shackled,” the man jeered. “A gift fight.”

The Seer raised her hand. “Begin.”

The club came down fast.

Taranis dodged. Took the blow on the shoulder. Pain exploded. He dropped. Rolled. Used the tether’s pull to spin and slammed his wrists into the man’s knee.

A stumble.

The crowd laughed and jeered .

He stood barefoot, bleeding, bound and faced his enemy.

This time, he waited. At the last second, he kicked low behind the knee. The hunter dropped.

Taranis slammed into him, shoulder first. They hit the ground hard.

Bound wrists wrapped around the man’s throat.

“Enough,” said the Seer.

He didn’t let go.

“Enough!” she repeated.

He finally released the man, who gasped for breath.

Taranis stood. Mask soaked in blood. Breath ragged.

“He’s not just a slave,” Solaris whispered. “He’s… something else.”

One of the leader’s sons stepped forward. “Kill him.”

Taranis hesitated.

Then the look in his eyes went blank.

He obeyed.

He killed with a single motion. Trained. Efficient.

The camp went still.

“I didn’t think he’d actually do it,” the son whispered.

“You made him do it,” Solaris said coldly. “He obeyed your order.”

The leader stepped forward.

“I gave no such command. But a command was followed.”

He turned away.

“Take him to the Ridge.”

They dragged him up the mountain path.

The wind screamed. No songs. No prayers. Just feet against earth.

The Ridge loomed an old stone, cracked and worn by time.

They fastened him there. Arms above his head. Rope around his chest. Collar tethered tight. Ankles bound. Spine locked in an arch. The mask stayed on.

No fire. Only wind. And a wooden bucket of water, just out of reach.

Night came.

Time blurred.

He dreamed of wolves. Of fire in the sky. Of names long forgotten Rayne, Drax, Lore.

And then Solaris came.

“I asked my father for leniency,” he said softly. “He said pain teaches obedience.”

“This isn’t obedience,” his friend muttered. “It’s madness.”

Solaris crouched.

“I don’t want you to die,” he whispered. “But I can’t stop this. Not tonight.”

Before leaving, he placed a carved stone with a sun symbol beside the bucket.

A promise.

The night passed.

Morning came.

He had not died.

And that, somehow, was worse.

When they removed the mask, the clan leader gave him a small sip of water.

“Why did you kill him?” he asked.

“Your son told me to,” Taranis said, voice raw. “If I don’t obey, I’m punished. I did what I was told and still, I’m punished.”

“How long do I stay like this?”

“One day,” the man said. “You’ll be taken down tonight. Try not to fight the restraints.”

A boy ran up the path.

“The general is here. He demands to see the prisoner.”

A shadow moved at the ridge’s edge.

And the storm was far from over.

To be continued

:

©written and created by ELHewitt

Further Reading

THE WILDERNESS YEARS Part 1.

July 18, 2025
The Houses of Caernath Part 2

The Forgotten Blood

Rayne collapsed before the cairnfire, the thick iron collar still tight around his neck. Etched with the jagged insignia of the Black Claw. Solaris had rushed to his side. Morrigan gathered water from the well, whispering healing words she barely remembered. Lore cast protective wards. Boldolph paced, fuming, red eyes narrowed beneath a heavy brow.

“This is madness,” Boldolph snarled, watching the collar pulse faintly with some cursed sigil. “The boy’s half-starved, and that brand it reeks of shadow magic.”

“He’s not a boy anymore,” Drax muttered. “He’s seen things. Same as the rest of us.”

“No child should wear chains,” Solaris said, voice tight. “Not in Emberhelm.”

Lore knelt by Rayne’s side, laying fingers over the rusted iron. “It’s not just a collar. It’s a seal. A blood-binding rune carved into bone. They meant for him to die wearing it.”

“And yet he made it back,” Morrigan added, her hand resting gently on Rayne’s fevered brow. “That means something.”

Taranis hadn’t spoken since Rayne collapsed. He stood just outside the circle of firelight. Eyes locked on the far horizon where Black Claw lands stretched like bruises across the night. Pendragon shifted restlessly behind him, wings tight to his sides.

“They have Draven,” Rayne had rasped before falling unconscious. “They kept him… because of me.”

That had been enough.

Without another word, Taranis had mounted the black dragon and taken to the sky.

