StormborneLore

Tag: Original Story

  • The Law and the Storm

    The Law and the Storm

    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 ask.

    “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 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?”

    “No man did,” Leofric said. “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.”

    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 ahead, 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 burned itself into the table’s grain the mark of the Stormborne glowing like lightning caught in wood.

    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 coaxed a dull ember back to life.

    “Damp logs, stubborn gods,” he muttered.

    Stormwulf sat nearest the fire, his son curled beneath his cloak.

    Leofric came softly from the loft.

    “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. Half a dozen flame-haired youths entered broad-shouldered, bright-eyed, each carrying Stormwulf’s grin.

    “Ale,” most demanded.
    “Yow got any mead?” asked the youngest.
    “Hey, 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.

    “Aye, looks like the storm breeds true.”

    Dægan watched from the doorway.

    “A plague of wolves,” he muttered.

    Leofric turned, smiling.

    “You envy him, brother. He leaves his mark in flesh. You leave yours in law.”

    Eadric appeared behind them, weighing a purse.

    “If we’re to keep this inn standing, we’d best start charging the lot of ’em.”

    Thunorric when business was afoot nodded to the shadows.

    “Payment, keep,” he said.

    A cloaked man dropped a leather bag onto the table.

    “Gold enough for board and barrels,” he said.

    Rægenwine blinked.

    “You’re payin’? Saints above, the world has turned.”

    “Even wolves pay their keep,” Thunorric said with a smirk.

    Laughter rolled through the rafters, breaking the morning’s chill.

    Stormwulf pushed through the curtain into the back room, air thick with smoke.

    “So how much trouble am I in, big brother?”

    “Depends,” Dægan said. “How many laws did you break before breakfast?”

    “Lost count somewhere between robbin’ Romans and raisin’ sons.”

    They shared a thin smile.

    “You think the world can be mended with rules,” Stormwulf said. “I mend it with fire.”

    “Fire burns more than it heals.”

    “Aye but it keeps the dark away.”

    They held each other’s gaze law and chaos, both carved from the same storm.

    “Sit,” Dægan said at last. “If you’re to be judged, we’ll at least drink first.”

    “That’s the best sentence I’ve heard all week.”

    As they drank, Thunorric said quietly,

    “It’s been four hundred years, brother. Right?”

    Dægan paused.

    “I stopped counting after the legions left. Kingdoms fall, years blur.”

    “Aye, but they always fall. Rome, Albion same storm, new banners.”

    “And yet we stay,” Dægan murmured. “To guard or to burn.”

    “Both, maybe,” Thunorric said. “That’s what we were made for.”

    The candle guttered between them, flame bowing like it was listening.

    “Just promise me, Leofric and you too, Dægan if anything happens to me, look after those kids.”

    Thunorric shifted, cloak pulling aside to show blood darkening the linen.

    “You’re bleeding,” Leofric said.

    “It was over a girl,” he muttered. “Saxon soldiers had her chained for stealing bread.”

    “You fought soldiers for that?”

    “Wouldn’t you?” he rasped. “She was no older than James. They called it justice; I called it cruelty. We didn’t see eye to eye.”

    “You never learn,” Dægan said.

    “Aye,” Thunorric smiled faintly, “and the day I do, the world’ll be colder for it.”

    He left for air, ignoring the pain. Rain had stopped; the Chase glistened.

    For a few breaths he walked, cloak heavy with water then his knees gave way. He hit the ground, one arm reaching for the forest.

    Inside, Rægenwine frowned.

    “That sounded like someone droppin’ a cart.”

    Leofric and Dægan rushed outside.

    “Da! He’s down!” one of the lads cried.

    They knelt beside him; blood soaked the mud.

    “Hold on, brother,” Dægan said. “Four hundred years you’ve cheated death you don’t start losin’ now.”

    Thunorric’s lips moved, faint smile ghosting his face.

    “Told you… fire keeps the dark away…”

    The rain began again, soft as breath.

    James froze, head tilting.

    “Is that a whistle?”

    A low, rising note drifted through the mist.

    “Signal,” Dægan said. “Not ours.”

    Another whistle answered, closer now.

    “Da’s men?”

    “No,” Leofric said. “Whoever they are… they’ve been waitin’ for this.”

    A rough voice from the treeline growled,

    “Not us, boy that’s Saxon.”

    The forest fell silent but for the wind.

    Thunorric stirred where he lay.

    “Leofric’s,” he rasped. “That whistle it’s his. He only uses it when death’s close.”

    Another note cut through the Chase.

    “Then he’s not alone out there,” Dægan said.

    “Aye. And if he’s callin’ the storm, we’d best be ready to meet it.”

    “When was your father’s last meal?” Leofric asked the boys.

    “A month back,” James said.

    “Then he’s runnin’ on stubbornness alone,” Leofric muttered. “Keep him still.”

    Outside, the whistle sounded again then steel rang in the mist.

