Tag: Prophecy

Rayne – The Carver of Ghosts.

They called him traitor, but Rayne no longer heard the living. As he listened to the stones instead. Each night he carved runes along the riverbanks shapes of storm and warding, the language of his dreams.

The air thickened with whispers when he worked, low voices that hummed like thunder beneath the earth.Sometimes he saw faces in the mist, men long dead still bearing the mark of the ring.

He never ran from them. They were his only kin now. When the first Saxon ships came gliding through the dawn fog, he was already waiting, knife in hand, carving one last rune a warning, or a welcome.

This scene is part of “The Hollow Years – When the Eagles Fled.

to read the full story :

The Hollow Years: When the Eagles Fled

November 2, 2025
Taranis The Black Shield’s Oath

The wind on the Chase carried voices again not of men, but the echoes of those buried beneath the hills.

Taranis sat by the fire, sharpening his blade as the Black Shields slept around him.

He no longer knew if they were fighting for Britain, or for ghosts.
The Picts came by night, howling through the fog.

When the first fell, Taranis felt nothing only the land moving beneath his feet, as if the soil itself had taken breath.
He whispered a vow into the dark:
We guard what Rome forgot. We guard the living and the dead.

Somewhere in the mist, the old gods listened.

This scene is part of “The Hollow Years – When the Eagles Fled.”

To read the full story:

The Hollow Years: When the Eagles Fled

November 2, 2025
Rome’s Shadow: Taranis and the Fight for Freedom

By E.L. Hewitt — StormborneLore

The mists of Cnocc clung low across the fields when Taranis turned north.
Rain soaked the cloak across his shoulders, each drop heavy as guilt. Behind him, the standing stones of the old circle faded into grey half memory, half warning.

A handful of men followed, what was left of the Black Shields. Some limped. Some bled quietly into the mud. Yet none complained.

They cut through the marsh track at Landywood, the ground sucking at their boots.

“Bloody mire,” grumbled one of them Caedric, a smith from the Chase. “If Rome don’t catch us, we’ll drown in the bog.”

Taranis gave a faint smile. “Better the bog than their chains. Least the land buries its dead with honour.”

The men laughed, low and rough, their voices carrying through the mist.
Overhead, crows turned circles against a sky bruised with stormlight.

By midday, they reached the edge of Cannock Chase. The trees rose dark and close, their branches whispering in the wind.

Here, the old tongue lived still the rustle of leaves. Carried the same sounds as the words once spoken in Mercia before Rome built her roads.

“Best not light a fire,” said another man. “The smoke’ll draw ‘em down Watling Street.”

Taranis shook his head. “The legions keep to stone. They fear what grows wild. That’s our road, not theirs.”

They made camp near the brook, the water brown with silt.

Taranis knelt, washing his hands, watching the red earth swirl away downstream.

He thought of Drax his brother in law and blood. Who wasvstanding in that Roman armour like a stranger wearing their father’s ghost.

“Praefect Drax,” he muttered. “You walk in the eagle’s shadow now. But one day, even eagles fall.”

As the others settled, Taranis sat alone beneath a birch tree. The thunder rolled again to the south, echoing over the hills of Pennocrucium.

He closed his eyes and let the sound find him not as omen, but as promise.

“Let Rome march,” he said softly. “The storm remembers.”

By nightfall, the brook had gone still only the soft hiss of drizzle on leaves broke the quiet.

The Black Shields huddled beneath the birches.Their cloaks steaming faintly where the rain met the last of the day’s warmth.

A small fire burned low, more ember than flame. They sat close to it, speaking little. The world had shrunk to mist and memory.

From the shadows, a young scout pushed through the undergrowth, mud streaking his face.

“Riders,” he whispered, breath sharp with fear. “South o’ Watling Street. Legion banners silver eagle, red field. A dozen strong, maybe more.”

Taranis looked up, his eyes catching what light the fire still gave. “Which way?”

“East,” said the boy. “Toward Pennocrucium.”

That word hung like ash. Rome’s fort Drax’s post.

Caedric spat into the fire. “Then your brother’s hounds are sniffin’ their trail back home.”

“Mind your tongue,” Taranis said, but without heat. “Drax walks a path I wouldn’t, but he walks it for his sons. Rome holds chains tighter than iron.”

