:
Created on paper with Ohuhu markers, this artwork represents the duality within the Stormborne line strength and mercy, order and rebellion.
The black and red dragons entwine around the sword of destiny, symbolising the eternal balance between Drax and Dægan, two halves of the same storm.
:
Painted on paper with Ohuhu markers, this work captures the balance between mortality and power. The skull of the storm-king wears its crown still, framed by the red and rose hues of memory and bloodline a symbol of how legends never truly die.
(Anglo-Saxon Cycle – c. 431 AD)
“They say Daddy’s a savage,” James said, peering up at his older brothers and uncles clustered near the hearth.
“Yeah?” Rægenwine asked, turning from the counter with a half-grin. “So, kids what’s your names, then?”
The tallest boy straightened, shoulders square. “I’m Harold,” he said. “Mother was from the islands south. Said we had the sea in our blood.”
“Sea, eh?” Rægenwine nodded. “Explains the loud voices.”
A shorter lad stepped ahead, freckles bright against soot-streaked skin. “I’m Bram. Da says I take after him.”
“Then gods help us all,” Rægenwine muttered.
The youngest, barely more than a child, piped up from behind his brothers. “Name’s Wulfie. Da says I’m the fastest.”
Thunorric chuckled from his bench, voice rough but proud. “Fastest to eat, more like.”
The boys laughed; the sound eased something heavy in the room.
Leofric smiled faintly, setting his quill aside. “Stormwulf’s brood,” he said quietly. “Born from thunder, raised in mischief.”
“Aye,” Rægenwine said, pouring fresh ale for the older two. “Let’s just hope they grow wiser than their da.”
Thunorric’s grin widened. “No chance o’ that,” he said. “But they’ve never had to steal, or draw steel and that’s more than I had.”
Silence followed, soft but full. The fire cracked, throwing gold across their faces. Outside, the crows stirred in the trees and somewhere in the distance, a single horn blew low and long.
The laughter faded as the horn sounded again. This time closer this time deep, mournful, rolling through the mist like thunder that had lost its way.
Rægenwine’s hand froze halfway to his cup. “That weren’t no huntin’ horn.”
Leofric rose, eyes narrowing. “It’s Roman in pitch but the cadence… that’s Saxon.”
Dægan stepped toward the door, the old Roman discipline returning to his shoulders. “A warning, or a call.”
Thunorric pushed himself upright, steadying against the bench. “Either way, it’s for us.”
He looked toward his sons Harold, Bram, Wulfie, and James. But something ancient flickered in his eyes, pride, and fear in equal measure.
“Rægenwine,” he said. “Get the lads below. If it’s a fight, I’ll not have them caught in it.”
“Aye,” the innkeeper muttered, already herding them toward the cellar door. “Never peace long in this place.”
Outside, the horn sounded a third time shorter now, urgent. The rain began again, a thin hiss against the shutters.
Dægan lifted the bar and stepped into the courtyard. Mist rolled thick as smoke, curling between the trees. Shapes moved beyond the hedge slow, deliberate, too many to count.
Leofric joined him, clutching a staff instead of his quill. “I’ll not write this one,” he murmured. “I’ll live it.”
Thunorric followed, sword in hand, cloak dragging through the mud. “Then we stand as Storm-kin once more,” he said, the old fire rising in his voice. “Law, ink, and steel against whatever gods come knockin’.”
The horn fell silent. Only the rain answered.
A fourth sound rose from the woods not a horn this time,. But a long, low wail that carried no breath of man or beast. The rain faltered as if listening.
Leofric’s grip tightened on his staff. “That’s no war cry.”
Thunorric’s gaze swept the treeline. “Aye. That’s the sound of the barrow waking.”
Rægenwine froze halfway down the cellar steps. “Don’t jest, lad. Not tonight.”
But the air had changed. Smoke from the hearth drifted sideways, drawn toward the door, as though something outside was pulling it. The fire hissed then flared blue.
“Gods preserve us,” Leofric whispered. “The gate’s open.”
