Chapter I Stormborne Escape
Thunorric leaned one arm on the table, firelight cutting sharp lines across his scarred face. The Black Shields had fallen silent around him. Even the bard held his breath.
He looked at Dægan not as the Stormwulf, nor the outlaw. But as the tired, blood-soaked brother who had outrun every storm except the one inside himself.
“Brother,” he said quietly, low enough only the three Stormborne hear. “I’ll be honest with you.”
He inhaled, slow and heavy.
“I’ll be gone by morning.”
Dægan’s jaw tightened.
Leofric’s quill stilled.
Thunorric’s gaze drifted to the shuttered window where rain tapped a relentless rhythm.
“I’m not sure where. Hispania… France… or the Italian lands.”
He shrugged a gesture heavier than armour.
“Wherever the wind throws me.”
He looked back at Dægan. There was no smirk and no bravado. It was just the raw truth of a man who had lived too long with ghosts.
“But if you asked me to stay…” His voice dropped to a whisper. “I would.”
The fire cracked.
Dægan stepped closer, boots sinking into the rushes. His eyes were a storm pride, anger, fear, love all fighting for ground.
“Thunorric,” he said, voice a blade sheathed in grief, “if you stay, the king will take your head.”
“Aye,” Thunorric muttered. “He’s welcome to try.”
Leofric set down his staff. “Staying is death,” he whispered. “Leaving is exile. Neither path is mercy.”
Thunorric chuckled without humour.
“Mercy and I haven’t spoken in years.”
Behind them, Harold peeked from the cellar door. Bram stood beside him, fists clenched. Wulfie clutched a wooden wolf to his chest. They listened to every word.
Dægan saw them and something in him cracked.
“I won’t ask you to stay,” he said softly. “Because if I do… you’ll die for my sake.”
Thunorric froze as if struck.
For a moment, the brothers were boys again. They stood shoulder to shoulder in the ashes of Rome. This was before kingdoms, before war. It was before death learned their names.
Leofric placed a hand on them both, grounding them like roots.
“You leave before dawn,” he said. “But tonight? Tonight you sit with your family.”
Thunorric nodded.
“One night.”
He looked at his sons.
“One night more.”
Outside, the wind shifted.
The storm was already changing course.
The last night at Raegenwine’s inn
The inn felt too small.
Rægenwine moved with shaking hands, setting out bread, roasted rabbit, and thick barley stew. The Black Shields ate in silence. Rain steamed off Dægan’s and Leofric’s cloaks.
Thunorric lowered himself onto the bench with a battle-worn groan. His sons slipped from the cellar to sit beside him.
“Eat,” Rægenwine murmured. “Storm or no storm, a man rides better on a full belly.”
Thunorric smirked, then winced at his ribs.
“Aye. Though most storms ride on empty.”
For a moment, life felt ordinary stew bubbling, fire crackling, rain whispering at the window.
Wulfie leaned against his father.
Bram gnawed a bone like a wolf-cub.
Harold watched every shadow.
James pushed barley around his bowl.
Dægan finally broke the silence.
“What will you do when you leave?”
“Live,” Thunorric said. “Or try to.”
Leofric murmured, “Spain, Gaul, the Italian kingdoms… you’ve survived worse.”
“Aye,” Thunorric said. “But leaving isn’t what frightens me.”
Dægan frowned. “Then what does?”
Thunorric hesitated.
His sons stared.
The inn held its breath.
Finally, he whispered:
“If you asked me to surrender…”
His voice cracked something it had never done, not even under Roman whips.
“…I would.”
Silence collapsed over the room.
The Stormwulf the terror of the marches offering his life at his brother’s word.
Leofric whispered, “Thunorric… no.”
“I mean it,” he said, eyes fixed on Dægan. “For you two… for the lads… I’d walk into chains.”
Bram slammed his fist on the table. “Da, NO!”
Thunorric raised a calming hand but never looked away from Dægan.
Dægan’s voice broke.
“Brother… if I ask you to surrender, I’m killing you myself.”
“Aye,” Thunorric whispered. “But I’d go willing.”
“No.” Dægan stood abruptly, fists trembling. “I won’t damn you.”
Thunorric looked suddenly old.
Defeated.
Leofric exhaled shakily.
“Then eat. This is your last quiet night.”
But outside, something howled a prophecy forming in the dark.
The last night at Raegenwine’s inn
The fire burned low. Shadows stretched long across the walls.
Bram tugged Thunorric’s sleeve.
“Da… will we ever see you again?”
Thunorric froze.
Wulfie grabbed his cloak.
Harold tried to look brave.
James trembled.
Thunorric cupped Bram’s cheek.
“Ah, lad… don’t ask a man somethin’ he can’t promise.”
“But we want you home,” Wulfie said, lip wobbling.
Harold whispered, “Tell us truth.”
The room fell silent.
Thunorric drew a shaking breath.
“I’ll try my damned hardest to come back to you. Thunder willing, storm willing… I’ll find a path home.”
“You swear it?” Bram whispered.
“Aye,” he said, touching his forehead to his son’s. “On every storm I’ve ever walked.”
The boys sagged with relief.
But a figure stood in the doorway.
A cousin.
A boy loyal to the king.
His voice trembled.
“They know you’re here.”
Dægan shot to his feet.
Leofric gripped his staff.
Thunorric pushed his sons behind him.
“How many riders?”
“…twenty. Maybe more. They’ll be here before first light.”
Thunorric breathed out slowly a calm before a killing storm.
“Get the lads ready. This night ain’t over.”
The Condemned Man’s Choice
“They’ll punish everyone here,” the boy warned. “Even the little ones.”
Thunorric nodded.
“I know.”
He sat, tore a piece of bread, and spoke with fatal calm.
“But we’ve time for a condemned man’s meal.”
Then he drew out a small vial dark liquid swirling like blood.
Leofric’s eyes widened.
“Thunorric… no.”
“It’s insurance,” he murmured.
“For what?” Harold whispered.
“In case the king wants a spectacle. In case they try to take me alive.”
Wulfie grabbed his arm.
“Don’t drink it!”
“I won’t,” Thunorric soothed. “Not unless I have to.”
Dægan leaned ahead, voice low and dangerous.
“If you take that poison now, I’ll drag you back from Hel myself.”
Thunorric smirked faintly.
“That’s the spirit.”
But the boy in the doorway whispered:
“They brought the king’s hunter.”
Silence.
True silence.
Leofric paled. “The one with the wolf-banner?”
“Aye.”
Thunorric stood, rolling his shoulders.
“So,” he said softly. “The king wants a show.”
He looked at his sons their fear, their love, their desperate hope.
He nodded once.
“Right then,” he said. “Meal’s over.”
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© 2025 Emma Hewitt StormborneLore. The characters, stories, names, and world-building elements of the Stormborne Saga are original works.
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