The wind screamed around him, colder than it should have been for summer. Taranis kept low over the ridges, scanning the burned-out lands for signs of encampments. Black Claw banners once flew here clawed glyphs torn into hides, marked with bone. Now, they hid in the ruins, like maggots beneath ash.

Pendragon dove suddenly, a cry bursting from his throat.

There a ridge of slate carved into makeshift battlements. A fortress not meant to keep armies out, but prisoners in.

Taranis landed hard, blade drawn before his boots touched the ground. He didn’t speak. He didn’t call out.

He moved.

Two guards fell before they could scream lightning dancing along the edges of his blade. A third tried to flee. Pendragon caught him mid-run and dropped him without effort.

Taranis moved through the ruined keep like a storm incarnate silent, swift, merciless. These were slavers, torturers, the kind who’d once held him in chains. He knew every sound of their cruelty.

He’d been trained in their darkness. Now he wielded it against them.

In the lower chamber, he found Draven.

Naked but for rags, wrists chained above his head, bruises blooming along his ribs. He lifted his face at the sound of boots.

“Taranis?” he croaked.

“I’m here,” his brother said.

“You came back…”

“I always come back.”

Taranis cut the chains in two strokes, catching his brother as he fell.

“Can you walk?”

“No.”

“Then I’ll carry you.”

He slung Draven over his shoulder and stormed out as the keep burned behind him.

Not once did he look back.

By the time Taranis returned to Emberhelm, Rayne was awake.

Solaris had removed the collar with Lore’s help shattering it against a carved cairnstone. It took three days of chanting, and a night of fire that refused to go out. Boldolph had offered to chew the thing apart. Morrigan declined the offer.

Rayne sat in the healing hall, bandaged and trembling. When Taranis entered carrying Draven, the boy’s face crumpled.

“You got him.”

“I said I would.”

Morrigan rushed forward. “Lay him here.”

Taranis set Draven down gently. Lore began his work, murmuring ancient words. Solaris lit the fire with a whispered flame. Rayne crawled forward and took his brother’s hand.

“I’m sorry,” Rayne whispered. “I told them everything. They used me. And I still couldn’t save him.”

“You survived,” Taranis said. “That was enough.”

Drax entered moments later, axe slung over his back.

“You went alone.”

“I didn’t need an army.”

“You’re lucky I like you, brother.”

Boldolph huffed from the doorway. “I told you not to go alone. Next time, I’m riding the dragon.”

Pendragon let out a soft growl as if agreeing.

“Next time,” Taranis said, “there won’t be a need.”

That night, they gathered in the Hall of Storms. The Three Houses stood beneath banners newly hung. The thunder-mark of Tempestras, the flame glyph of Ignis, and the silver eclipse of Umbra.

Rayne, still weak but standing, stepped forward.

“I was taken when I followed a shadow beyond the border. They said my blood would buy silence. But my silence almost cost a life.”

Taranis laid a hand on his brother’s shoulder.

“It is not your shame to carry.”

“No,” Rayne said, looking around, “but I want to stay. I want to fight. I want to belong.”

Lore smiled. “Then choose your house.”

Rayne hesitated.

Then: “House of the Shadow.”

Umbra’s banner unfurled behind him.

Draven, barely upright, spoke next.

“I never stopped believing we’d meet again. Even when they broke my ribs and chained my hands. I clung to the howl of a wolf I couldn’t see. I thought it was memory. Now I know it was Boldolph.”

The great wolf-man stepped forward, placing a fist over his chest.

“You’re one of us.”

Draven smiled through broken teeth. “Then I choose House of the Storm.”

The warriors roared their approval.

Taranis turned to Solaris.

“We’ve brought them back. But we’re not finished, are we?”

“No,” Solaris replied. “Not until all chains are broken.”

Boldolph grunted. “I say we raise a hunt. Take out the last Black Claw den.”

Drax cracked his knuckles. “Been waiting for that.”

Lore added quietly, “We’ll need more than swords. The blood magic they used—it’s older than the cairnstones.”

Taranis nodded.

“Then we rebuild. We teach. We prepare.”

He turned to face the assembled tribes.

“The era of exile is over. The age of the Stormborne rises.”

And above them, Pendragon howled not in anger.

But in unity.

Later, as the fires dimmed, Boldolph stood outside the gates, leaning on his axe like a watchful father. Morrigan brought him stew.