    Thunorric gritted his teeth, forcing himself upright.

    “If Leofric’s callin’ the storm, it’s for me. Always has been.”

    “You’ll tear that wound open,” Dægan warned.

    “Better that than let him face it alone.”

    He rose, blood dripping, and gave a sharp whistle of his own Leofric’s answer.

    “Stay here,” he told James. “If I don’t come back, you listen to your uncle.”

    He staggered through the doorway into the mist, sword dragging behind him.

    Dægan cursed, after.

    “Storm-kin don’t fall alone.”

    Thunder rolled across the Chase, echoing through the trees then silence before the storm.

    The mist swallowed the world. Branches loomed like ghosts, dripping with rain. Every sound was magnified the squelch of mud, the whisper of steel.

    Thunorric slowed, hand pressed to his side, sword held low.
    Dægan shadowed him, eyes scanning the treeline.

    “You be best standin’ back, lawman,” Thunorric said without looking round. “Leo was one o’ mine. Last thing I need is your laws gettin’ in the way.”

    “My laws keep men alive,” Dægan answered.

    “So does killin’ the right ones,” Thunorric shot back.

    They stopped at the edge of a clearing. where the fog thinned just enough to show movement figures circling something in the centre. The shrill whistle came again, shorter now, followed by a cry that cut straight through the trees.

    Leofric.

    Thunorric’s grip tightened.

    “Stay if yow like, brother. I’m done talkin’.”

    He charged through the undergrowth, cloak snapping behind him. Dægan cursed and followed, drawing his blade.

    Shapes turned Saxon warriors, five, maybe six, ringed around a man bound to a tree. Blood ran down his sleeve where his quill-hand had been cut. Leofric’s eyes widened as Thunorric burst into the clearing.

    “Told you he’d come,” one of the Saxons sneered. “The ghost of Pennocrucium, they call him. Let’s see if ghosts bleed.”

    Thunorric didn’t answer. His sword flashed, catching the first man across the throat. The mist erupted into chaos steel, shouting, thunder breaking overhead.

    Dægan waded in beside him, parrying a spear and driving his blade home with Roman precision.
    For all their differences, the brothers fought as one storm and law bound together by blood.

    When the last Saxon fell, silence returned, broken only by the rain hissing on iron.

    Thunorric staggered, breath ragged, and tore the ropes from Leofric’s wrists.

    “Told yow not to go wanderin’,” he rasped.

    Leofric smiled weakly.

    “Couldn’t let the story end without you.”

    Thunorric’s hand trembled, blood darkening his sleeve again.

    “This tale’s not endin’ yet.”

    Dægan caught his brother’s arm before he fell.

    “You’ve done enough for one day.”

    “Aye,” Thunorric breathed, staring at the bodies. “But the storm’s not done with us.”

    Overhead, lightning split the sky, white against the Chase. The thunder that followed sounded almost like a name old, familiar, and waiting.

    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.

    Further Reading

    The Prophecies and Tales of Taranis Unfolded

    The Chronicles of Drax

    Join the Adventure in Tales of Rayne’s Universe

    Chronicles of Draven

    Ancient Magic and Myth of the Stormborne

  • The Whispering Stones of Emberhelm

    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.

  • Unraveling Secrets: Rayne’s Silent Journey

    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.

  • The Silent Rebellion

    The Silent Rebellion

    “Taranis is our baby brother, no matter what some think,” Drax growled, his voice low and edged with iron. His gaze locked on Rain across the firelight, sharp enough to cut stone. “You betrayed him when he was a child and you betray him now.”

    Rain’s jaw tightened, but he did not speak. The silence stretched between them, thick with memory and regret.

    The old priest, Maeron, lifted his hand gently. “He forgives you, Rain,” he said, his tone weary yet steady. “He wanted Drax, Draven, and Lore to know he will endure what they give him. So that you three will survive. He says to make choices that will keep you all safe and your people.”

    Drax’s expression did not soften, though his eyes flickered with something that have been pain. “He forgives far too easily.”

    Maeron inclined his head. “Forgiveness is not weakness, my lord. It is the weapon of those who can’t be broken. The Romans won’t rule forever. Prepare for what comes next.”

    At the edge of the fire, Caelum shifted uneasily, his young face caught between fear and pride. “But what about my uncle’s meals?” he asked suddenly. “Uncle was exiled from the Circle years before they caught him. I was a baby then. Now I’m fourteen he shouldn’t be forgotten again.”

    The words silenced the hall. Even Rain, for all his bitterness, not meet the boy’s gaze.

    Drax rose slowly, the firelight glinting off his scars. “He will not be forgotten,” he said at last. “Not while the storm still bears our name.”

    “But won’t they strip him of his name?” Caelum pressed, voice trembling now. “If Rome erases it, how will anyone know he lived?”

    Drax looked down at his son the fire’s glow. Reflected in the boy’s wide eyes and placed a steady hand on his shoulder.

