StormborneLore

Tag: Prophecy

  • The Whisper of Old Magic: A Journey Through Emberhelm

    The Whisper of Old Magic: A Journey Through Emberhelm

    A vibrant artwork featuring a stylized ice cream cone with intricate patterns and bright colors, surrounded by bold concentric rings.
    A vibrant artistic depiction of a stylized object, blending intricate designs with bright colors, invoking themes of lore and magic.

    The Quiet Flame


    The wind that swept over Emberhelm carried no warmth, only the ghost of fire long spent. I stood where the circle had once been whole, where twelve stones still defied the weight of empire, and one lay split a wound upon the land.

    The others had gone. Drax to fury, Draven to silence, Rayne to his choices, and Taranis to chains. I remained, bound not by steel but by memory. It was not courage that kept me here; it was knowing that something sacred had been broken and that it was not yet done with us.

    The Romans called this valley conquered. They built their roads and forts as if they could hammer meaning from earth and stone. But meaning does not bow to empire. It whispers, it lingers, it waits. And I have learned to listen.

    I knelt beside the thirteenth stone, tracing the crack with my fingers. The split hummed faintly, as though it still remembered the storm that birthed it. I could almost hear Taranis’s voice beneath the wind, a murmur of thunder too distant to strike.

    “Brother,” I whispered, “if the storm is caged, does the sky mourn its silence?”

    A shadow passed across the ridge perhaps a hawk, perhaps a sign. In the old days, I would have asked the druids for meaning, but now I was the only one left to ask.

    Rayne’s betrayal still cut deep, though part of me understood it. He had always been the one to see the long game, the patient serpent coiled beneath the waves. I did not forgive him, but neither could I condemn him fully. Perhaps this is how the gods feel when they look upon men weary, knowing, endlessly disappointed.

    Night crept over the hills. I lit no fire; the Romans watched for smoke. Instead, I watched the stars, the same constellations our ancestors had trusted when the world was still young. Somewhere beyond those lights, I felt the pulse of something waking old magic, stirring beneath stone and soil, called forth by blood and betrayal alike.

    The Circle was broken, yes. But its power had not vanished; it had merely changed shape. The storm that once lived in Taranis’s heart now whispered through the bones of the earth. I could feel it gathering, quiet but sure, as if the land itself prepared to rise.

    In that silence, I spoke the old words not prayer, not spell, but remembrance. A promise carved into breath:

    “When the storm returns, it will not ask who was loyal. It will ask who remains.”

    The air stilled. Even the night seemed to listen.

    And somewhere, far to the west, thunder answered.

    A circular wooden plaque featuring a painted landscape with a sun, blue sky, and green hills. The text on the plaque reads 'Thank you for reading. Please like & Subscribe. https://www.stormbornmore.co.uk' in various colors.
  • 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 Chronicles of the Gold Ring Chapter Twelve

    The Chronicles of the Gold Ring Chapter Twelve

    A colorful painting depicting a vibrant tree with multicolored leaves, under a bright blue sky decorated with a sun and abstract patterns. The foreground features lush green grass and stylized flowers, conveying a whimsical and enchanting atmosphere.
    A vibrant painting depicting a colorful tree beneath a bright blue sky, symbolizing life and renewal.

    Rest Beneath the Tree

    At last they came to the tree.

    It rose from the earth as though the hill itself had forced it skyward roots tangled deep, bark silvered with age, branches spread wide like the arms of a giant blessing or warning all who passed beneath. The ground around it was hushed, as if even the wind dared not trespass too loudly here.

    Storm staggered to its shade and lowered himself to the roots. The weight of his wounds and weariness pressed him down, yet the tree seemed to hold him as gently as a cradle. He breathed slow, leaning against the trunk, and for the first time since the hill of ashes he felt his heart’s trembling ease.

    The others made camp nearby, but left him undisturbed. Brianna spread her cloak by the fire, her eyes flicking often toward where he lay. Cadan tended the embers, muttering half-prayers, half-jests. The boy slept curled by the packs, his face still wet with the salt of grief.

    Storm closed his eyes.

    The world changed.

    The tree shone with light, its roots glowing as though molten, its crown alive with whispering voices. Wolves circled him in the half-dark Boldolph and Morrigan among them, their eyes like coals, their howls joining others long gone. Above the branches wheeled Pendragon and Tairneanach, wings stirring thunder in a sky that was not a sky.