“You stayed.”

“I always stay.”

“Still think about eating Taranis?”

“Not lately.”

They laughed quietly.

“Do you think they’ll ever stop fearing him?” Morrigan asked.

“No,” Boldolph said. “But that’s not what matters.”

He turned to her, eyes soft.

“They follow him anyway.”

July 8, 2025
The Houses of Caernath Part 1

The Broken Howl.

The screams echoed off the stone walls of Emberhelm like the wind of old gods mourning. They weren’t screams of pain, but of release centuries of silence and curse unraveling into the night.

Morrigan collapsed first, the white fur shedding in great clouds that shimmered like frost. Her limbs twisted, reshaped. Bones cracked. Light laced through her as though fire ran in her veins.

When it was over, she knelt there, naked and human once more. Tall, slim, freckled, her long red hair cascading down her shoulders like the sun had kissed her into being.

Lore, standing nearby with his hands still outstretched from the spell, stumbled back, exhausted. His voice trembled.

“It is done.”

Boldolph did not scream.

He roared.

A roar that turned the blood of every warrior in Emberhelm cold. His black fur thickened, but did not fall away. His body bulged with new strength arms growing longer, spine broadening, but the wolf did not vanish. Instead, the man stepped ahead from the beast, and what remained was both.

A wolf-man. A warrior unlike any other.

Lore turned to his brothers. “Boldolph chose this. A warrior’s form. His path remains in the hunt, not the hearth.”

Taranis watched, silent, hand resting on the hilt of his sword. Morrigan, now fully clothed in a borrowed shawl, stepped across the courtyard to a waiting man her husband. They embraced without fear.

“She’s still loved,” Taranis muttered, half to himself.

Lore heard him anyway. “And no one fears them now. Not like they did you.”

Taranis smirked, eyes glinting. “If she wasn’t married, I’d have made her mine.”

“Careful,” Drax chuckled from behind, sharpening his axe on the stone steps. “You’re a warlord, not a poet.”

Taranis turned, expression softer now. “He screamed, you know. Our father. The night I was exiled.”

Lore nodded. “He didn’t know what to do. But he regretted not letting you stay. Mother wept for months. Still wore your wolf bone pendant long after we buried it in the cairn.”

“Did they know I was alive?”

“They did.” Lore crouched, drawing a symbol in the dirt. “Boldolph kept them informed. Something about the tribe’s elder being the only one who can hear his thoughts. Said our ancestor lived in you.”

Taranis gave a dry laugh. “Our ancestor, eh? Boldolph told me that too. Great-grandfather five times back, wasn’t it?”

Drax’s voice cut in. “Father called to Boldolph when you were exiled. Said the storm had swallowed you whole. What happened out there?”

Taranis exhaled, jaw tight.

“Adventure. Hunger. Despair. I was nearly dead when Solaris’s father found me, just beyond Blackclaw territory. They took me in. His father made me a slave, heavy work for little return. I treated his son in exchange for scraps. But Solaris he remembered me. He saw more than a starving boy.”

Lore rested a hand on his brother’s shoulder.

“You survived.”

“I endured,” Taranis corrected.

He stepped ahead and raised his voice so all gathered hear.

“Boldolph. Morrigan. Solaris. You are free now. The chains of old curses, of blood debts, and oaths not chosen gone. But I ask you this…”

He paused, turning slowly.

“Will you stay?”

The fire pits roared to life, casting flickering gold over the three freed souls. Solaris stood tall, still bearing the ash-mark of Flamekeeper. Morrigan leaned into her husband’s side, eyes scanning the faces around her. Boldolph’s red eyes flared, unreadable.

Taranis continued, “There are three houses in Caernath now. The House of the Storm — for warriors and defenders. The House of the Flame for healers, lorekeepers, and seers. And the House of the Shadow for scouts, spies, and those who walk the forgotten paths. Each of you has earned a place, should you wish it.”

He looked to them, one by one.

“If you leave, so be it. With my blessing. With food. With horses so the fair lady no longer walks barefoot through bramble. know this: your path and mine will cross again. Whether as friend or foe… that remains to

A few chuckled.

“But if you stay…” he added, softer now. “then the food is yours to share, we shall ride and fight together as brothers and sisters.”

Lore stood beside him, arms folded. “Three houses. Three choices.”

