The Grimoire lay open before me, its pages whispering in the flickering torchlight. Symbols, long forgotten by men, danced across vellum knots, spirals, and sigils that spoke of storms, of blood, and of the unseen threads that bound the Stormborne brothers.
I traced my fingers along the quaternary knot etched into the parchment, feeling its pulse beneath my skin. Four directions. Four elements. Protection. Balance. The old magic hums beneath the empire’s walls, forgotten by generals and augurs alike, but I remember.
Outside, the world churns armies march, fires burn, and Rome believes itself eternal. But I know the storm waits, patient, unyielding. Each spell, each word, each calculated gesture draws the threads tighter. Taranis trains men in secret. Drax moves through the law like a shadow of justice. And Rayne… I watch him, always a question mark, a traitor lurking in plain sight.
And I, the chronicler, the mystic, record all. For when the time comes, the Grimoire will speak, and the empire will remember the Stormborne name or regret it.
“Power is not given, it is woven. And I will weave it carefully.”
StormborneLore 