    “Names can be taken,” he said quietly. “But legacies can’t. The Romans think power is carved in stone. Ours is carved in memory.”

    He turned back to Maeron. “Tell him that. Tell him Emberhelm remembers.”

    The priest nodded, rising to leave. But before he turned, his gaze swept the circle of men gathered in the hall. “When the storm returns,” he said softly, “I hope you are ready to stand beneath it.”

    When Maeron’s footsteps faded into the night, the hall remained silent. The storm outside broke, rain hammering against the shutters like the echo of distant drums.

    Drax stood by the window long after the others had gone. He could not see the fort from here, but he could feel it the iron cage that held his brother. The empire pressing closer each season. Yet as lightning flashed over the valley, he smiled grimly.

    Because storms, no matter how long they’re caged, always find their way home.

    The road to Viroconium was slick with rain. Drax rode beneath a low sky, his cloak heavy with water, the wind biting at his face. Beside him, Maeron’s hood was drawn deep, the priest’s silence carrying the weight of things better left unspoken.

    When they reached the outskirts of the Roman fort, the air stank of smoke and iron. The rhythmic clash of hammers and the cries of soldiers echoed through the mist. But above it all, there was another sound low, strained, human.

    Drax reined his horse sharply, his eyes narrowing.

    At the edge of the square, raised above the mud and the murmuring crowd. Hung a man bound to a crude wooden cross. Blood streaked his arms, his body marked by lashes and bruises. His hair clung to his face in the rain. But the set of his jaw the defiant lift of his head was unmistakable.

    Taranis.

    Drax’s heart clenched as the legionnaire stepped forward, spear in hand. “He struck a guard and tried to run,” the man said stiffly. “By Roman law, the punishment is public display.”

    “Law,” Drax echoed, his voice quiet, almost a whisper but Maeron flinched at the tone. “You call this law?”

    The soldier hesitated, but before he could respond, Maeron laid a hand on Drax’s arm. “Careful,” he murmured. “The walls have ears.”

    Drax dismounted, boots sinking into the mud. He walked forward until he stood before the cross, rain washing the grime from his face. Taranis raised his head slowly, eyes bloodshot but burning with that same inner fire that no empire could snuff out.

    “Brother,” Drax whispered.

    Taranis gave a faint, broken smile. “You shouldn’t have come.”

    “And leave you to the crows?” Drax’s voice cracked like thunder. “Never.”

    Maeron stepped forward, murmuring Latin prayers under his breath for the watching soldiers. Though his words were laced with druidic meaning ancient phrases meant to shield, not to save. His fingers brushed the iron nails that bound Taranis’s wrists. “These are not deep,” he said quietly. “They did not mean to kill him. Only to shame.”

    Taranis’s laugh was hoarse. “They can’t shame what they don’t understand.”

    The centurion appeared, cloak heavy with rain. “This man belongs to Rome,” he declared. “You will step back, Lord of Emberhelm.”

    Drax turned slowly, the weight of centuries in his gaze. “And yet Rome forgets whose land it stands upon.”

    The centurion stiffened. “Do you threaten?”

    “No.” Drax’s tone softened to a dangerous calm. “I remind.”

    The priest raised his hands quickly. “My lord only seeks mercy,” Maeron said. “Let him pray with his brother before the gods.”

    After a pause, the centurion gestured sharply. “You have one hour.”

    When the soldiers withdrew to the gatehouse, Drax knelt beside the cross. The rain had turned to sleet, stinging against his skin. “Hold on,” he murmured. “We’ll get you down when the watch changes.”

    Taranis shook his head weakly. “No. Not yet. If you cut me down, they’ll know you came. They’ll burn Emberhelm.”

    “Then let them come,” Drax growled.

    But Taranis only smiled faintly. “Storms must wait for the right sky, brother.”

    Maeron placed a hand on Drax’s shoulder. “He’s right. Endurance, not rage. That is his rebellion.”

    Drax bowed his head, jaw clenched. He hated the wisdom in those words. He hated that Taranis could still smile through chains and nails.

    As dusk fell, lightning cracked beyond the hills, white and wild. The storm gathered again over Viroconium.

    And though Rome saw only a prisoner’s suffering. Those who remembered the old ways knew the truth:
    A storm had been crucified and still, it did not die.

    Further Reading

    The Chronicles of Drax

  • The Chains of Emberhelm

    The Chains of Emberhelm

    The dawn was cold, a thin veil of mist curling over the ramparts of the Roman fort. Taranis awoke to the metallic tang of iron and the distant clang of the blacksmith’s hammer.

    His chains clinked softly as he shifted. The cold biting into bruised wrists, but the fire in his chest remained unbroken. He had learned to sleep with storms in his mind; the thunder never ceased, even when the sky cleared.

    The sentries passed with measured steps, their eyes avoiding his. Even in chains, Taranis carried the weight of warning: a storm was bound, not broken.