    The gold ring gleamed on his finger once more. Its weight was not a burden but a bond. And the tree’s voice, deep as the earth itself, rolled through his marrow:

    Rest, child of storm. The road is not ended.
    Every root remembers.
    Every leaf bears witness.
    You are bound to us, as we are bound to you.

    Storm reached out and pressed his palm to the bark. He felt its strength answer, steadying his own. When his eyes opened, dawn was breaking.

    Brianna stood ready with her blade. Cadan was already packing. The boy stirred from sleep.

    Storm rose slowly, his body aching but his spirit steadier, and gave the tree one last look. The mark of his hand remained upon the trunk, a faint glow where blood and dream had mingled.

    Then he walked on.

    © StormborneLore Emma Hewitt, 2025. All rights reserved.

    Colorful circular wooden sign with the message 'Thank you for reading. Please like & subscribe. https://www.stormbornelore.co.uk' painted on it, featuring a bright blue sky and green grass.
    A colorful thank you message inviting readers to like and subscribe, set against a bright blue sky and grassy background.

    Futher Reading

    The Library of Caernath

  • The Chronicles of the Gold Ring Chapter Eleven

    The Chronicles of the Gold Ring Chapter Eleven

    Boldolph the Wolf brother, shield, spirit of the wild. Painted on clear acrylic, one of a kind.
    Part 11 of The Chronicles of the Gold Ring is now live where the wolf walks again in the trees.”

    The Wolf in the Trees

    The rain had not stopped since the hill.
    It drummed on oak leaves, hissed across the ash of the fire, slicked every blade of iron until the men and women of the Black Shields looked like shadows burnished in oil. The night smelled of wet earth and smoke, of wounds bound with linen that would not stay clean.

    Storm slept little. When he closed his eyes, the hammer fell, and the nails drove, and he woke with the sound of iron in his skull. So he stayed upright with his back to the birch, watching the drip of water through branches, listening to foxes bark and owls call, waiting for morning.

    At dawn, a shape lingered beyond the edge of the fire’s reach. Low, black, moving between trunks with the patience of hunger. Storm’s hand went to the haft of his knife before he realised what he saw.

    A wolf.

    Not the lean carrion-pickers that shadowed armies, but broad in the shoulder, thick in the ruff, eyes burning with a colour no dog had ever worn. It did not growl. It did not flee. It stood in the bracken and watched him.

    “Boldolph,” Storm breathed, though he knew the beast before him was no man, no brother, no shieldmate returned. But something in the tilt of the head, in the way it lifted its nose as if to scent not flesh but memory, made his chest tighten.

    The others woke one by one. Cadan saw it first and rose with his knife ready.
    “Leave it,” Storm said. His voice was rough with the weight of command.
    Brianna squinted through the rain. “Is it a sign?”
    Storm shook his head. “It is a wolf. That is enough.”

    But when the wolf turned and padded into the thicket, Storm followed. He did not tell the others to stay; they knew.

    The trail wound between dripping ferns and stones slick with moss. Once, the wolf vanished altogether, and Storm thought he had been chasing a ghost but then the shape appeared again on a rise of ground, waiting. Guiding. Testing.

    At last they came to a hollow ringed with oaks older than any fort or cross. Their roots knotted together like clenched fists. At the centre lay a cairn of stones blackened with age.

    The wolf set its paws upon the mound, lifted its muzzle, and gave one long, shivering call. Not to the pack for there was no pack—but to the world itself. Then it was gone, as if the trees had folded and swallowed it whole.

    Storm touched the cairn. Cold. Wet. His fingers came away with lichen and soil. And something else. A groove cut deep, filled with rain. A mark he knew from chalk scratched on gateposts and painted on stolen shields. A ring.

    The Gold Ring.

    He knelt, pressing his forehead to the stone. For a breath he smelled not wet earth but smoke from a hall long gone, heard not rain but the laughter of those who had died before him. Nessa. Morrigan. Boldolph. Rayne.

    The voices came like wind through hollow wood: Hold fast. The story is not done.

    Storm rose. His wrist throbbed where the nail had kissed bone, but his grip was steady when he returned to the camp.

