Tag: Lore

Unrest in the Lower Wards: A Roman Saga

The rain had not stopped since Caerwyn. Each morning it slicked the cobblestones of the fort. washing dust and ash into the gutters, as though Rome cleanse itself of guilt.

Praefect Drax Stormborne stood beneath the awning of the garrison, watching the centurions drill in the yard below. The sound of shields and iron echoed against the mist, rhythmic, hollow, and far too familiar.

“Word from the coast?” he asked without looking.

His aide the same grey-eyed veteran who had once served under him at Cannock stepped ahead. “None yet, sir. But reports spread through the camps. They say a ship found half-burned near the cliffs. No bodies. Just marks on the hull.”

“Marks?”

The man nodded. “A spiral carved deep into the wood. Like a storm-ring.”

Drax’s hand tightened around the railing. The symbol of the old clan. The one Rome had forbidden.

Behind him came the sound of boots lighter, hesitant. His second son, Maren, saluted awkwardly. “Father, the magistrate awaits. There’s unrest in the lower wards. They want judgment from the lawman.”

“The lawman,” Drax murmured. “Tell them the law doesn’t bend to whispers.”

“But it bends to Rome,” Maren said quietly.

Drax turned, eyes hard. “Careful, boy.”

The silence between them held the weight of unspoken things of oaths broken and storms returning. Drax looked at the lad and saw both his past and his punishment.

Finally, he exhaled. “Your uncle stirs the seas. I’ll not have him stir the streets as well. We hold the line.”

Maren hesitated, then stepped closer. “And if he calls us brother, not enemy?”

Drax looked past him, toward the horizon where thunder still rolled over the coast. “Then I’ll answer him as both.”

A horn sounded from the walls. Another patrol missing along the northern road.

Drax drew his cloak, the Roman crimson dulled by rain. “Have the riders ready by dusk,” he said. “We go to Pennocrucium The Empire claim the law but the storm still knows my name.”

The thunder rolled again, closer this time, shaking the banners loose from their poles. The banners of Pennocrucium hung limp in the rain Rome’s edge of order against the wild heart of Pennocrucium .”

The rain eased to a whisper by dawn. Mist lay low over the road, a grey ribbon winding north through the pines.

Drax rode at the front of the column, his cloak heavy with last night’s storm. The standards of Rome sagged in the wet, crimson turned dull and earth-brown.

Behind him, twenty riders moved in silence. Men who had followed him through three campaigns and would follow him into a fourth. Even if none of them knew whose banner they truly served anymore.

The track narrowed as they neared the Chase. Crows wheeled above, their cries lost in the fog. Somewhere beyond the mist lay Pennocrucium the old land, the hill once sacred to his kin. Before Rome built its roads through the heart of it.

At his side, Maren broke the quiet. “They say the woods here are haunted.”

“They are,” Drax said. “By memory.”

The boy frowned, unsure if it was jest or truth.

By noon, they reached the stone marker where the Roman paving gave way to mud and root. There Drax reined in, eyes narrowing at the shape half-buried in the verge. An old shield, blackened by time, its boss marked with the faint spiral of the Stormborne ring.

“Leave it,” Drax murmured as one of the soldiers bent to lift it. “The dead have earned their ground.”

From the treeline came the sound of a horn low, distant, old.
Not Roman.

The men stiffened. Maren’s hand went to his blade.

Drax only listened. The tone carried memory, not threat a call. One he had not heard since he was young enough to run barefoot across the Chase. A day when he named the wind his brother.

He turned to his son. “We camp here. No fires. No noise.”

“Sir?”

“They’ll come to us,” Drax said. “The Black Shields never forgot the way home.”

As the mist thickened, he dismounted and placed a hand on the wet earth. Beneath his palm, the ground hummed faintly the old song of the storm returning.

“If Taranis walks these woods,” he whispered, “then I’ll find him before Rome does.”

Thunder rolled somewhere far off not from the sea this time, but from the hills.