    Marcos stirred beside him, shoulders tense with age and pain.
    “They move you today,” he muttered, voice low. “Legionaries say they march prisoners to the amphitheatre. Another show… or training for others. Rome’s curiosity is insatiable.”

    Taranis flexed his wrists against the iron, listening to the rhythm of the camp. The clatter of swords, the measured steps of patrols. The faint murmur of Latin all part of the pulse of this cage. He did not fear. He calculated.

    The centurion arrived just as the morning sun began to pierce the mist. A figure of red and bronze framed against the wooden palisade.


    “Stormborne,” he said, voice sharp, “prepare to march. Rome watches, and your survival is… optional.”

    Taranis rose slowly, chains rattling in protest.

    “Optional,” he echoed, smirk tugging at his lips, “like the wind choosing which trees to break.”

    The march was silent, the prisoners lined in pairs, shields clinking and armor scraping. Taranis felt the eyes of the Romans on him, not all hostile.

    The Curiosity and caution blended in the same gaze. Word had spread of his defiance surviving crucifixion. But unyielding under whip and sword and whispers of the “Storm of Emberhelm” made even hardened legionaries pause.

    They crossed the outer hills and entered the amphitheatre grounds. Dust rose from the packed earth, carrying the scent of sweat, straw, and fear. The arena awaited not yet for combat, but for demonstration, for Rome’s fascination with endurance.

    Taranis’ chains were secured to a central post. Around him, other prisoners fidgeted and whispered. He noticed the boy from the march days ago. A little child of six years old hiding behind a stack of crates, pale fingers gripping a fragment of bread. Their eyes met, and Taranis gave a faint nod not reassurance, not command, just acknowledgment.

    A guard stepped forward, coiling a whip in his hand. “Today, we measure the storm,” he said in Latin, the words sharp as steel. “Let us see if the barbarian bends to Rome.”

    Taranis let the chains pull taut, shoulders braced. “Storms bend only to themselves,” he whispered, almost to the wind.

    The first demonstration began. Spears and short swords were thrust toward him, each movement designed to test, to gauge. Taranis shifted with the grace of the hunted and the hunter intertwined. As he continues deflecting, twisting, and using the very pull of the chains to redirect momentum.

    Every strike met resistance, every thrust was countered. The audience of soldiers murmured in disbelief.

    Marcos watched from the side, leaning heavily on his staff. “Still untamed,” he muttered. “Still Emberhelm.”

    The sun climbed, and with it, Taranis’ endurance was tested further. Roman instructors pressed harder, pushing his limits, yet he remained unmoved, his grey eyes sharp as lightning.

    When at last the centurion called an end, sweat streaming and blood staining the mud, Taranis did not collapse.

    He simply lowered his gaze, catching a brief glimpse of the distant hills beyond the fort. Freedom waited there, somewhere beyond chains and Roman order.

    As the prisoners were herded back to their quarters, Taranis’ mind raced. Rome could cage him, whip him, measure his endurance, but it could not touch the storm in his heart. The pulse of Emberhelm beat in every step, every breath, every thought of revenge, strategy, and survival.

    That night, as firelight danced across the walls of the fort and the whistle of wind through battlements echoed like distant thunder, Taranis sat, chained but unbroken, and whispered to himself:

    “Let Rome watch. Let them wait. Storms do not obey. Storms endure. And storms return.”

    Night in the Roman fort was never truly silent. Even beneath the canopy of stars, there was always the creak of timber. The shuffle of soldiers on watch, the hiss of oil lamps dying in the cold wind. Yet somewhere beyond that human rhythm, another sound pulsed faint, rhythmic, like the heartbeat of the land itself.

    Taranis listened.

    He had learned to hear through walls of stone and iron. The whispers of chains, the breath of the wind through narrow slits.All were messages if one knew how to listen.

    Marcos stirred nearby, groaning as he rolled against the rough bedding. “You hear it again,” he murmured, voice barely a rasp. “The storm that waits?”

    Taranis’ eyes were half-shut, the dim firelight carving hollows beneath his cheekbones. “The storm doesn’t wait,” he said softly. “It watches.”

    He turned the small iron shackle at his wrist, feeling for the weak link not yet ready, but close. Every night he tested it. Every day, he marked the rhythm of the guards, the rotation of their watch. Patience, he reminded himself. Storms struck only when the wind was right.

    Beyond the barracks, the faint roar of the sea carried inland. Somewhere past those black waters lay the route to Gaul and beyond that, Rome. The thought of being caged beneath marble arches made his blood run colder than the chains.

    The door creaked open.
    A shadow slipped inside small, quick, hesitant. The boy from the arena. He carried a satchel and a half-broken torch.

    “They’ll see you,” Marcos hissed.

    The boy shook his head. “The north wall guard sleeps. He drinks too much. I brought you this.” From the satchel, he pulled a narrow blade no longer than a hand, its edge dulled but serviceable.

