Taranis stood on the ridge, his cloak torn by the storm, his hair streaked with soot. Below, the valley rippled with new life: tents being stitched, stones lifted, timber lashed. The war was over but the next battle had begun.
“We build not just for defence,” Lore said, tracing runes into the soil, “but for memory.”
The three surviving brothers had gathered their remnants warriors, widows, strays, and seers. They chose high ground, surrounded by forest and stone.
Drax named it Emberhelm, for the fire that had not died. It would become the first Stormborne stronghold.
Taranis trained them in the mornings sword drills, spear throws, endurance across misty hills. Drax oversaw the walls, carving old sigils into oak gates. Lore built the central hearth and lit it from the embers of their victory fire.
That night, the people gathered.
Flames danced. A feast was laid. Meat sizzled on firestones. Barley bread warmed the hands of children.
At the centre of it all stood Taranis, not as an outcast or storm-child. But as High Warlord of the Stormborne.
PART II: The Founders’ Feast – A Bronze Age Meal
The First Meal of Emberhelm was a warm, smoky, filling. A tribute to survival.
The fire cracked and spat, its glow painting the blood-stained earth in amber and shadow. Smoke curled into the sky, mixing with the iron-rich scent of blood, sweat, and scorched heather. Around the blaze, three brothers sat warriors of old blood, each marked by time, loss, and prophecy.
Taranis sat with his legs folded, sword across his lap. His great frame bent slightly ahead as if burdened by ghosts. At eighteen, he already bore the presence of a myth. His grey eyes, like the storm itself, reflected both silence and fury. He had not returned as a boy. He had returned as legend.
Beside him sat Drax, once the fiercest of the elder siblings. His frame scarred but unbowed, his voice deeper and darker than memory allowed. Across from them was Lore, the quietest of the three thinner. More thoughtful his staff carved with runes from the old tongue. His breath rose in the chill air like whispered scripture.
Drax poked the fire absently with a stick.
“Draven went missing,” he said finally, breaking the silence. “So did Rayne. Last we heard, a group of blackclaw warriors was seen not far from their camp. We hope they’re still alive.”
Taranis looked up sharply. “And Father?”
“Fever and war,” Drax answered, voice low. “Three winters past. But he saw the sky darken before he died. He knew the storm was waking. He knew you would return.”
Taranis stared into the fire, jaw clenched. “He died thinking I was a curse.”
Lore leaned ahead. “He died knowing you were the key. He just didn’t live long enough to see the lock.”
The wind passed softly through the broken trees around them, carrying the scent of rain and ash. The brothers sat in silence for a while longer. No one had the heart to speak of the others they’d buried. Too many names. Too few fires.
Drax rose slowly and raised his drinking horn to the stars.
“Now we step into a new age,” he said. “Brothers bow to the true leader of the Stormborne clan.”
Taranis blinked. “What?”
“You’re the High Warlord now,” Lore said, smiling faintly. “I stay the Flame keeper. Drax… he commands the Blood bound. These aren’t boasts. They’re burdens.”
Taranis stood, slowly, as if weighed down by every step. The firelight cast monstrous shadows behind him.
“Is there anyone left?” he asked.
Drax nodded. “Some. Hiding in the Wychbury caverns. Scattered through the old marshes. A few loyal to the name. Most think we’re dead.”
Lore lifted his staff and traced the air. Sparks flickered from the fire. “You carry the name now. You carry us all.”
Taranis exhaled. “Fights are breaking out around us. Tribes testing borders. Raiders from across the sea. This wasn’t my first battle since exile.”
Drax frowned. “What do you mean?”
Taranis smirked. “Did you ever hear of the boy who walked out of a siege. Leaving only one man alive to tell the tale?”
Lore narrowed his eyes. “That was you?”
“I was ten,” Taranis said. “Found myself in Pict lands. A village took me in bark bread and bone broth, but they gave freely. Raiders came. Painted in bone ash. Serpent fangs. I stood between them and the fire.”
“And you fought?”
“I didn’t just fight,” Taranis said quietly. “I became something else. They called me ghost. One man I spared to carry the tale. Word of a storm-child spread fast. I moved on before the dead were buried.”
“You fought like a god out there today,” Drax said, his voice softer now. “The storm moved with you. Boldolph and Morrigan at your side. Pendragon and Tairneanach overhead. You were prophecy.”
“I was survival,” Taranis replied. “I fought because I had no choice. The gods didn’t give me power. They gave me fire and asked me to burn for it.”
Lore’s eyes flicked upward. “And burn you did.”
Taranis nodded. “But now… now I need more than fire. I need people. A clan. A home.”
Drax drank deeply from his horn. “Then let’s build one. Three brothers. Three lands. One name.”
Taranis looked between them. “Where?”
“Where we once stood,” Lore said. “But different. You, in the east on the high hills of Malvern, where the sky remembers you. Drax, in the west near the marshes, to guard the old trails. I will hold the centre, near the stone circle. The fire will not die.”
Taranis slowly nodded. “Then we rebuild. Not as children of the stone but as fathers of the bronze.”
Lore smiled. “The Neolithic dies with tonight’s embers. From now, we shape flame and forge blade.”
“We become what they feared we would be,” Drax said. “Stormborne. Eternal.”
Taranis reached out and grasped their arms one brother to each hand. “We lead together.”
The fire roared.
Part II: The Storm Remembers Later, as the night deepened, Taranis sat with his back to a tree. Boldolph rested his head on Taranis’s leg. The great black wolf was still and watchful, his red eyes scanning the shadows. Morrigan curled near the fire, pale as snowfall, her ears twitching at every distant noise.
“Do you think they’re truly gone?” Taranis whispered.
Lore didn’t answer at first. He simply watched the flames. “No one is ever truly gone. Not in our line. Some names survive in flesh. Others in fire.”
“And the enemy?” Drax asked.
“Still out there,” Lore said. “Still watching. The Saxons come. The Romans return. But we… we will be ready.”
Taranis stared into the night. “I never wanted to be leader.”
“That’s exactly why you should be,” Drax said. “Those who crave the crown often destroy the land they wear it on.”
“We carve new paths,” Lore said. “Not in stone. Not in blood. But in memory and meaning.”
Morning light rose over the battlefield. The dead were buried, their names sung into the mist. Taranis, Drax, and Lore stood before the hill where they would build their future.
Three brothers.
Three keeps.
One storm.
“I’ll raise warriors,” Taranis said. “Not just fighters but those who stand for the forgotten.”
“I’ll raise shields,” Drax replied. “Those who know honour and vengeance.”
“I’ll raise stories,” Lore said. “And through them, we will never be lost again.”
Boldolph howled once deep and mournful. Morrigan joined in, her voice carrying across the valley like wind through bone.
Above them, high in the clouds, Pendragon and Tairneanach circled not as beasts of war, but guardians of legend.
And so, the Bronze Age of the Stormborne began. Not with kings or crowns, but around a fire, carved in blood and rebuilt in hope.
StormborneLore 