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 Drax please see The Chronicles of Drax

October 16, 2025
The Whispering Stones of Emberhelm

They say the stones at Emberhelm still whisper when the wind moves right a low murmur that rises from the earth like the breath of something ancient, waiting.

Farmers avoid the place now. Shepherds drive their flocks wide, and children dare each other to touch the outer ring, laughing until the laughter falters. Only the old remember that once, before Rome, before even the clans, the stones were not dead things.

Each one bore a mark storm, fire, tide, and light carved by hands that no longer walk the world. Together they formed a circle, a promise between the gods and those who spoke their tongue. The Circle of the Gold Ring.

When the brothers swore their oaths there, thunder split the air. The eldest spoke of wisdom, the youngest of freedom, and the middle ones of strength, loyalty, and truth. But the sky heard more than words it heard pride. And pride is the chisel that breaks all stone.

Now, when lightning rolls across Cannock’s high fields, some claim to see figures between the stones. Not ghosts, not living men something between. They say one wears chains that sing when he moves, another bears a sword that hums with the weight of unspoken guilt, and one more walks with his hands clasped behind his back, watching the storm as though it answers to him.

The villagers leave offerings there still a bowl of salt, a coin, a lock of hair just in case the whispers are not only echoes, but memories listening for their name.

Because in Emberhelm, even silence remembers.

October 6, 2025
Unraveling Secrets: Rayne’s Silent Journey

The Weight of Silence

The morning broke pale and cold, a thin mist rolling across the fields like a ghost that had forgotten its name. My horse shifted beneath me, uneasy. The world felt quieter than it should have been not the quiet of peace, but the kind born from expectation. Something waited ahead.

I had traveled for weeks now, keeping to forgotten roads, trading false names and favours for shelter. Rome’s messengers had ceased for a time, and that silence was heavier than any command. I began to wonder if I had been released… or abandoned.

At night, when the campfire dwindled, I caught myself tracing the symbol of the Ring into the dirt a circle broken clean through. No matter how many times I erased it, my hand drew it again. Habit or guilt, I couldn’t tell. Perhaps both.

Rumours reached me in fragments: a rebellion rising in the north, whispers that Drax had taken to leading the scattered tribes, and that Lore had vanished into the mists of the west, chasing prophecies no man could name. Draven was silent. And Taranis…
Taranis had become a legend again.

They said he had escaped Rome’s chains, that his eyes burned brighter than ever, that lightning followed where he walked. I did not believe all of it but I wanted to. The world is easier to bear when its ghosts refuse to stay buried.

One night, beneath a blood-red moon, I reached the edge of the marshlands near Ravenmere. The air there was heavy, each breath tasting of iron and old secrets. The ruins of an outpost stood crooked against the skyline Roman stones built upon older foundations. It felt… familiar.

Inside, beneath moss and dust, I found carvings of the Circle faint, half-effaced by time. Words I had spoken in another life echoed in my memory: “We are the Ring. Bound by oath, unbroken by fear.”

I knelt, running my hand over the stone, feeling the groove of each line.
“I broke it,” I whispered. “But perhaps it was already breaking.”

Something stirred in the shadows not human, not beast, but presence. A warmth against the air, like breath drawn from memory itself. For the first time since Emberhelm, I felt the Ring respond.

A whisper, faint but unmistakable, rippled through the ruin.
“The Circle is never broken, only divided. The storm remembers.”

I rose slowly, the hairs on my arms prickling. Whatever force had once bound us had not died it waited, fragmented, patient. And now, it was calling.

When I rode from Ravenmere at dawn, I carried no banner, no ally, no command. Only purpose.

The Ring was broken but not gone.
And if Taranis still lived, if the others still walked their paths… then the storm was far from finished.

The time for silence was ending.

October 5, 2025
The Road to Umbra Written from Lore’s perspective

A vibrant artwork reflecting the themes of struggle and resilience in the narrative of StormborneLore.