    Brianna looked at him, sharp-eyed. “What did you find?”
    “A place,” Storm said. “A promise buried under stones.”
    Cadan spat into the fire. “More promises.”
    “Not words,” Storm answered. “A mark. The old ring. It waits for us.”

    The rain eased then. Just enough to let the fire breathe.

    That night, when the Black Shields moved again, they did not march as hunted rebels, but as something else. A rumour clothed in rain, a shadow given teeth. And always at the edge of the path, in the corner of sight, Storm thought he saw the wolf pacing them between the trees.

    © StormborneLore Emma Hewitt, 2025. All rights reserved.

    Futher Reading

    The Library of Caernath

  • The Chronicles of the Gold Ring Chapter Nine.

    The Chronicles of the Gold Ring Chapter Nine.

    Bread for Blood

    The night was raw and sharp with frost, the air thick with the scent of pine and woodsmoke drifting from distant hearths. Taranis rode ahead, the black shield strapped to his back catching what little moonlight broke through the bare branches.

    Behind him, the Black Shields moved like a shadow given form. Seven riders their shields painted black and marked with the storm-sigil in dull grey ash. Among them, Brianna kept pace, her raven-dark hair bound in a warrior’s braid, eyes fixed on the road ahead.

    Their target lay where the old trader’s road bent toward the river. a Roman supply convoy, fat with grain, salted pork, and amphorae of oil. The guards wore the same polished arrogance as all Rome’s men helmets gleaming, spears upright, their march a perfect, disciplined rhythm.

    Taranis raised his fist.
    The forest seemed to hold its breath.
    Then his hand dropped, and the night erupted.

    Arrows hissed from the treeline, felling the lead guard before the others could shout. Brianna’s blade flashed as she rode through the side of the column, cutting down a soldier who tried to raise his horn. Taranis slammed into the rearmost wagon, sending it lurching into the ditch.

    The fight was short, brutal.
    When it ended, the snow was churned with blood and the mules stood trembling, steam curling from their nostrils.

    “Take the lot,” Taranis said. “Every last sack.”

    The Shields loaded what they could onto their own wagons, but instead of retreating into the forest as usual, Taranis turned his horse toward the lowland villages along the marsh. They moved in silence, the wagons creaking under the weight of Rome’s stolen bounty.

    The first door they knocked on belonged to a bent-backed widow with two hungry children. Brianna handed her a sack of grain without a word.


    At the next farmstead, a half-crippled shepherd received a barrel of salted pork. By the time they reached the edge of Emberhelm’s border, half the load was gone.

    The rest, Taranis delivered at dawn to Lore’s men at the southern watch, and to Drax’s quartermaster in the hills.

    When Brianna caught up to him by the river, she frowned.

    “You give more than you keep. That’s not how outlaws survive.”

    Taranis shrugged, eyes on the water.

    “Then I’m not an outlaw. I’m a storm. Storms take, but they leave the earth ready to grow again.”

    She studied him for a long moment before nodding once.

    “Then let’s see how long the earth lets you live.”

    © 2025 Emma Hewitt. All rights reserved.
    This story and all characters within the StormborneLore world are the original creation of Emma Hewitt. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the author, except in the case of brief quotations used in reviews or scholarly works.

    The Library of Caernath

    The Chronicles of the Gold Ring… Chapter One

    The Chronicles of the Gold Ring Chapter Two

    The Chronicles of the Gold Ring Chapter Three.

    The Chronicles of the Gold Ring Chapter Four.

    The Chronicles of the Gold Ring Chapter Five

    The Chronicles of the Gold Ring Interlude.

    The Chronicles of the Gold Ring. Chapter Six

    The Chronicles of the Gold Ring Chapter Seven

    The Chronicles of the Gold Ring Chapter Eight

  • The Chronicles of the Gold Ring Chapter Eight

    The Chronicles of the Gold Ring Chapter Eight

    The Shadow Raid

    The forests north of Emberhelm were not empty. They whispered in the cold leaves rustling without wind, branches creaking as if bearing witness.


    Every step of Taranis’s horse cracked frost from the dead undergrowth, and in the darkness, unseen eyes marked his passage.