The men nodded. They’d all felt those chains some on their wrists, some around their hearts.

The fire popped softly. Rain whispered down through the canopy, finding its way to the coals.

“Shall we move?” asked Caedric.
“Not yet.”

Taranis rose, brushing mud from his knees. “If they ride to Pennocrucium, they won’t look for us here. And if Drax stands where I think he does, he’ll turn them aside before dawn.”

He turned his gaze toward the south, where the hills of Cnocc faded into night.

The stormlight there flickered once a pale flash through the clouds.

“See that?” murmured one of the men. “Thunder over Penn. He’s sendin’ you a message, I reckon.”

Taranis smiled faintly. “Aye. Or a warning.”

He knelt by the fire and drew a spiral in the dirt the old mark, the storm’s sign.

“Tomorrow we move north,” he said. “Watling Street’s theirs, but the woods are ours. We’ll strike where the road breaks near the old fort make Rome remember who walks her border.”

The men grinned, weary but alive again.
For a heartbeat, the fire caught, burning bright as dawn.

Above them, thunder rolled once more.
It sounded like a heartbeat slow, vast, unending.

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.

If you enjoyed this story, like, share, or leave a comment. Your support keeps the storm alive and the chronicles continuing.

If you want to read more about Taranis please see The Prophecies and Tales of Taranis Unfolded

October 19, 2025
Drax Stormborne: A Journey Beyond Empire

The last of the rain had faded, leaving the courtyard of Pennocrucium slick with light. Drax stood with his men, issuing orders for the road north, when a shout broke the morning calm.

A boy no more than ten came running from the treeline. Bare-foot and wild-eyed, his breath tearing in the cold air. The guards moved to intercept, but Drax raised a hand.

The child stumbled to a halt before him, clutching a scrap of parchment tight against his chest.

“He said to give you this,” the boy gasped.

“Who?” Drax asked.

The boy only pointed back toward the woods. “The man with the scars. He said you’d know.”

A chill heavier than the rain settled over the praefect. Slowly, Drax took the parchment. The wax seal bore a spiral mark the Ring of the Stormborne.

He turned the seal over in his palm, the crimson wax cracked and flaking like old blood.

“Did he say anything else?”

The boy shook his head. “Only that the sea’s not where he’s coming from anymore.”

Drax looked up, scanning the mist beyond the walls.
“Go home, lad,” he said quietly. “And tell your mother to keep her doors barred tonight.”

When the child was gone, Drax broke the seal. The message inside was written in a firm, weathered hand one he had not seen since the exile.

Brother,
If Rome still owns your heart, it will soon own your sons. The storm has left the sea. Meet me where the law ends and the wild begins at Cnocc.
— T.

Drax folded the letter and slid it into his cloak. Around him, his men watched, waiting for orders.

“Mount up,” he said finally. “We ride before sunset.”

“Sir?” his aide asked. “The boy”

“Forget the boy.” Drax’s gaze lingered on the northern horizon, where thunderclouds gathered over the hills.
“Remember the name.”

The road north was half-swallowed by mist.
The horses hooves splashed through the puddled ruts. The sound muted beneath the weight of silence that followed them from Pennocrucium.

Drax rode ahead, the sealed parchment still heavy in his cloak. Each mile drew him closer to the hill he had sworn never to see again Cnocc. the place Rome had called untamed and his people had called sacred.

Behind him, his men rode uneasily. They had fought rebels, pirates, and ghosts of empire. But none of them knew what to do with silence that breathed like a living thing.

“Sir,” Maren said quietly, drawing level with his father. “We’re far past the patrol lines. There are no markers, no forts… not even smoke from farms.”

“There used to be farms,” Drax replied. “Before the Empire burned them.”

The boy said nothing more.

They reached the crest by dusk. The land opened out before them rolling forest and wet moor. Scattered with standing stones like broken teeth in the earth. The wind smelled of peat and lightning.

A movement caught Drax’s eye a flicker among the stones. A man watching, cloaked and hooded.

Drax reined in. “Hold.”

The riders stopped. The watcher didn’t flee. Instead, he raised a horn old, carved from a blackened ram’s horn and blew once, low and deep. The sound rolled through the mist like thunder in a cave.