From the fog came shapes first shadows. Then clearer forms: figures in torn cloaks, faces pale as ash, eyes like dim embers. The dead soldiers of Pennocrucium men who’d died beneath Roman banners, left unburied when the empire fell.
Their armour rattled faintly, not in march but in memory.
Dægan stepped ahead, voice low but steady. “I buried you myself,” he said. “Why rise now?”
The lead figure halted, half his face gone to rot, the other still wearing the iron discipline of a centurion. “Because Rome forgot us,” the dead man rasped. “But the storm remembers.”
Thunorric’s sword gleamed in the blue firelight. “Then you’ve come home, brother,” he said. “And this time, you’ll find your peace.”
The dead looked at one another, uncertain as if the word peace was one they’d long forgotten.
Then the horn blew once more a sound from both worlds and the dead advanced.
Copyright Note© 2025 E. L. Hewitt / Stormborne Arts. All rights reserved.Unauthorized copying or reproduction of this artwork and text is prohibited.
Thank you for reading.
Futher Reading
Rægenwine’s Inn: A Gathering of Legends
The Prophecies and Tales of Taranis Unfolded
(Anglo-Saxon Cycle – c. 430 AD)
The rain had softened to a whisper by the time they carried Thunorric back to Rægenwine’s Inn.
Mud clung to their boots, streaked dark with blood and ash. Behind them, the Chase lay heavy and silent, as if the forest itself were holding its breath.
Rægenwine threw open the door.
“Get him to the hearth,” he ordered. “And mind that floor it’s new.”
They laid Thunorric on a bench near the fire. The outlaw was pale beneath the soot, breath rasping shallow. His cloak was soaked through, half-torn, the linen beneath blackened where blood had seeped through the binding.
Leofric crouched beside him, his right hand bound where the Saxons had taken the quill fingers. He tried to help but winced when his wrist trembled.
“Hold still,” he said quietly, voice cracking.
“Always tellin’ me that,” Thunorric muttered, managing a faint smirk.
Dægan pressed a cloth to the wound, jaw tight.
“You should’ve let me handle it.”
“You’d have talked ’em to death,” the outlaw rasped.
“Better than bleeding for it.”
“Maybe,” Thunorric whispered, eyes flicking toward the fire, “but the world don’t change through words, brother. It changes when someone dares to move first.”
Leofric looked between them, the candlelight trembling in his hand.
“And yet without words, no one remembers why it mattered.”
The silence that followed was heavy thicker than smoke.
Rægenwine broke it with a sigh.
“Gods save me, you two’ll argue even when one of you’s dyin’.”
Thunorric laughed once a short, broken sound that still carried warmth.
“Not dyin’, just tired.”
Outside, the storm grumbled one last time before fading into the hills.
Eadric stood at the door, watching the mist roll through the trees.
“They’ll be back,” he said. “Saxons don’t like losin’.”
“Then they’ll find us waitin’,” Dægan said.
Leofric met his gaze.
“How many storms can we survive?”
“As many as it takes,” the lawman replied.
James sat by the wall, knees tucked to his chest, eyes wide in the flicker of the fire. He’d seen battles in stories, never in flesh.
His father looked smaller now, human, but somehow more powerful for it . Not because he couldn’t die, but because he refused to.
Leofric reached across the table with his left hand, placing a quill beside the parchment.
“Rest,” he said softly. “The story will keep till morning.”
Thunorric closed his eyes, and for a moment, it was quiet enough to believe him.
James stirred from his place by the hearth, rubbing sleep from his eyes.
“Will Da be well?” he asked, voice small but steady.
Thunorric’s eyes flickered open, a tired grin crossing his face.
“Ah’m awlroight,” he rasped. “Takes more’n a Saxon spear to stop your old man.”
James nodded, though his lip trembled. He reached for his father’s hand, small fingers curling around calloused ones.
For a moment, even the fire seemed to soften its crackle.