    The Black Shields had grown in only a handful of days. Seven now a band stitched together from thieves, deserters, exiled warriors, and one woman with hair like raven feathers whose blade was sharper than her tongue. She called herself Brianna , and unlike the others, she did not flinch when Taranis looked at her.

    They camped in the hollows where no light could reach. They moved before sunrise, leaving only cold ashes behind, and they spoke little, except for the soft murmur of plans and the low hum of old battle songs.

    Their first strike had been for food.
    The second, for vengeance.
    The third would be for a message, not just for them but the starving.

    Bryn Halwyn a hill fort the Romans had claimed but not yet reforged in their own style. Its high earthwork walls crouched like a sleeping beast above the winding road. That road was crawling now with supply wagons, the torchlight of the guards bobbing like fireflies in the mist.

    Taranis’s voice was a low growl “Shields black. Faces darker.”

    The Shields moved as one, melting into the tree line. Arrows hissed from the dark, the first taking a Roman through the throat before his shout could leave his mouth. The second dropped a driver from his cart, spilling barrels into the mud.

    Then came the torches. They arced through the air, their fire licking greedily at wagon covers, rope, and dry straw. Flames climbed fast, reflected in the wide eyes of panicked mules.

    Taranis was already moving.
    A shadow at the edge of the firelight, blade flashing, he cut through the first guard and didn’t stop. The air stank of blood and burning oak. The Romans shouted in their clipped tongue, but their formations shattered in the chaos.

    By dawn, the road was empty but for the smell of wet ash and a single storm-sigil burned deep into the dirt where the wagons had stood.


    When they were gone, the crows came, hopping between the blackened wheels and picking at the dead.

    That night, beside a hidden fire, the Shields feasted on stolen bread and salt pork. Kerris leaned across the flames.


    “What now?” she asked.

    Taranis stared into the heart of the fire until his eyes stung.
    “We keep going until there’s nothing left to take. Or until they come for me.”

    Kerris smirked. “And if they do?”

    He smiled without warmth. “Then they’ll find the storm waiting.” he replied with a grin

    © 2025 Emma Hewitt. All rights reserved.This story and all characters within the StormborneLore world are the original creation of Emma Hewitt. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the author, except in the case of brief quotations used in reviews or scholarly works.

    Futher Reading

    The Library of Caernath

    The Chronicles of the Gold Ring… Chapter One

    The Chronicles of the Gold Ring Chapter Two

    The Chronicles of the Gold Ring Chapter Three.

    The Chronicles of the Gold Ring Chapter Four.

    The Chronicles of the Gold Ring Chapter Five

    The Chronicles of the Gold Ring Interlude.

    The Chronicles of the Gold Ring. Chapter Six

    The Chronicles of the Gold Ring Chapter Seven

  • The Chronicles of the Gold Ring Chapter Seven

    The Chronicles of the Gold Ring Chapter Seven

    Ash on the Bridge


    The morning after the storm was silent, but for the river.


    Its grey water curled slow beneath the bridge, licking at the stones as if to wash them clean of the night before.
    It could not.

    Boldolph lay there still, fur wet, eyes closed in the peace of warriors who never feared death. Morrigan was beside him, her flank pressed against his as though she had refused to fall alone.

    Taranis did not kneel. He stood apart, a horn of bitter mead in one hand, the other wrapped around the haft of his spear. His brothers spoke words over the dead the kind of words that should have meant something but the high warlord’s gaze was elsewhere. Past the pyres, past the valley, toward the ridges where the enemy had come.

    The smell of charred wood and dragon’s breath lingered. Somewhere above the clouds, the great wings of Pendragon and Tairneanach were gone to ash or exile. He could feel the absence as a wound.

    When the flames took the wolves, he drank deep. When the ashes scattered on the wind, he did not look back.

    That night, in the hall of Ignis, Lore spoke of rebuilding. Draven spoke of the Ring’s oaths. Drax spoke of vengeance.
    Taranis said nothing until the room had emptied.

    Then, to the empty benches, he muttered, “The Ring is cracked. And cracks spread.”

    Outside, the moon rode high. In its light, a man in a blackened cloak rode from Emberhelm with no banner and no blessing only a storm sigil scratched into his shield with the point of a knife.

    The Black Shields had begun.