Drax, ever the blunt one, added, “But don’t take too long to decide. Winter’s hunting season comes fast.”

Silence.

Then Solaris stepped ahead.

“I will stay.”

His voice was calm, like embers beneath ash.

“But not as a servant. As a Flamekeeper. As a free man.”

Taranis nodded once. “Then take your place in the House of the Ignis”

Boldolph came next, stepping ahead with thunder in his stride. His beast-form loomed, but he knelt low before Taranis.

“I stay,” he growled. “But not as man. Not as beast. As both. I fight with you. For Stormborne.”

Taranis placed a hand on the wolf-man’s brow. “House of the Tempestas then.”

Morrigan stepped ahead last. The crowd held their breath.

“I have known healing. And fury. And grief. But I choose to give life now, not chase vengeance. I will stay… as a healer.”

Lore smiled.

“House of Umbra welcomes you.”

The wind picked up. Overhead, Pendragon flew a wide arc above the fort, and the sky shivered with promise.

Taranis raised his voice once more.

“The Houses are chosen. The bonds are made. The future begins now forged in flame, bound by oath, tempered by storm.”

And far below, in the silent stones of Emberhelm, the echoes of curses past gave way to something new.

A howl not of sorrow.

But of belonging as a mysterious stranger approached.

“I know to well how brothers can turn on each other ” a voice behind them said one they vafukey recognised

Drax arched a brow “rayne? Little brother is that you? We thought you lost?”

Rayne Nodded a thick iron coller around his neck with black claw marking in

“Who did this ” Tanaris whistles for Pendragon as his brother collapsed through torture and starvation

“Black Claw they still have Draven”

“I going to wipe that clan out ” Tanaris said

“NO YOUNG ONE NOT ALONE” boldolph said

“Morrigan he’s doing it again can I eat him or Pendragon” Boldolph said seeing the young one Tanaris flying towards enemy land as if to rescue another brother

Morrigan looked over “he will return now Rayne”. she ordered as Solaris prepared food and she gathered healing herbs.

post script

Which House Do You Belong To?
In the lands of Caernath, every soul has a path.

Do you crave thunder and battle like Boldolph? You belong to House Tempestras the warriors.

Do you heal with fire and memory like Solaris and Morrigan? House Ignis calls you the keepers of lore and flame.

Do you move in shadow, unseen yet ever watchful? Then step into House Umbra where secrets become power.

🧭 Tell us in the comments: Which house would you choose and why?
Feel free to share this post and invite others to find their stormbound path.

July 7, 2025
Boldolph the Wolf-Man

The mists rolled thick across the highland of Staffordshire, curling like ghost fingers over rock and root. Beneath their shifting veil stood a figure that did not belong to the world of men not entirely. He was massive, broad-shouldered, with the raw frame of a warrior and the head of a beast. His fur was obsidian black, streaked with silver scars and ash.

Red eyes burned beneath his brow. His breath came out in steam as if the forge fire lived in his lungs.

Boldolph.

The wolf-man. The cursed one. The guardian of the Stormborne line.

That morning, he had awoken not as man, nor wholly beast, but as something sacred. Taranis had spoken only two words to him before the sunrise: “It begins.”

And now he stood at the edge of Rykar’s Field, muscles tensed, waiting for the signal.

Bronze glinted on the hilltop warriors from the Black Clawclan had gathered in force, armed with spears and teeth alike. Raiders, born of bloodlust, who left villages razed and children buried beneath burnt thatch.

A low growl rumbled in Boldolph’s throat.

Today, they would be stopped.

Below him, the Stormborne forces gathered. Taranis on the ridge with Pendragon and Tairneanach perched behind him.

, Lore chanting beside a fire that would not die. Drax tightening his bracers, muttering curses and prayers as one. Among the warriors stood farmers, hunters, fire-callers, bone-weavers all who had chosen to rise.

But none were like Boldolph.

He crouched low, the carved bronze blade strapped to his back. humming faintly forged by Drax, blessed by Lore, named Ashsplitter. His claws, though not natural, were tipped in obsidian. His howls call Morrigan from the far trees and silence men’s hearts.

And when the horn blew, he moved like a shadow torn free of the dark.

He crashed into the enemy line like a storm of fang and bronze. The first man he struck did not even scream just fell, bones splintered beneath the weight of the blow. Boldolph spun, slashed, roared, tore. Blood hit the grass like spilled wine.