Rægenwine watched from behind the counter, muttering,
“Ain’t nothin’ that’ll kill a Storm-kin not till the world’s ready.”
The boy smiled at that, and the brothers exchanged a glance that said more than words ever.
Author’s Note
After the chaos of The Law and the Storm. This quiet chapter shows what comes after the fight. When strength gives way to silence and survival becomes its own courage. The Storm-kin endure not because they can’t die, but because they refuse to fade.
Copyright Note© 2025 E. L. Hewitt / Stormborne Arts. All rights reserved.Unauthorized copying or reproduction of this artwork and text is prohibited.
Thank you for reading.
The Prophecies and Tales of Taranis Unfolded
The dawn came grey and sodden, dripping through the thatch. Smoke hung low in the rafters, curling like ghosts that hadn’t yet learned they were dead. The storm had passed, but the inn still smelled of thunder.
Rægenwine crouched by the hearth, coaxing a dull ember back to life. “Damp logs, stubborn gods,” he muttered, striking flint.
The brothers had slept little if they’d slept at all. Cups lay overturned on the table, and in the pale light the spiral mark still shimmered faintly in the grain.
Stormwulf sat nearest the fire, his son curled beneath his cloak. He stared into the ash as though the future will write itself there.
Leofric came softly from the loft, parchment clutched to his chest.
“He’s strong,” he said. “Red hair like the first dawn. What will you call him?”
“Thursson,” Stormwulf answered. “His mother chose it—said the lad’s forged of thunder same as I am.”
The door creaked again. Rainlight spilled across the floor, and half a dozen flame-haired youths filled the threshold broad-shouldered, bright-eyed, each carrying Stormwulf’s grin.
They strode for the bar, boots thudding.
“Ale,” most demanded.
“Yow got any mead?” asked the youngest, grin wide as summer.
“brother sword!” another shouted, tossing a blade across the room.
Rægenwine groaned. “Saints save me, the wolf’s whole litter’s come home.”
Stormwulf laughed, deep and rough. “Aye, looks like the storm breeds true.”
From the doorway Dægan watched, arms folded. “A plague of wolves,” he muttered. “Each one another storm for the world to weather.”
Leofric turned, quill poised. “You envy him, brother. He leaves his mark in flesh. You leave yours in law.”
“Law’s all that keeps men from tearing the world apart,” Dægan said.
“Then write that down too,” Leofric replied, smiling. “The law and the storm two sides of the same sky.”
Eadric appeared behind them, weighing a purse in one hand. “If we’re to keep this inn standing, we’d best start charging the lot of ’em.”
Before Rægenwine answered, Thunorric as the men called Stormwulf when business was afoot nodded toward the shadows by the wall.
“Payment, keep,” he said quietly.
A cloaked figure stepped ahead, rain still dripping from his hood, and dropped a leather bag onto the table. It hit with the dull weight of coin.
“Gold enough for board and barrels,” the man said.
Rægenwine blinked. “You’re payin’? Saints above, the world has turned.”
Thunorric only smirked. “Can’t have my lads drinkin’ the place dry and leavin’ you naught but splinters. Even wolves pay their keep.”
The laughter that followed broke the morning’s chill. For the first time since the storm, the inn felt like a home.
Outside, the clouds parted over the Chase, and light spilled through the shutters, turning the smoke to silver.
Leofric dipped his quill, wrote a single line, and whispered as he worked.
“Thus began the Age of the Storm-kin. When even peace sounded like rain upon the roof, and thunder learned to laugh again.
Copyright Note© 2025 E. L. Hewitt / Stormborne Arts. All rights reserved.Unauthorized copying or reproduction of this artwork and text is prohibited.Thank you for reading.
(Anglo-Saxon Cycle – c. 430 AD)
Rain hammered the shutters of Rægenwine’s inn until the boards shuddered. Smoke coiled in the rafters, thick with the scent of peat, wet wool, and spilled ale. Outside, the Chase moaned beneath the wind; the storm had teeth tonight.
Rægenwine wiped the counter with a rag that smelled of salt and hops.