    Taranis took it without a word, his fingers brushing the boy’s for a heartbeat. “Why?” he asked.

    The boy’s voice trembled. “Because you didn’t kill me when they told you to. Because the others they say you were a king once.”

    Taranis looked up then, eyes grey as frost. “A king?” He almost smiled. “No. A storm given form. And Rome can chain storms, but it can not make them serve.”

    The boy swallowed, uncertain whether to fear or believe him. “Then what will you do?”

    Taranis turned the blade in his hand, the firelight glinting off the iron. “Wait,” he said. “And remember.”

    He hid the weapon within the straw bedding, marking its place with a small twist of rope. Then he looked toward the sliver of moonlight cutting across the dirt floor. A thought of home of the high ridges above Emberhelm, of his brothers’ faces fading in memory. Rayne’s eyes full of guilt. Drax’s silence. Draven’s quiet grief.

    He did not hate them. Not yet. But the distance between them had become as sharp as any blade.

    When dawn came, the fort stirred again the horns of the morning watch echoing across the fields. The centurion approached, flanked by two guards.


    “Stormborne,” he said, voice cold. “The governor himself has taken interest. You are to be moved south to Londinium within a fortnight.”

    Taranis met his gaze. “To be paraded, then? Or displayed?”

    The centurion smiled faintly. “Displayed, perhaps. Studied, certainly. Rome values curiosities.”

    Taranis’ jaw tightened, but his eyes betrayed nothing. Inside, the storm turned once more.

    He whispered beneath his breath, too low for the Romans to hear:

    As the guards led him from the barracks. He caught a glimpse of the horizon low clouds gathering over the hills, rolling in from the west. It was almost poetic.

    “Emberhelm still breathes.”

    That night, the chains whispered again not with fear, but with promise. The weak link shuddered beneath his fingers.
    And when the next storm broke over Viroconium, it would not be made of rain.

    It would be made of iron.

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    FURTHER READING

    The Prophecies and Tales of Taranis Unfolded

  • The Broken Circle: Rayne’s Fight for Survival

    The Broken Circle: Rayne’s Fight for Survival

    The Shattered Path

    The roads ahead were quiet, the wind carrying the scent of burnt heather and distant sea. Each hoofbeat of my mount reminded me that the choice I had made was mine alone, and yet its echo stretched far beyond my chest.

    Whispers followed me like shadows. Some were real the wary eyes of villagers, the wary glances of traveling merchants. Others were imagined, the scornful voices of my brothers, of Taranis, of the Ring itself. I did not flinch. Survival was colder than fear, sharper than guilt.

    The circle was gone, fractured beneath my hand, yet its memory clung to the land. I felt it in every hollow, every mound, every stone left untouched, as if the earth itself remembered the covenant we had sworn. I had broken it not for power, not for spite, but for a chance to bend fate toward life.

    Rome was patient. I knew that. And I knew too that the storm I had once sought to command in Taranis’s fury could now rise in me, subtle, quiet, lethal if misjudged. The choice of the traitor is never simple. It is measured in survival, in timing, in knowing the cost before the world dares to demand it.

    Ahead, a ridge cut the horizon, the pale sun glinting over the salt flats. I pulled my cloak tighter, letting the chill remind me that I was still breathing, still moving, still in control of this shattered path.

    The Ring was broken. But perhaps, in that fracture, a new pattern could emerge. One I alone might trace.

    I rode past the remnants of burned villages and overturned carts, careful to keep to the high ground. From this distance, nothing looked alive; yet every shadow could be a scout, every rustle a whisper of accusation. I had betrayed the circle, but I had not betrayed survival. That distinction, razor-thin, I carried like a blade at my side.

    Even so, the memory of Taranis lingered. I imagined him, bound in chains, his eyes storm-grey beneath a sky that mirrored his wrath. Some part of me hoped he hated me. Another part the part I refused to acknowledge wished he would understand.

    I reached the edge of a woodland and dismounted. The quiet crackle of dead leaves underfoot reminded me of my childhood in Compton, of paths once walked under open skies, where choice had been play, not consequence. Here, choice was survival. Choice was betrayal.

    A messenger approached, a thin man with a letter sealed in the eagle of Rome. I took it with careful fingers, breaking the seal only when I was certain no eyes watched. The words were simple, direct, and chilling:

    “Keep the Ring moving. Keep the pieces apart. Rome watches, and the storm will be rewarded or crushed at our discretion.”

    I folded the letter slowly, feeling its weight far heavier than the paper it was written on. Rome had not forgotten, and neither had the Circle though I was its only witness now.

    I paused at a stream, letting my mount drink, listening to the water whisper over stones. I thought of my brothers, of Drax, of Lore, of Draven. Each had reacted differently to Taranis’s capture, to my choice. Some with anger, some with fear, some with silent, unspoken questions. And some… had already begun to take paths I could not predict.