The Black Clawclan were fierce but they were not ready.

“By the ancestors!” one shouted, staring in horror. “A beast walks!”

A spear was hurled. Boldolph caught it midair, snapped the shaft, and flung it back. It pierced armor and flesh. The man fell.

He was not alone.

From the trees came Morrigan white and wraithlike, her eyes alight with moonfire. Together, they circled the enemy, not as humans, not as animals but as something other. Something older.

Across the field, Taranis raised his sword high.

“For every child taken,” he shouted, “for every flame snuffed out WE RISE!”

The Stormborne charged. Bronze clashed with bronze. Flesh tore. Voices sang the old war cries.

Boldolph didn’t hear them. He was lost to instinct now the heartbeat of the land pounding in his ears. His claws met bone. His teeth found leather and neck. He leapt and rolled and dove through fire.

A warrior came at him with twin blades, marked in red clay and hate. Boldolph let him come. At the last second, he dropped low, sprang upward, and slammed both fists into the man’s chest. The impact shattered ribs and silence.

Then came the Champion.

Tall, scarred, wrapped in tattoos of wolf skulls. He grinned as he strode ahead, axe glinting.

“You’re no god,” the Champion sneered. “Just a cursed mutt.”

Boldolph stood, blood dripping from his chin.

“I am neither,” he growled, “but you will kneel before this mutt.”

They clashed.

Steel to fang. Roar to warcry. The battle stilled around them as the two titans fought. Blades rang. Earth shook. Bones cracked.

At last, Boldolph caught the Champion’s axe arm, twisted and snapped it. With a howl, he drove the dagger into the man’s chest.

Silence.

Then the howl.

Long. Ancient. Reverberating through stone, marrow, memory.

After the battle, the field was quiet.

The dead lay in solemn rows, the fires lit to honor their spirits. Taranis stood at the center, cloak torn, eyes fierce. Lore marked the ground with runes of ash. Drax drank in silence.

And Boldolph… sat alone beneath a tree.

His fur was streaked with blood. His eyes no longer burned they watched the stars. Morrigan lay beside him, her white coat stained with battle.

A small child approached. Her face was smudged with soot. Her eyes, wide with awe.

“Are you a monster?” she asked.

Boldolph tilted his head.

“No,” he said softly. “I am what protects you from monsters.”

She sat beside him.

In that moment with the fire crackling, and the dead honored. the Stormborne still alive Boldolph, the cursed wolf-man, found peace.

For just a while.

© StormborneLore. Written by Emma for StormborneLore. Not for reproduction. All rights reserved.

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July 4, 2025
Discover Legends: The Stormfire Saga Part 2

The mist churned with the heavy breath of the earth. It was a blanket of silence, thick as the sorrow that weighed on the air. The warriors stood, unsure whether to kneel or fight to greet their kin, or strike at their curse. There had been no warning, no word of Taranis’s return. He had simply appeared the shadows parting to reveal him like a storm-born god.

Taranis stood tall in the heart of them, his broad shoulders cut against the rolling mist. The wolves at his side. Boldolph, his red-eyed companion, a shadow of night itself, prowled silently beside him.

Morrigan, a beautiful white wolf, ever the ghost, her eyes glittering like twin embers. Moved with the grace of wind, barely disturbing the earth beneath her paws.

Above them, the storm was waiting watching. Tairneanach and Pendragon, the dragons, were not of this earth. But they lingered in the skies, their wings beating the air like the rhythm of war itself.

He did not call for battle. He did not raise a spear. He simply let the storm guide his steps. The weight of his presence alone seemed to shift the land. The earth trembling as though it too remembered what the boy now a man had become.

The warriors of his homeland, who had once been his brothers. Now looked upon him with a mixture of awe, fear, and guilt. Lore, his older brother, stood before him, his face shadowed with grief and anger. There was no joy in his eyes, only the harsh weight of lost years and lost family.

“You return, Taranis. But what have you come back to?” Lore’s voice cut through the stillness. There was no warmth in his tone. Only a coldness that ran deep, a layer of resentment that not be overlooked.

Taranis’s voice, nonetheless, was steady as thunder in the distance, resonating with the storm that had followed him for years. “I return for blood,” he said. “Not just for yours, but for mine.”