Within moments, others appeared half a dozen figures stepping from the treeline. The shields blackened, armour mismatched, but each bearing the spiral mark upon their arms.

The Black Shields.

Maren’s hand went to his sword. “Father”

“Wait.”

Drax dismounted slowly, his boots sinking into the wet soil. He walked ahead alone until the leader stepped out a woman. Tall and scarred, with iron rings braided through her dark hair.

“Praefect Drax Stormborne,” she said, her voice low and steady. “Or do you answer to Rome only now?”

Drax studied her face. “I answer to my blood when it calls me by name.”

She nodded once. “Then the storm welcomes you home.”

From behind her, two men carried something between them a bundle wrapped in oilcloth, heavy and dark. They laid it at Drax’s feet.

He knelt, unwrapping it. Inside lay a Roman helm scorched, the crest torn away and beneath it. A bronze medallion marked with the eagle of the Twelfth Legion.

Maren’s breath caught. “That’s”

“Proof,” Drax said softly. “That my brother isn’t bluffing.”

The woman met his gaze. “Taranis waits at the standing circle by dawn. He says he’ll speak to you not the Praefect, not the lawman. The brother.”

Drax rose slowly, rain dripping from his cloak. “Then he shall have both.”

Thunder rolled again closer this time, echoing through the hollow hills.

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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 want to read more about Drax please see The Chronicles of Drax

October 16, 2025
The Crone

Written by

emma.stormbornelore
in

The moon shone in the darkest of nights as I gathered the herbs.Around my cave herbs of healing yarrow and nettle being the most used by our clan.

Only eight winters ago the leader of claw clan approached me. My son in custody I see him a bone chain around his neck.

“What do you want Clun?” I asked the small balding man dressed in simple furs .

“We promise no harm to the children,” said the tall man wrapped in makeshift coats. He thrust a small vial towards me “You’ll have your son by sunrise. Just brew a sleeping draft. Put Camp Utthar to sleep.”

I hesitated. The chief of Utthar had been good to us took my family in when no one else would. But River was my son. My blood. My only hope my future what else I do?

I nodded slowly but looked to my boy a sadness stirred in me. Ad i gathered berries, roots, sacred herbs and stirred them into the pot by firelight. That night, the warriors, the women, the children… all fell into deep, enchanted sleep.

So deep was the sleep that no one stirred when the men of Clun entered the encampment. As The Clun men crept in silent as shadow, savage as flame.

I watched from the trees as my eldest, Ryn, was dragged into camp forced to witness the massacre. His voice was broken when he turned to me:

“What did you do, Mother?!”Ryn cried

A silent attack killing women children and men who remained within the camp. Fifty men died that night warriors hunters their wives and children.

“You promised you’d leave the children” I cried

I was aware that utther wife had been taken to a local cave. A safe place where she would give birth when the time was right.

“Foolish old lady, why would we leave our enemies children? When they will grow to seek vengeance” Clun smirked riding away

I was left staring at the devastation . The next days passed and the Chief returned from battle, his warriors behind them. The chiefs horn was heard and his sons replied with the wolfs howl. But they ran with newborns in their arms Boldolph leading the charge.

Time froze the wind stilled as boldolph approached his father

“They came in the still of night no one would wake up. The claw killed all of then father and she helped” boldolph replied as if giving his report

Suddenly the screams came

“Take her! Bind her!” Raven shouted.
“She betrayed the family! Everyone’s dead! Mother’s alive but in labour!”

One of the wounded men pointed at me with blood on his chest.

“We heard her whispering with the Clun.
She brewed the sleeping draft… then brought death upon us.”

I turned and ran wishing for cover ducking from branches and jumping over roots from trees. The sound of hounds barking after me my heart racing beating like the drums. The hounds found me first. The men were not far behind.

They bound me in ropes and dragged me back to camp, fear pounding through my veins like war drums. Then he came…

Boldolph stood at seven feet tall.
“Let me have her,” he growled but his eyes softened when they found Morrigan, his wife, weeping with in a cave

“Lox is dead she did it” morrigan said

“We have her,” a man spat, dragging me by the hair.i screamed trying to fight against the men holding me

The chieftain stood tall.