House of Shadow

I do not speak of heroes.
I speak of those who walked in silence.
Of boots torn at the sole,
and breath taken with care
lest the wind betray them.

I walked the road to Umbra alone,
but never unmarked.
Each tree knew my name,
each stone held a memory,
and the crows whispered
what the living dared not say.

My brothers called it exile.
The warlords called it treason.
The wolves knew better.
They call it the long return.

I did not carry banners.
I carried wounds.

I did not seek the throne.
I sought peace and found shadows
that bled like I did.

And when the night fell thick with frost,
and even the stars looked away,
I did not pray for light.

A heartfelt thank you for engaging with the narrative of StormborneLore, inviting readers to support the storytelling journey.

July 13, 2025
The Legacy of Lore Stormborne: Keeper of the Flame

Scribe. Warrior. Flamebearer of Emberhelm.

“Let others raise the blade. I raise the truth.”
Lore Stormborne

🕯️ Keeper of the Flame. Brother of Storm.
Lore Stormborne is more than a warrior he is the voice of memory, the keeper of names, and the bearer of the fire that binds tribe to tribe, and age to age. Born the youngest of the Stormborne brothers, Lore walks the path between word and weapon, prophecy and pragmatism.

Where Taranis is storm and Drax is stone, Lore is firelight quiet but searing, patient but unyielding.

He writes not only with ink, but with action.

Lore Stormborne, the Flamebearer of Hearthrest, meticulously writing history and preserving knowledge.

📜 From Shadows to Scrolls
In childhood, Lore followed in the shadow of his brothers Taranis, the storm-marked exile, and Drax, the hardened shield. But even then, Lore saw what others missed: patterns in myth, warnings in the stars, truth beneath tradition.

When Taranis was exiled, Lore did not speak but he remembered. When Drax rose through the ranks, Lore was already mapping the past.

His weapon was never just steel it was knowledge. And it burned just as brightly.

Lore Stormborne, the Flamebearer of Hearthrest, conjures fire in a display of power and wisdom, embodying the essence of his role as the keeper of ancient rites.

🔥 Flamebearer of Hearthrest
Lore governs Hearthrest, the wooded sanctuary of sacred stones and old rites. There, within the ancient stone circle, he tends the Eternal Flame of the Stormborne lit only in times of great need. It is said he can hear the voices of ancestors in the fire.

To the warriors, he is their truthkeeper. To the children, he is the story-weaver. To the Stormborne, he is their lore.

Lore Stormborne, the Flamebearer of Hearthrest, wielding fire magic in a display of power and resolve.

⚔️ A Warrior When Needed
Though often seen as a scholar, Lore is no stranger to battle. In the war against the Clawclan, he stood beside Taranis and Drax at Rykar’s Ridge, calling down the old flame-magic inscribed into cairnstones. His staff of flamewood, carved from lightning-struck ash, is both relic and weapon.

When dragons fell from the sky, Lore stood firm. When the storm rose, he whispered its name.

The Flamebearer of Hearthrest, Lore Stormborne, embodies wisdom and strength, standing as the keeper of ancient stories and the guardian of the Eternal Flame.

🧠 Mind of Flame
Measured, articulate, and always listening, Lore speaks less than most but when he does, his words linger. He believes that the world is not saved through strength alone, but through stories preserved, names remembered, and wisdom passed on.

He is the bridge between storm and silence. And his fire never goes out.

Lore Stormborne, the Flamebearer of Hearthrest, walking through ancient stone circles with a torch to illuminate the path of tradition and memory.

✴️ Known As:
The Flamebearer of Hearthrest

Keeper of the Cairnstones

Lore of the Stormborne

Fire-Walker

Voice of the Old Flame

The sacred grove of Hearthrest, a mystical sanctuary of standing stones and ancient rites.

🌳 His Realm: Hearthrest, Caernath
A wooded region of sacred groves and standing stones. Home of the Eternal Flame and ancient rites. Governed not by sword, but by tradition and firelight.

✍️ Written by: emma.stormbornelore

July 6, 2025