    Even here, on the open road, I felt the pull of power, subtle and insidious. The Ring had been broken, yes, but its legacy endured. That legacy could guide me—or consume me.

    As night fell, I made camp beneath a lone oak, its twisted branches scratching the dark sky like fingers of fate. I allowed myself a single, quiet thought before sleep claimed me:

    The storm does not always strike. Sometimes it waits, gathers, watches… and then it returns, quiet, inevitable, unstoppable.

    The following morning, I rode again, the mist curling around the trees like living breath. Villagers had begun to recognize me, whispers trailing my passage. Traitor. Survivor. Coward. Protector. All names carried weight, none carried comfort. I ignored them. Survival required more than comfort; it required cold calculation.

    By mid-morning, I encountered a small party of mercenaries scouts from a northern lord, curious about the broken Circle. They eyed me cautiously, their hands brushing the hilts of swords. I allowed a faint smile, enough to disarm suspicion. Words were sharper than steel when wielded carefully.

    “I go where the path leads,” I said, voice steady. “I am alone. None should follow.”

    They studied me, hesitated, then nodded, scattering into the woods. Even in my isolation, the choices of others shifted around me. Allies, enemies sometimes the line blurred, sometimes it vanished entirely.

    Hours later, I made camp near a ruined chapel, overgrown with ivy and stones worn smooth by centuries. Flames licked at damp wood as I pondered the Circle, Taranis, and the pieces of the Ring now scattered across Britain. I could feel their influence, subtle, almost like a heartbeat beneath the earth. The storm of Emberhelm was not gone. It only waited.

    A shadow moved near the edge of the firelight. I tensed, hand brushing the hilt of my dagger. The figure emerged: an old acquaintance, one of the scouts I had trained alongside in youth. His face betrayed both awe and fear.

    “You broke the Circle,” he whispered, voice shaking. “And yet… you ride on.”

    “I did what was necessary,” I said simply. “The Circle survives only in memory if we all fall. I intend to endure.”

    He nodded, unease clinging to his gaze. “And Taranis?”

    The name struck like a lance, but my expression remained calm. “He lives. That is enough for now. The storm is his. And perhaps it will return to me when I need it most.”

    Night deepened. I lay beneath the ivy-draped stones, listening to the forest breathe. Each rustle, each call of distant creatures reminded me that life persisted, even when the world was fractured.

    Survival, I reminded myself again, was not glory. It was endurance, patience, and the quiet shaping of what must come next.

    And somewhere, far beyond the reach of my sight, the echoes of Emberhelm stirred, waiting for the right moment to rise again.

  • The Houses of Caernath. Part 4

    The Houses of Caernath. Part 4

    The Wolf and His Warlord

    The scent of blood still hung on the morning mist. Mingling with the smoke from the still-burning ridge beyond Emberhelm’s eastern watch.

    The gates had only just been sealed behind the last returning scouts. The courtyard was filled with low murmurs and the clang of steel being resharpened.

    Taranis Stormborne stood alone beneath the stone arch, his shoulders squared but his body streaked in ash and dried blood. The battle had ended. Victory had been claimed.

    And yet, the courtyard was quiet. Too quiet.

    Then came the growl.

    It rumbled low at first, barely more than a whisper on the wind. Before shaping itself into something unmistakable the warning bark of a wolf that knew disappointment far more intimately than fear.

    Boldolph emerged from the shadow of the stables, his half-wolf form towering, claws still sheathed in crusted gore. His red eyes burned with something deeper than rage. Not fury. Not even grief.

    It was wrath tempered by love.

    “You damned fool,” Boldolph snarled, stalking toward the warlord. “You should’ve waited.”

    Taranis didn’t flinch. He met the wolf-man’s gaze with that same infuriating storm-steeled calm. “I had to act.”

    “You had to die?” Boldolph’s snarl cut through the air. “That’s what you wanted? To fall alone so the bards sing about it later?”

    “I had to protect them,” Taranis snapped. “The Black Claw”

    “Were expecting you.” Boldolph’s voice was thunder now, claws clenched at his sides. “They wanted you to come alone. You gave them exactly what they needed — the head of the storm without the wind behind him.”

    Taranis looked away. The silence between them thickened.

    Boldolph stepped closer. “You are the High Warlord now. You bear the storm in your veins and ride the dragon in the sky. But to me, you’re still that cub who couldn’t see the trap until he stepped into it.”

    Taranis said nothing. He couldn’t. Not when he knew Boldolph was right.

    Taranis moved to speak, but Boldolph raised a clawed hand.

    “No,” the wolf-man growled. “You don’t get to explain it away with honor or duty or some poetic rot about sacrifice. You’ve earned your scars, Taranis but so have we. And we didn’t survive hell just to watch you walk back into it alone.”

    The warlord took a breath. His face, still smeared with ash and dried ichor, softened. “I thought”

    “That’s the problem,” Boldolph snapped, “you thought. You didn’t ask. Not me, not Lore, not Drax, not Solaris. You didn’t trust any of us to stand beside you.”