“Whitehair, you have betrayed your tribe. Look around you. This is your doing you butchered them in their sleep.” The cheiftan said “Take her to the rocks. Strip her name. Cut her nose and tongue. Then bind her and take her far from here.”

The punishment was swift.

The curse came faster.

Before they dragged me away, my final spell shattered the night:

“May your line suffer,
May your form twist,
Until one born cursed by storms,
Breaks the wheel with mercy and fire.”

And then, the transformation.

As I was dragged out I could hear the howls of pain and anguish from boldolph and his mate morrigan. as Boldolph the giant, and Morrigan the gentle, were torn from flesh and given fur. Wolves. Forever cursed.

Later, bound and broken, I was dragged to the sacred stone. They beat me. Stripped me of sound. My nose. My tongue. My name.

Blindfolded, I was taken to lands unknown far beyond the reach of kin or mercy.

But my magic remains.
So does the curse.
And the storm is not yet done.

I could still taste blood.

The salt of my torn tongue. The copper of betrayal. The earth where they left me bound, blindfolded. my hands lashed with nettles so tightly i still bear scars decades later.

They called it mercy.

But mercy would have been death.

Instead, they gave me exile: cast beyond the sacred stones with only the breath in my lungs. The curse they feared more than her voice.

Ad i crawled for days dragging my broken body through marsh and thorn. Wolves circled but did not bite. Ravens flew overhead but did not cry. And the spirits… the spirits walked with me.
I did not die i became something else.

Something older than their laws.

As i found shelter in the hollow of a tree once used by midwives. A place where blood had been spilled in both birth and death. There, pressed my palms to the bark, and for the first time in weeks, i did not feel pain.

Only power.

It rose from the roots. From the bones buried deep the old ones, the forgotten, the nameless. Their stories rushed into me like a storm tide.

And over time i remembered my own name.

Not the one they spat when they cursed me. Not the one the elders tore from the village scrolls.

But the one my mother gave me beneath the silvery moon.

“Cceridwyn,” whispered, mouth bleeding, lips cracked.

As the Years passed more people feared me. As i walked among the bones now, barefoot and veiled. My form barely seen except by those on the edge of death or madness. Her tongue never healed. Her voice never returned. But her curse… her curse remained intact.

And more potent than ever.

For every 13th child born of her bloodline, a sign would come:
A sickness no healer cure.
Eyes the colour of stormlight.
A voice that spoke truths no one taught.

The 13th of the 13th would be the end or the beginning.

She waits still.
Her bones lighter now, her spirit heavier.
Watching as the stories repeat,
as her great-grandson walks into the same woods where she once crawled.

Taranis.
The boy with the storm in his chest.

The one they tried to exile, like her.

But this time…
the storm remembers.

© written and created by ELHewitt

October 13, 2025
Whispers from the Sea

Written by
emma.stormbornelore

The wind off the coast carried a strange scent that morning salt, smoke, and something older.

Drax Stormborne stood upon the cliffs of Caerwyn. His cloak drawn tight, eyes narrowed toward the southern horizon where the sea met the clouds. The gulls wheeled low, uneasy, their cries sharp against the stillness.

Behind him, his second-in-command approached, boots crunching on frost-slick stone. “Another ship’s gone missing,” the man said quietly. “Roman, they say. A patrol near Carthage. The reports claim a storm took it.”

Drax didn’t turn. “A storm,” he repeated, voice low. “Or something that wears its name.”

The man hesitated. “You think it’s him?”

For a moment, only the wind answered. Then Drax’s gloved hand closed around the hilt of his sword, fingers tracing the worn leather grip. “Taranis never drowned easy,” he murmured. “If the Empire bleeds at sea, then he’s drawing the blade.”

He moved to the edge of the cliff, gazing down at the waves hammering the rocks below. The sea had always been Rome’s pride a wall of conquest, a promise of control. But now it whispered rebellion.

“Send word to the northern outposts,” Drax said. “Quietly. Tell them the Black Shields move again. No banners. No noise. Just watch the tide.”

The officer nodded and left, his footsteps fading into the mist.

Alone, Drax drew his sword, holding it toward the sea. The steel caught the dawn light, flashing gold for a heartbeat like lightning beneath the clouds.

“Brother,” he said softly, as the first drops of rain began to fall. “If the storm returns… then so do I.”

The thunder answered, rolling like distant drums of war.