    2025 Emma Hewitt. All rights reserved.
    This story and all characters within the StormborneLore world are the original creation of Emma Hewitt. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the author, except in the case of brief quotations used in reviews or scholarly works.

    The Library of Caernath

    The Chronicles of the Gold Ring… Chapter One

    The Chronicles of the Gold Ring Chapter Two

    The Chronicles of the Gold Ring Chapter Three.

    The Chronicles of the Gold Ring Chapter Four.

    The Chronicles of the Gold Ring Chapter Five

    The Chronicles of the Gold Ring. Chapter Six

  • The Chronicles of the Gold Ring Interlude.

    The Chronicles of the Gold Ring Interlude.

    Subscribe to continue reading

    Subscribe to get access to the rest of this post and other subscriber-only content.

  • The Chronicles of the Gold Ring. Chapter Six

    The Chronicles of the Gold Ring. Chapter Six

    The Night the Ring Shattered


    The night smelled of rain and iron.

    From the outer wall, Taranis could taste the storm before it broke sharp on the air, heavy in his bones. The valley below was black save for the faint glint of torchlight far beyond the river. The strangers from the ridge had come at last.

    “They’re not raiders,” Drax said, joining him at the wall. “Too few for a siege. Too disciplined for a skirmish.”

    “Too confident to live,” Taranis replied, though the set of his jaw told another story.

    By the time the first horn blew, the outer gate was already under assault. Not a roar of chaos, but the steady, hammering rhythm of a trained force. Boldolph and Morrigan were first to meet them teeth bared, fur bristling, their snarls rolling over the walls like distant thunder.

    Then the sky tore.

    Pendragon and Tairneanach came from the dark like living fire. Wings swept low, scattering the first wave of attackers into the river. For a heartbeat, the night belonged to Emberhelm.

    But then a cry from the inner courtyard.

    Nessa, blade in hand, burst from the shadows. “Caelum’s chamber is empty!”

    Taranis didn’t think he moved. Past the gate, through the melee, cutting down the enemy commander’s guard one by one until steel rang on steel. The man was quick, his armour unfamiliar banded metal, curved like river reeds, not the crude plates of the hill tribes. A shadow of Rome in the making.

    Behind them, the wolves fought on. Boldolph took a spear to the ribs and kept moving. Morrigan’s howl was the last thing many would hear before the river claimed them.

    Inside the sacred circle, Lore’s voice rose over the clash an old chant to bind the enemy’s will. Draven tried to hold the stones, his hands trembling against the carved runes. Rayne was nowhere to be seen.

    The duel was short and brutal. Taranis drove his blade through the man’s chest, wrenching it free as lightning split the sky. But in that moment, the circle of stones shook. One the thirteenth stone cracked down its face with a sound like the earth breaking.

    Pendragon roared once more, then wheeled away into the storm. Tairneanach followed. Neither would be seen again.

    When the gate finally closed, the field beyond was strewn with the dead ours and theirs. Boldolph lay on the bridge, Morrigan beside him, the river taking their last breath.

    And in the quiet after, Caelum was found untouched, but with a strip of strange iron tied to his crib. A mark, a warning, or a promise.

    Taranis stood in the ruins of Emberhelm, rain running from his cloak, watching the storm move east.

    “I will find who brought them to our gates,” he said.

    From the shadows, Rayne’s voice answered, almost too soft to hear.
    “You won’t have to look far.”

    © 2025 Emma Hewitt. All rights reserved.This story and all characters within the StormborneLore world are the original creation of Emma Hewitt. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the author, except in the case of brief quotations used in reviews or scholarly works.

    Further Reading

    The Library of Caernath

    The Chronicles of the Gold Ring… Chapter One

    The Chronicles of the Gold Ring Chapter Two

    The Chronicles of the Gold Ring Chapter Three.

    The Chronicles of the Gold Ring Chapter Four.

    The Chronicles of the Gold Ring Chapter Five

  • The Chronicles of the Gold Ring Chapter Five

    The Chronicles of the Gold Ring Chapter Five

    The Weight of the Sky


    The sky over Emberhelm was the colour of old iron, restless with the promise of rain.


    Drax stood on the outer wall, eyes on the valley below, where the last of the summer haze clung to the river. Beside him, Taranis rested both hands on the stone, watching the horizon as though it might bite.

    “You’re quieter than usual,” Drax said.