    Taranis’s jaw clenched. “I trust you all with my life.”

    “Then why won’t you trust us with your death?”

    The words struck like a hammer.

    Taranis staggered a step back not from force, but from the weight of truth. Boldolph’s eyes didn’t waver.

    He looked less like a beast and more like a grieving elder. Wearied by a child who couldn’t yet see his own worth beyond the blade.

    “You think being the High Warlord means dying on your feet,” Boldolph said, voice roughening. “But what it really means is living long enough to carry others. That’s what the storm is for. Not just to burn. To shield.”

    The fire pits crackled in the stillness. From the northern walkway, Lore stood quietly, arms folded, having heard the last of it. He said nothing only nodded to Boldolph, and then vanished back into the shadows.

    “You’re not alone anymore,” Boldolph continued, softer now. “You have brothers again. You have warriors, wolves, dragons. And you have people who’d bleed for you, not because you command them but because they love you.”

    Taranis sat slowly on the stone steps beside the training pit. For once, the weight of his own armor seemed too much to bear. “I’ve spent so long fighting to survive,” he said, staring at the sky. “It’s hard to let go of that.”

    “I know,” Boldolph murmured. “But surviving isn’t living. And we didn’t break our curses just to watch you chain yourself to a ghost.”

    The wolf-man crouched beside him, joints creaking.

    “I made a vow to your father when you were exiled. I swore to watch over you even when you didn’t know I was near. I failed once. I won’t again.”

    Taranis turned to him. “You were there… even then?”

    Boldolph nodded. “Always.”

    They sat in silence, the roar of the battlefield replaced by the quiet whistle of wind between towers. In the distance, children’s laughter echoed from the lower courtyard. where Morrigan was teaching younglings to bind wounds with willow bark and song.

    Boldolph sighed. “You need to speak to them. To all of them. Tell them what you’re fighting for. What we’re building.”

    “I don’t know what to say.”

    “Then let your silence be honest. But show them, Taranis. Not the warlord the man. The brother. The one who came back from the brink and built something no storm can wash away.”

    Taranis stood slowly, shoulders still tense, but eyes clearer.

    “You’re right,” he said. “I’ve been leading from the front but I’ve been doing it like I’m still alone. Like that eight-year-old boy who was cast out into the wilds.”

    Boldolph rose beside him, towering and fierce. “Then stop being that boy. And become the storm the world remembers.”

    Taranis gave a faint smile. “You’re more of a father than ours ever was.”

    “I know,” Boldolph grunted. “You lot are exhausting.”

    “Drax I’m sorry please forgive me’ tanaris told his oldest brother “just. ‘ 

    “No I’m not hearing excuses young brother. You know boldolph asked morigan if he eat either you or your dragons ” Drax smirked 

    “that…that is definitely something Boldolph would say. I trust my mother wolf said no” Tanaris grinned. AS he folded his arms with a grin as morigan gave him a cautionary look.

    Further Reading

    The Prophecies and Tales of Taranis Unfolded

    The Chronicles of Drax

    A Journey Through My Poetic Collection

    Join the Adventure in Tales of Rayne’s Universe

    Ancient Magic and Myth of the Stormborne

  • Building the Hillfort: A New Era Begins

    Building the Hillfort: A New Era Begins

    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

  • Discover Legends: The Stormfire Saga Part 2

    Discover Legends: The Stormfire Saga Part 2


    The mist churned with the heavy breath of the earth. It was a blanket of silence, thick as the sorrow that weighed on the air. The warriors stood, unsure whether to kneel or fight to greet their kin, or strike at their curse. There had been no warning, no word of Taranis’s return. He had simply appeared the shadows parting to reveal him like a storm-born god.

    Taranis stood tall in the heart of them, his broad shoulders cut against the rolling mist. The wolves at his side. Boldolph, his red-eyed companion, a shadow of night itself, prowled silently beside him.

    Morrigan, a beautiful white wolf, ever the ghost, her eyes glittering like twin embers. Moved with the grace of wind, barely disturbing the earth beneath her paws.

    Above them, the storm was waiting watching. Tairneanach and Pendragon, the dragons, were not of this earth. But they lingered in the skies, their wings beating the air like the rhythm of war itself.

    He did not call for battle. He did not raise a spear. He simply let the storm guide his steps. The weight of his presence alone seemed to shift the land. The earth trembling as though it too remembered what the boy now a man had become.

    The warriors of his homeland, who had once been his brothers. Now looked upon him with a mixture of awe, fear, and guilt. Lore, his older brother, stood before him, his face shadowed with grief and anger. There was no joy in his eyes, only the harsh weight of lost years and lost family.

    “You return, Taranis. But what have you come back to?” Lore’s voice cut through the stillness. There was no warmth in his tone. Only a coldness that ran deep, a layer of resentment that not be overlooked.