A wave of motion the clash of steel, the growl of beasts. But it wasn’t just the tribe who sought war. From the far ridge, a war band of strangers approached, their figures shrouded in shadow. They were not just raiders.

These men had come for something more like. They had heard the legends of the boy who had been cast out. The one who had walked through the storm. They had come to test the power of the Stormborne bloodline.

Taranis didn’t wait. He swept ahead, his blade gleaming like the edge of the storm, glowing with fury. Boldolph leapt alongside him, his jaws snapping at the air. A creature of black shadow and red fire, creature of his own making. Morrigan, ever the shadow, darted forward like a streak of vengeance. her white fur glowing as if the moon itself had poured through her.

The first strike landed. Taranis’s blade cut through the flesh of his nearest foe with the ease of wind through the trees. Blood sprayed from the wound, but it wasn’t just mortal men he was fighting. The storm answered him, the air vibrating as if the heavens themselves would break apart.

The Storm Unleashed
Taranis fought as though he was the very storm itself. Each swing of his blade cutting through flesh like lightning raking the sky. His movements were fluid, practiced not from years of training, but from something older. He had become the storm, the blade in his hand merely an extension of his fury.

Boldolph was a black shadow beside him. His jaws closing around an enemy’s throat, tearing through flesh like a force of nature. Morrigan struck with the elegance of wind, swift and deadly, cutting through men. As though they were nothing more than smoke in the air.

Her eyes burned with the same fire that danced in Taranis’s chest. Morrigans presence was a reminder of the wildness that had shaped him.

The warriors of the rival tribe faltered under the weight of the storm that followed Taranis. The mist, which had once cloaked them in mystery. As it began to burn away, replaced by a swirling cloud of rage and prophecy. The ground rumbled beneath their feet, the clash of steel mingling with the roar of dragons in the sky.

Above them, the dragons spiraled, their forms flickering in and out of the thunderclouds. Pendragon, the King of Dragons, seemed to grow in size with each heartbeat of battle. His wings tearing through the air like the flaps of fate itself.

Tairneanach, the storm dragon, called down bolts of lightning, sending the enemy scattering in terror. He was not of the world below. But his power filled it with such force that even the mightiest warriors. were little more than ants beneath his gaze.

Lore, still standing firm at the edge of the battlefield, shouted over the chaos, his voice tinged with fear,.

“Taranis! This battle is ours to win, but not with blood alone. The storm has a price.”

Taranis glanced at his brother, the bond between them still intact despite the years of separation. Lore’s face was etched with worry, and Taranis saw the doubt in his eyes. They had fought together once, long ago. But the battlefield was different now, and so were they.

Taranis nodded, raising his sword to the sky. Pendragon roared, and the ground trembled beneath them. The clash of steel and the roar of dragons echoed across the hills as the battle raged on.

The Turning Point
Taranis had always fought for survival, but now he fought for something more his legacy. This battle was more than a struggle for land or tribe. It was a struggle for what would stay of the Stormborne name. The tribe, his family, and the ancient bond of blood and storm were all tied to this moment.

Drax, his brother, caught sight of him in the thick of the battle. Their eyes met across the chaos. Drax had once been the fierce, unrelenting warrior, the protector. But now, his eyes were full of something else hesitation.

Taranis fought his way toward him, cutting through the enemy like a force of nature. When he reached Drax, there was a moment of stillness the battlefield paused, the winds held their breath.

“You fight as a man, Taranis,” Drax said, his voice rough with emotion, his sword slick with blood. “But you’ve never known the price of victory.”

Taranis’s eyes flashed with a fire of their own. “Victory isn’t about what you take. It’s about what you give.”

Drax, understanding in that moment what Taranis meant, raised his sword. “Then let us give,” he said, and together they turned. Fighting back to back, cutting through the enemy ranks with a power born of blood, storm, and flame.

The End of the Storm

The battle raged on for what felt like eternity, but slowly, the enemy forces began to break. The storm that had followed Taranis, fierce and untamed, began to recede as the last of the rival warriors fell.

The sky cleared, the clouds parted, and the first rays of sunlight broke through. casting a strange glow over the blood-soaked earth.

Taranis stood midst the chaos, bloodied but unbroken, his sword raised to the heavens. Pendragon and Tairneanach circled above, their forms still haunting the skies as their presence faded with the storm.