The Empire called it weather.
The Stormborne called it warning.

© 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.

October 12, 2025
Stormborne Chronicles: Tales of Magic, Power, and Betrayal

Artistic representation of the Grimoire’s quaternary knot, symbolizing protection and balance within the Stormborne legacy.

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.”

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October 9, 2025
Unlocking Ancient Powers: Lore Stormborne’s Awakening

The Whisper Beneath Stone

Artistic representation of Lore Stormborne, featuring intricate patterns and vivid colors, symbolizing his connection to ancient powers and storms.

Rain fell soft upon Emberhelm not in sheets, but in threads, weaving through the night like strands of memory. Each drop whispered against the walls, tracing paths down stone carved before empires rose. The air smelt of iron, damp moss, and prophecy.

Lore moved through the Hall of Echoes with deliberate silence. The torches burned low, their flames bending in strange rhythm, as though swayed by unseen breath. Beneath the central arch lay the dais of oath and upon it, the gold ring.

It shimmered faintly in the half-light, a pulse of life within metal. Not the glow of firelight, but of something older.

Lore hesitated before it. His reflection warped in its surface his eyes darker, sharper, his face marked by the faint runes of bloodline and burden. “The ring of storm and oath,” he murmured. “The bond of the five.”

He reached out. The moment his fingers brushed it, the hall sighed.

A low hum filled the air not from stone or wind, but from within.

Then came the voice.

“Brother…”

The word was barely sound more vibration, more memory. It coiled through him like smoke through glass.

“Taranis…” Lore whispered, his voice trembling. The name itself seemed to awaken something. The torches guttered. The shadows around the walls began to move not randomly, but with purpose, forming the faint outlines of chained figures, of men bowed beneath lightning.

The ring pulsed again, once, twice. Gold bled to storm-grey.

“Show me,” Lore said. “Show me where he walks.”

The pulse deepened and suddenly, the hall was gone.

He stood in mist. Iron gates loomed before him, slick with rain. Beyond them, sand bloodstained and torn an arena. He heard the roars of lions, the clash of blades, the chanting of a foreign crowd. And there, in the centre, Taranis bare-armed, chained, and unbroken. His eyes like stormlight.

“Still he stands,” Lore breathed.

The vision shattered like glass beneath a hammer. He was back in the hall, gasping, knees to the stone floor. The ring still glowed in his palm, its pulse slowing to match his heartbeat.

He knew then: his brother lived but the bond between them had stirred something greater. The old powers beneath the land the ones the druids had whispered of were waking again.

A new sound reached him. A voice, aged as winter bark.

“The ring calls the storm again,” said Maeve, the seer. She stepped from the shadowed archway, her staff crowned with raven feathers and iron charms. “You’ve felt it too the pulse of the deep earth, the cry of the stones.”

Lore rose slowly. “He lives. I saw him. Rome cannot hold him.”

Maeve’s gaze was sharp, knowing. “No but when the storm returns, it will not come gently. Bonds such as yours were not forged for peace. The land remembers its oaths, Lore Stormborne. The blood remembers. And blood always calls for blood.”

He turned toward the open window, where thunder rolled faintly beyond the hills. The storm clouds were gathering again not yet upon them, but coming.

“Then let it come,” he said softly. “We are Stormborne. We do not kneel to the Empire. We endure… and when the sky breaks, we rise.”

The gold ring flared once more, bright as lightning and somewhere far to the south, in a Roman cell slick with rain, Taranis felt it too.

October 7, 2025
The Chains that Speak

The clang of steel echoed across the Roman training yard. The sun was still low, its pale light glinting off helmets and polished shields. Taranis moved like shadow and storm, his chains rattling as he fought against three centurions in succession.

Every strike he gave was measured, precise but every parry cost him pain. The iron bindings cut into his wrists, leaving a thin red line that deepened with each movement. He refused to yield.

Caelum stood at the edge of the sand pit. His tunic far too fine for this place a youth of maybe sixteen, bright-eyed and restless. His gaze never left Taranis.

“uncle Marcos,” he said quietly, turning to the older man beside him. “Can those chains come off him?”

Marcos didn’t answer at once. His face was lined from years in service, his eyes as sharp as the swords he trained with. “Chains are the only reason he’s still alive, Caelum,” he said finally. “Without them, some fool would call it fear instead of discipline.”