    Taranis’s voice, nonetheless, was steady as thunder in the distance, resonating with the storm that had followed him for years. “I return for blood,” he said. “Not just for yours, but for mine.”

    A wave of motion the clash of steel, the growl of beasts. But it wasn’t just the tribe who sought war. From the far ridge, a war band of strangers approached, their figures shrouded in shadow. They were not just raiders.

    These men had come for something more like. They had heard the legends of the boy who had been cast out. The one who had walked through the storm. They had come to test the power of the Stormborne bloodline.

    Taranis didn’t wait. He swept ahead, his blade gleaming like the edge of the storm, glowing with fury. Boldolph leapt alongside him, his jaws snapping at the air. A creature of black shadow and red fire, creature of his own making. Morrigan, ever the shadow, darted forward like a streak of vengeance. her white fur glowing as if the moon itself had poured through her.

    The first strike landed. Taranis’s blade cut through the flesh of his nearest foe with the ease of wind through the trees. Blood sprayed from the wound, but it wasn’t just mortal men he was fighting. The storm answered him, the air vibrating as if the heavens themselves would break apart.

    The Storm Unleashed
    Taranis fought as though he was the very storm itself. Each swing of his blade cutting through flesh like lightning raking the sky. His movements were fluid, practiced not from years of training, but from something older. He had become the storm, the blade in his hand merely an extension of his fury.

    Boldolph was a black shadow beside him. His jaws closing around an enemy’s throat, tearing through flesh like a force of nature. Morrigan struck with the elegance of wind, swift and deadly, cutting through men. As though they were nothing more than smoke in the air.

    Her eyes burned with the same fire that danced in Taranis’s chest. Morrigans presence was a reminder of the wildness that had shaped him.

    The warriors of the rival tribe faltered under the weight of the storm that followed Taranis. The mist, which had once cloaked them in mystery. As it began to burn away, replaced by a swirling cloud of rage and prophecy. The ground rumbled beneath their feet, the clash of steel mingling with the roar of dragons in the sky.

    Above them, the dragons spiraled, their forms flickering in and out of the thunderclouds. Pendragon, the King of Dragons, seemed to grow in size with each heartbeat of battle. His wings tearing through the air like the flaps of fate itself.

    Tairneanach, the storm dragon, called down bolts of lightning, sending the enemy scattering in terror. He was not of the world below. But his power filled it with such force that even the mightiest warriors. were little more than ants beneath his gaze.

    Lore, still standing firm at the edge of the battlefield, shouted over the chaos, his voice tinged with fear,.

    “Taranis! This battle is ours to win, but not with blood alone. The storm has a price.”

    Taranis glanced at his brother, the bond between them still intact despite the years of separation. Lore’s face was etched with worry, and Taranis saw the doubt in his eyes. They had fought together once, long ago. But the battlefield was different now, and so were they.

    Taranis nodded, raising his sword to the sky. Pendragon roared, and the ground trembled beneath them. The clash of steel and the roar of dragons echoed across the hills as the battle raged on.

    The Turning Point
    Taranis had always fought for survival, but now he fought for something more his legacy. This battle was more than a struggle for land or tribe. It was a struggle for what would stay of the Stormborne name. The tribe, his family, and the ancient bond of blood and storm were all tied to this moment.

    Drax, his brother, caught sight of him in the thick of the battle. Their eyes met across the chaos. Drax had once been the fierce, unrelenting warrior, the protector. But now, his eyes were full of something else hesitation.

    Taranis fought his way toward him, cutting through the enemy like a force of nature. When he reached Drax, there was a moment of stillness the battlefield paused, the winds held their breath.

    “You fight as a man, Taranis,” Drax said, his voice rough with emotion, his sword slick with blood. “But you’ve never known the price of victory.”

    Taranis’s eyes flashed with a fire of their own. “Victory isn’t about what you take. It’s about what you give.”

    Drax, understanding in that moment what Taranis meant, raised his sword. “Then let us give,” he said, and together they turned. Fighting back to back, cutting through the enemy ranks with a power born of blood, storm, and flame.

    The End of the Storm


    The battle raged on for what felt like eternity, but slowly, the enemy forces began to break. The storm that had followed Taranis, fierce and untamed, began to recede as the last of the rival warriors fell.

    The sky cleared, the clouds parted, and the first rays of sunlight broke through. casting a strange glow over the blood-soaked earth.

    Taranis stood midst the chaos, bloodied but unbroken, his sword raised to the heavens. Pendragon and Tairneanach circled above, their forms still haunting the skies as their presence faded with the storm.

    Lore and Drax stood beside him, their faces full of silent grief and reluctant pride. The cost had been great, and the blood of their brothers stained the earth beneath them.

    But the Stormborne bloodline had endured. Taranis had returned and with him, the legacy of the Stormborne would live on. No longer a whispered legend, but a truth written in blood, storm, and flame.

    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 : The 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