Interlude
The banners of Rome had fallen long ago, but Drax still rode as if the legions would return. The road through Pennocrucium was broken now, weeds spilling through the cracks where once the eagles marched. His armour no longer shone, the crimson cloak dulled by weather and war. Yet he wore it still not for pride, but remembrance.
He had buried too many men to abandon the law.
To the north, word spread of ships black-prowed, heavy with warriors from across the sea. To the west, the Picts pressed down through mist and mountain. Between them, the land lay hollow, ruled by whoever still raise a blade.
From the shadows of the trees, smoke curled not of hearths, but of hidden fires. The Black Shields were at work again.
Drax halted his horse beside the stream. In the rippling reflection he saw a face harder than he remembered. The boy who had once followed Rome’s banners now hunted ghosts of his own blood.
“Brother,” came a voice from the treeline.
Taranis stepped out, cloak blackened, a scar like thunder down his cheek. His men lingered behind him, masked in soot and ash. Outlaws. Rebels. To the poor, heroes.
“The Picts strike from the north,” Drax said, hand on his sword. “You have joined me in holding the border.”
“I hold what matters,” Taranis answered. “The people. The fields Rome left to burn. You guard ruins, Drax I guard the living.”
For a heartbeat, silence two worlds staring across a stream. Then the sound of hooves echoed through the trees.
Draven rode between them, shaking his head. “Enough. We’ve bled too long for banners that mean nothing.” He threw down a pouch of grain. “There’s famine in the villages. We fight each other while children starve.”
From deeper in the wood, Lore watched through drifting smoke. In the caves beneath Cannock Chase he had tended the cairns of their ancestors. Lore kept the fire burning through the endless grey. He whispered to the flame: keep them, all of them, even when they forget the old names.
And Rayne, ever the exile, carved symbols into the stones near the water’s edge runes of storm and warning. Ships will come. The sea brings change.
That night, as the brothers parted beneath a blood-red sky, the wind carried the faintest sound not thunder, but the creak of oars. Far beyond the estuary, lights moved upon the water.
The first of the Saxons had come.
And in the hollow of Britain’s heart, the Stormborne name still burned
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.© 2025 Emma Hewitt / StormborneLore. All rights reserved.Unauthorized copying or reproduction of this content is prohibited.
Read more from the Stormborne Brothers:
[Lore – The Flame Beneath the Chase]
[Draven – The Quiet Road]
[Rayne – The Carver of Ghosts]
[Taranis – The Black Shield’s Oath]
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Futher Reading
The Prophecies and Tales of Taranis Unfolded
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