“But he’s fighting for us now.” Caelum’s voice carried, defiant.
“For Rome, at least.”

Marcos’s jaw tightened. “For survival. That’s different.”

In the pit, Taranis struck low, sweeping a soldier’s legs out from under him. Before turning the momentum into a twist that sent the next centurion stumbling backward.

The last one hesitated, shield raised, watching the way. Taranis breathed steady, like a man waiting for the storm to break.

The chain coiled once, twice then snapped out, wrapping the shield edge and dragging it down. The sound of the soldier hitting the ground was followed by silence.

Caelum took a step ahead. “He’s more Roman than half your men.”

Marcos shot him a warning look. “Careful, boy. You sound like your mother.”

The youth smirked faintly. “She says the same.”

When the training was done, the soldiers dispersed, muttering under their breath half respect, half fear. Taranis knelt in the dust, hands bound before him. Marcos approached, tossing him a canteen.

“You could have killed them,” Marcos said.

Taranis drank, the water streaking through the dust on his face. “You didn’t tell me to.”

Marcos grunted, half a laugh, half frustration. “One day, that mouth of yours will get you killed.”

“Maybe,” Taranis replied. “But not today.”

Caelum stepped closer, watching the bruised wrists, the marks the chains left behind. “You’re not like the others. You don’t fight for their gods.”

Taranis looked at him not unkindly. “No. Mine are older. And they don’t care who wears the crown.”

The boy tilted his head. “If I asked you to fight for me instead of Rome?”

Marcos snapped, “Enough!” But Taranis only smiled slow, deliberate, dangerous.

“Then, little wolf,” he said softly, “you’d better be ready to pay the price.”

Above them, thunder rolled faintly in the distance, though the sky was still clear.

© 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.

Further Reading

The Prophecies and Tales of Taranis Unfolded

October 7, 2025
The Price of Survival

Night in the fort brought no peace only whispers.

Chains clinked like faint echoes of the arena’s roars, and the scent of iron still clung to the air. Taranis Storm lay awake in the half-darkness, eyes open to the stone ceiling, counting the rhythm of the guards’ boots. Rome slept, but the storm within him did not.

He had won his life for another day, but victory came at a cost. He had shown them what he was. Not a beaten barbarian, but something far more dangerous a man who learned.

At dawn, Marcos appeared at his cell door, shadowed by two guards.
“You’ve made them talk,” Marcos said quietly. “The governor himself wants to see you.”

Taranis said nothing. The chains around his wrists jingled as he stood.

They led him through the inner halls of the fortress, where Roman banners hung stiff and silent. Soldiers stared as he passed some curious, others wary. A man who defied lions and bears without breaking was not easily forgotten.

In the governor’s chamber, incense burned thick. Maps of Britannia sprawled across a marble table, marked with red ink and small figurines of silver legions.

The governor, Decimus Varro, was not a cruel man by Roman standards merely pragmatic. “You are a spectacle,” he said, voice calm. “A man who fights like the gods themselves favour him. Tell me, Briton what drives you?”

Taranis met his gaze. “The same thing that drives Rome. Freedom.”

Varro smiled faintly. “Freedom is an illusion. Order is what endures.”
He leaned forward. “Serve Rome, and you’ll live well. Defy us again, and your death will be remembered only as noise in the sand.”

Silence stretched between them, thick as the smoke that coiled from the brazier. Then Taranis spoke, slow and deliberate.

“I have no wish to be remembered. Only to finish what began in the storm.”

Varro frowned not in anger, but thought. “Then we understand each other.” He gestured to Marcos. “Train him. Watch him. If he can be tamed, he’ll fight for Rome. If not…”

Taranis was taken to the training grounds. Men waited there gladiators, soldiers, slaves who had survived too long to be careless. The air rang with the sound of iron on iron. Marcos tossed him a blade, better balanced than the last.

“Your real trial starts now,” Marcos said. “In the arena, you fought to live. Out here, you’ll fight to learn what Rome fears most a man they can not own.”

For the first time since his capture, Taranis smiled.
The storm had found a new horizon.

© 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.

Futher Reading

The Prophecies and Tales of Taranis Unfolded

October 6, 2025