Lore and Drax stood beside him, their faces full of silent grief and reluctant pride. The cost had been great, and the blood of their brothers stained the earth beneath them.

But the Stormborne bloodline had endured. Taranis had returned and with him, the legacy of the Stormborne would live on. No longer a whispered legend, but a truth written in blood, storm, and flame.

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 would like to read more Taranis stories please see: The Prophecies and Tales of Taranis Unfolded

If you would like to read more about Drax : The Chronicles of Drax

If you would like to read more about Rayne: The tales of Rayne

If you would like to read more about Lore: The Keeper of Cairnstones: Myths and Mysteries Revealed

July 2, 2025
The Mystery of Callum Hargreaves: A Ghostly Tale

A Ghostly Encounter 2

A painted circular stone depicting a serene landscape with trees and a sun, contrasting the eerie atmosphere of the forest.

The air was wrong.

Callum Hargreaves opened his eyes to silence so deep it pressed against his chest. No engines in the distance. No birdsong. No radio crackle.

Only the trees. And the damp earth beneath him.

He sat up slowly, wincing. His body felt heavier, like the atmosphere itself had thickened. The forest wasn’t just quiet it was ancient. The trunks were massive, rough with moss and lichen, and the undergrowth twisted in ways he didn’t remember. Even the colours seemed muted. More… real. Older.

His phone was dead. No signal. Not even a flicker of battery life.

The feather was still in his hand.

White. Burnt at the edge.

He stood, breath visible in the still air. The mist clung low to the ground, like it was trying to hide something.

The stone was gone. The path was gone.

He turned full circle. No trails. No signs. Just forest. Endless.

“Okay,” he whispered to himself. “Get your bearings. Pick a direction. Stay calm.”

But as he moved ahead, he noticed something.

There were no footprints. Not his. Not animals. No trash. No broken branches. Nothing that said people had ever been here.

Except one thing.

A shape in the clearing ahead barely visible in the haze.

It was another stone.
Taller. Deeper carved. The same symbol as before a spiral, or a horn, or… something.

At its base, a small pile of bones. Clean. Arranged in a ring. And at the centre, an ash-blackened tooth.

A vibrant painted stone featuring a spiral design, symbolizing mystery and connection to nature.

Callum backed up a step.

A low growl rippled through the silence.

His eyes snapped up.

A wolf stood across the clearing.

It wasn’t moving. Just watching.

Eyes like molten gold. Fur dark and matted. Muscles tensed, but not ready to strike.

Behind it… a second figure. Not a wolf.

Human.

Massive. Silent. Cloaked in furs. A silhouette against the trees.

Callum couldn’t breathe.

He blinked.
And they were gone.

Just trees again. Just mist.

But the whispering had changed.

Not words anymore.

A name.

One he didn’t know.
One he couldn’t pronounce.

But it curled in his head like smoke:
Taranis.

To be continued…

From the Author

I grew up visiting the Chase, walking the woods and hearing the stories. Have you experienced anything unusual in woods? The whispers among the trees?

If you enjoyed this please read part 1
Read more: The Mystery of Callum Hargreaves: A Ghostly Tale
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Further Reading

The Prophecies and Tales of Taranis Unfolded

June 25, 2025
The Secrets of the Haunted Chase

A Ghostly Encounter

A hand-painted circular stone depicting a serene landscape, featuring trees and a bright sun, symbolizing a connection to nature.

They always said the Chase held secrets. Over the years rumors of ghost sightings, lost children, lights that danced just out of reach.

But Private Callum Hargreaves had grown up nearby. He’d run through these woods with scraped knees and muddy boots, long before he wore the army’s green.

He used to love the quiet, the peacefulness that the woods brought.

Tonight, it felt wrong.

The mist had rolled in fast, blanketing the forest floor. Dusk bled into night like ink in water. Callum’s breath fogged in front of him not from cold, but from the weight in the air.

His squad had finished training hours ago, but he hadn’t gone back. He couldn’t. Not yet. His thoughts were loud again memories knocking like fists on the inside of his skull.

“Just walk it off,” he muttered, his voice low. “Like always.” he told himself.

He followed an old deer track or maybe just instinct into the dense pines. The kind that made their own darkness even before sunset. The ground was soft, smelling of wet leaves and something older.

He paused.

There at the base of a gnarled tree was a stone. Half buried, bone coloured. Not shaped by nature. Carved. Faint, but deliberate.