“Ay,” he muttered, “always storms when old ghosts come knockin’.”
The door blew open without a knock. A tall man stepped in, cloak dripping, eyes hard as river-iron Dægan. Once Prefect of Pennocrucium, now a lawman in a land with no emperor to serve.
He crossed to the hearth, boots leaving muddy scars on the floor.
“Ale,” he said.
His voice still carried Rome’s cadence command given as fact, not asking.
“Tha’ll have it,” Rægenwine answered, pouring dark froth into a cup. “Never thought I’d serve one o’ Rome’s men again.”
Before Dægan replied, another gust tore the door wide. Smoke and rain flooded the room and through it came Stormwulf, the outlaw the peasants called Thunorric. The fire flared white as he passed, throwing lightning on the walls.
“Salve, frater. Iam diu est,” he said with a half-smile that was never quite humour. Greetings, brother. It’s been a long time.
Dægan’s hand went to the hilt at his belt.
“You’ve no right to that tongue.”
“Quomodo te appello?” Stormwulf asked softly How shall I name you now?
Before Dægan answered, a voice from the benches called out,
“He’s a lawman, that one.”
Stormwulf’s grin sharpened.
“Aye. He was the Prefect. The Romans handed their slaves to the invaders”
He stepped closer, rain dripping from his hair, thunder answering outside.
“so what are you goin’ to do, Dægan? Arrest me?”
The two stared, silence vibrating between them like drawn wire.
“Peace, brothers,” said Leofric, the scribe, descending from the loft with a candle and a roll of parchment. Ink stained his fingers; wax flecks dotted his sleeves.
“Wyrd wendað geara-wælceare,” he murmured. “Fate turns the years of slaughter. It turns again tonight.”
Dægan’s eyes flicked toward him.
“You sent the summons?”
Leofric shook his head.
“No man did. The seal was older than any of us.”
A chair scraped. Eadric, rings glinting on every finger, rose from the shadows.
“Does it matter who called us? Trade dies, war comes, the Saxons push east. If the Storm-kin don’t stand together, we’ll all be dust by spring.”
Rægenwine set fresh cups on the table.
“Stand together, fight together, die together. Same as ever. You lot never learn.” He said it lightly, but his hands trembled.
Lightning cracked overhead. For an instant the five faces glowed judge, scribe, merchant, keeper, outlaw the bloodline reborn into another dying age.
Stormwulf lifted his drink.
“Then here’s to what’s left of us. The law’s gone, the kings are blind, an’ the wolves are hungry. Let’s give the world somethin’ to remember.”
They drank. The fire roared as if an unseen god breathed through it. Thunder rolled away toward the hills, leaving only rain whispering on the thatch.
For a heartbeat it felt like peace.
Then the door creaked again.
A small figure stood in the threshold a boy, ten, slim and flame-haired, his tunic soaked to the knees. His wide eyes caught every glint of the fire.
“Papà… who are these men?” he asked, looking straight at Stormwulf.
The outlaw froze. The cup slipped in his hand; ale hissed on the hearth.
Rægenwine raised his brows.
“By the saints, the wolf’s got a cub.”
Leofric’s candle wavered.
“Stormwulf has a son.”
The boy straightened, chin lifting with pride.
“Yam son thirteen,” he said, the Chase thick in his voice.
Dægan exhaled slowly.
“You hide a child through war and outlawry? What future do you think you give him?”
Stormwulf met his brother’s gaze.
“The same future Rome gave us only this time he’ll choose his chains.”
Eadric leaned forward, eyes narrowing.
“Then he’s the legacy. That’s why we were called.”
Leofric touched the parchment to his heart.
“The blood renews itself. The storm passes from father to son.”
Rægenwine poured the boy a sip of watered ale and pushed it across the counter.
“Ay, lad, welcome to the trouble. Name’s Rægenwine. Don’t worry we only bite when cornered.”
The boy smiled, uncertain but brave. Thunder rolled again, softer now, echoing deep in the forest.