    “I’m listening.”

    “To what?”

    “The wind,” Taranis murmured. “It changes when something’s coming.”

    A raven cut the sky, wings beating hard against the weather. It landed on the wall, a thin strip of leather tied to its leg. Drax caught it, untied the strip, and read the message aloud:

    Strangers on the ridge. Armed. Not raiders. Moving slow.

    Taranis’s jaw flexed. “Slow means they know we’re watching.”

    “Could be traders.”

    “Could be worse.” His gaze didn’t leave the valley. “Tell the scouts to shadow them. No contact. Not yet.”

    Drax nodded, but his eyes caught something else his brother’s hand, hovering near the hilt of his sword even now, when there was no battle to fight.

    The Sacred Grove

    The grove smelled of damp earth and crushed mint where the rains had touched the leaves. Nessa sat with Caelum in the shadow of an ancient oak, rocking the carved crib gently with her boot.

    “You were born into a dangerous world,” she whispered to the child. “But so was I.”

    The voice came from behind her, thin as wind through reeds. “Danger shapes the strong, girl.”

    Nessa turned. An old woman stood between two leaning yews, her green cloak patched and frayed, her hair a braid of white and ash. Her eyes were the pale grey of morning frost.

    She stepped forward without asking, bent low over the crib, and traced the runes with a fingertip.

    “Sky-born,” she murmured. “Storm-blessed. He will outlive his father’s crown… but not his father’s shadow.”

    Nessa’s hand closed over the dagger at her belt. “What does that mean?”

    The woman only smiled a sad, knowing curve of the mouth and stepped back into the trees. By the time Nessa reached the grove’s edge, she was gone.

    The Council Stones

    The gold circle gleamed beneath a bruised sky. Thirteen seats. Twelve filled.

    Rayne’s voice carried first. “We should send the child away. Somewhere safe.”

    “Safe?” Drax’s tone was a low growl. “You mean hidden.”

    “Hidden is alive,” Rayne countered. “And alive is better than lying in the earth when prophecy catches him.”

    Draven shifted in his seat, eyes down. “He’s a spark in dry grass. If the wrong hands reach him”

    Lore’s voice cut through. “If fear writes the next chapter for us, we lose the right to call ourselves the Ring. Better we strengthen our walls than scatter our own blood to the winds.”

    “You speak like someone who’s never buried a child,” Rayne said flatly.

    Drax’s hand tightened on the stone armrest. “And you speak like someone who’d rather be rid of a burden than bear it.”

    The silence that followed was sharp enough to bleed.

    Rayne’s Quarters

    Taranis didn’t knock. The door slammed against the wall as he stepped inside.

    “You think I won’t hear what you say about my son?”

    Rayne looked up from his table, unbothered. “Your son? Or your weakness?”

    Taranis’s hand hit the table hard enough to rattle the cups. “If you move against him”

    “If I wanted him gone,” Rayne interrupted, “he would be gone. I don’t need the Ring’s blessing for that.”

    Taranis’s eyes narrowed. “Then you’re waiting.”

    Rayne leaned back, smiling without warmth. “You’ve already faltered, brother. All I have to do is let the sky finish the work.”

    The Outer Gate

    The scouts returned at nightfall, mud on their boots and rain in their hair.

    “They’ve reached the lower valley,” one said. “Twenty of them. And they’re asking for the Stormborne child by name.”

    The Ring gathered in the torchlit hall, arguments sparking like flint. Some called for parley, others for steel.

    Taranis stood apart, Caelum in his arms, the boy’s small hand gripping the edge of his father’s cloak.

    “They will not take him while I breathe,” he said, and there was no room for doubt in his voice.

    Final Beat

    As orders rang through Emberhelm, Rayne stood in the shadows of the hall, Draven at his side.

    “The warlord has chosen love over reason,” Rayne murmured. “Now we wait for the sky to fall.”

    Outside, lightning flashed over the valley once, twice before the rain came.

    © 2025 Emma Hewitt. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the author, except in the case of brief quotations used in reviews or scholarly works.

    The Chronicles of the Gold Ring… Chapter One

    The Chronicles of the Gold Ring Chapter Two

    The Chronicles of the Gold Ring Chapter Three.

    The Chronicles of the Gold Ring Chapter Four.