Callum crouched. A breeze touched his neck, oddly warm.

“Someone put this here.”

A mysterious token featuring a swirl design, symbolizing the secrets of the woods.

He brushed aside the moss. A symbol. A swirl or a horn. Beside it a feather. White. Slightly scorched at the edge. When he reached out to touch it.

The air twisted.

Like the world held its breath.

He blinked. Once.
The trees around him… changed.

Taller. Closer. Ancient.

No wrappers underfoot. No footprints. No signal bars. The forest felt closer, like it was listening.

Then came the whisper.

Not from behind him.
Not from the side.

From below.

“He’s returned…”

The voice wasn’t human but it wasn’t wind either. It filled his ears like rising water. Callum staggered back, instinct flaring.

The stone was gone.
The trail behind him, vanished.
Even the smell was different no exhaust, no cordite, just wood smoke and something sharp: iron? sweat? blood?

“No. No, no what is this?”

He turned toward where the training grounds should’ve been.

Nothing.

Just trees.
And silence.
And the whispering louder now. Familiar. Calling him by name without speaking it.

And then… a howl.

Low. Echoing.

Not quite wolf. Not quite human.

Callum’s breath caught. He gripped the feather tight in his palm.

To be continued…

© written and created by ELHewitt

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June 25, 2025
Taranis and the Bone Wolf: A Night of Survival

Symbols of protection and exile, reflecting Taranis’s journey into the mysterious woods.

The trees no longer knew his name.

Taranis sat beneath the twisted yew roots where the earth sloped sharply into shadow. His hands, still small though scarred, trembled not from cold, but from the silence. He had not spoken since sunrise not when his father handed him the satchel, not when the last brother refused to meet his eye, not even when his mother whispered

“Run.” Her voice had broken, but not for him for the children who had not survived the sickness.

For the village, he was now a curse. A child touched by strange spirits. One who brought death and unnatural things. One who raised a bird from stillness, and soon after, watched the village rot from within.

So he ran until his breath failed, deeper into the old woods. The Wending Hollow.

He knew the stories: spirits with antlers, beasts with no eyes, witches who wore the skins of deer. He knew, too, that children were not meant to survive here. But he wasn’t a child anymore.

He was eight. Alone. Exiled.

And hungry.

By dusk, Taranis had found a shallow stream and a fallen log riddled with mushrooms. He sniffed each cap like his uncle had taught him. Then he took only the pale gilled ones that didn’t smell of metal or death.

He dug roots near the waterline — bulbous, bitter, but full of strength. Nettle leaves, stripped with care and boiled in his small clay pot over a weak ember-fire. Then made a tea that smoked green into the mist. It tasted sharp, like the sting of his mother’s goodbye.

His first exile meal was crude:
🌿 A bitter root mash warmed on a flat stone.
🌰 Wild hazelnuts cracked with care.
🍵 A handful of mushrooms, seared by flame.
🌿 Nettle tea, sipped from his cupped palms.

It filled his belly but not the hollow in his chest.

The howl came just after nightfall.

Low. Wide. As if dragged from the pit of a creature that had forgotten how to live.

Taranis froze. The fire dimmed, not from wind, but from presence.

Another howl. Closer.
Then bones not breaking, but rattling.
Like antlers knocking together.
Like something with no voice calling for company.

He rose slowly. The wind twisted his fire out.

From the trees stepped a figure that wasn’t quite wolf.

It was tall as a stag, gaunt as famine. Its limbs stretched too long and wrapped in skin the color of ash. Bone jutted from its snout and spine. Its eyes were hollow. And it carried no scent only silence.

The Bone Wolf.

Taranis stood firm, chest rising and falling. He did not cry. He did not scream. Something inside him, something older than fear, whispered:

Face it. Or be followed forever.

He reached for a stick and held it like a spear. The creature stepped closer… then paused.

Its skull tilted. It sniffed the steam of his cooked meal, then… turned.

It vanished into the dark, leaving no prints. Only breath warm, inhuman on the back of his neck.

He did not sleep that night.

But when the dawn came, the trees whispered again. Not in welcome, but in recognition.

The boy had survived Night One.

And the Bone Wolf had spared him.

Thank you for reading.

© written by ELHewitt

Further Reading

The Prophecies and Tales of Taranis Unfolded

June 23, 2025