Stormwulf placed a hand on the child’s shoulder.
“Whatever comes, we stand together. Storm-kin, by storm or steel.”
Dægan gave a curt nod.
“Then let it be written.”
Leofric’s quill scratched across the parchment, capturing the words before they fade.
When the last ember dimmed, a faint spiral. Had burned itself into the table’s grain the mark of the Stormborne glowing like lightning caught in wood.
Leofric broke the silence.
“You said son thirteen, Stormwulf. So you’ve others?”
The outlaw’s mouth twisted into a grin.
“Give or take fifty not all born to the same mother. Some Roman, some Saxon.”
Eadric laughed low.
“You’ve turned legacy into a trade.”
Stormwulf raised his cup.
“The world burns fast, brother. Someone’s got to leave a few sparks behind. Don’t act innocent, Dægan lawmen breed as quick as wolves. And Draven aye, you’ve your share.”
His gaze slid to Rægenwine.
“What of you, innkeeper?”
Rægenwine shrugged.
“My children’re these four walls, and the fools they shelter. That’s enough family for me.”
The fire sighed. Outside, the rain softened to mist over the Chase
Copyright Note© 2025 E. L. Hewitt / Stormborne Arts. All rights reserved.Unauthorized copying or reproduction of this artwork and text is prohibited.Thank you for reading.
The Prophecies and Tales of Taranis Unfolded
Join the Adventure in Tales of Rayne’s Universe
Ancient Magic and Myth of the Stormborne
Every age reshapes its heroes.
When Rome fell and Britain fractured into the wild patchwork of the Anglo-Saxon kingdoms. The tongues of the land changed too. Latin softened into Old English; titles faded into kin-names; family names hadn’t yet been born.
To keep the story true to its time. The Stormborne brothers now wear the names their world would have given them.
Earlier Name Anglo-Saxon Form Meaning / Role
Drax changed to Dægan which means “Daylight.” The lawman who still carries Rome’s order into a darker age.
Lore changed to Leofric the meaning of thid name is “Beloved ruler.” The scribe whose ink preserves the old magic and the new faith.
Draven was changed to Eadric which means “Wealth-ruler.” The freeman-merchant who keeps the Storm-kin fed when kings fail.
Rayne Rægenwine “Counsel-friend.” The innkeeper who shelters all sides when storms rise.
Taranis Stormwulf / Thunorric “Storm-wolf / Thunder-ruler.” The outlaw lord, half legend, half warning.
Surnames did not yet exist. So “Stormborne” becomes a title rather than a family name a mark carried in blood and story.
The people call them the Storm-kin, those who walk beneath thunder and never yield.These changes let the saga move naturally into the fifth century. without losing the heart of the brothers or the world they built.
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.
A Bronze Age Tribute to the Earth
O great Mother who sleeps beneath stone.
In furrowed field and marrowed bone,
We offer you meat, we offer you flame
Remember your children. Remember our name.
Your womb is the cave,
your blood is the stream,
You whisper to Seers in fragments of dream.
Your hands shaped mountains,
your sighs formed seas,
You cradle the dead in roots and leaves.
We plough your skin,
we drink your tears,
We dance our grief, we plant our fears.
When thunder calls, we do not hide
For storm and soil walk side by side.
In every harvest,
every stone we place.
In ashes, in births, in memory’s face.
We speak your truth with drum and horn
That from the dark, all life is born.
The hillfort rose like a scar upon the earth raw, unfinished, powerful in its promise.
Stones clattered as men worked shoulder to shoulder. Logs were rolled into place, lashed with thick rope and secured by wedges of bone and bronze. Children ran between the scaffolds, delivering water or watching with wide eyes as their future took shape.
It was a day like no other.
The sun hung low over the horizon, casting a golden sheen across the half-built wall. Birds circled above, uneasy. The animals in the nearby woods had gone silent.
Sir Gael, the oldest warrior among the fort’s guardians, paused to wipe sweat from his brow. His grey-streaked beard was heavy with dust. He glanced upward, his hand stilled mid-motion.
“Commander Drax,” he said, his voice strangely calm. “Look.”
Drax turned his shoulders broad, his eyes as sharp as the spear he carried.
Above them, the sky split.
A roar echoed across the valley not of wind, nor beast, but something far older. The builders dropped their tools. The children froze. Heads tilted toward the heavens.
The clouds churned as if afraid. And from them, something vast and terrible descended.
A dragon.
Wings wide as the river’s span. Scales that shimmered with green, gold, and a glint of crimson. Pendragon, King of the Sky. A creature from legend — spoken of in firelit whispers and dream-songs passed down by the Flamekeepers.
And on his back rode a man.
Tall. Armoured in blackened bronze. A red cloak fluttered behind him like a banner of blood and flame. His grey eyes gleamed with the fury of storms.
Taranis Stormborne.
The exiled boy. The returning myth. The High Warlord.
Sir Gael dropped to one knee. The others followed not out of fear, but reverence.
“Is it truly him?” someone whispered.
A small girl tugged at her father’s tunic. “Daddy… is he the one the Seer spoke of?”
Her father a scarred builder named Halvor looked to Drax for guidance.
Drax did not speak at first.
He simply nodded.
“It’s possible, young one.”
The dragon roared again. Pendragon spiralled downward, his wings churning the air so fiercely that dust clouds rose from the hilltop. Yet the High Warlord stood unshaken upon his back, one hand on the saddlehorn, the other raised in greeting.
He did not fall.
Not once.
He rode the wind like it was his birthright.
When Pendragon finally landed upon the high ridge, silence followed. Even the wind dared not move.
Taranis slid down with the ease of a seasoned warrior. His boots hit the ground with a thud like thunder. Behind him, the dragon crouched, its golden eyes watching all with quiet fire.
Drax stepped forward.
“Taranis,” he said, voice cracking. “You’ve returned.”
Taranis nodded. “And you’ve begun.”
He looked past his brother to the rising fort, half-finished but brimming with hope.
“Stone and sweat,” he said. “It’s a good beginning.”
Lore emerged next from the shadows, staff in hand. “The prophecy breathes,” he said.
“It was written: When sky and fire meet the hill. The son shall return to shape the land with storm and blood.”
A murmur passed through the gathering crowd.
Taranis took a slow breath, then turned to the workers.
“I am no king,” he said, voice deep and sure. “I do not bring crowns or glory. I bring a future. A place for the broken and the brave. A shield for our young. A fire for our old.”
He lifted his sword.
“This land this fort will stand not just for the Stormborne. It will stand for all who remember. For those cast out. For those who bled. We rise not to conquer, but to endure.”
Cheers broke across the hilltop.
Some wept. Others simply stared, mouths open, unsure if they stood in a dream or waking world.
The children gathered near the dragon’s feet, staring up in awe. Pendragon blinked slowly and lowered his head so they touch his scaled snout.
The girl from before her name was Marla reached out, fingers trembling.
“He’s warm,” she whispered.
Sir Gael stood beside Drax, smiling through his years.
“I thought the stories were just that,” he said. “Stories.”
“Some stories,” Lore said, “are simply waiting for the right time.”
That night, fires were lit along the hilltop. The beginnings of the wall gleamed in the torchlight, casting long shadows over the land. Meat was roasted. Bread was broken.
At the centre sat the brothers Stormborne Taranis, Drax, and Lore their heads bent together, planning the days to come.
Boldolph and Morrigan, the sacred wolves, lay on either side of the war table. Watchful. Silent.
Above them, high in the sky, Pendragon remained perched. His wings wrapped around the star-streaked air like a guardian angel of old. Next to the dragon was a black dragon
“They fought with us and now they returned “
“I’m staying as long as needed ” taranis knelt to the children “this beast us pendragon and that ones Tiarneach “
The hillfort was far from finished.
But something greater had begun.
Hope.
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 : lThe 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
StormborneLore 