and fire for breath, He walks between day and the deepening night, A child of healing, a whisper of death.
They called him cursed, they called him flame, Yet none could deny the spark in his palm. He bore no weapon, he sought no fame But the winds bent low to kiss his calm.
When Drax lay broken, minds turned black, Taranis reached, and thunder wept. The fever fled, the soul came back And the child collapsed, as the forest slept.
Now they watch him with fearful eyes, This babe who speaks in ancient tongue.
Yet storms do not ask if the fire should rise… They rise because the world’s begun.
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My uncles and father stood within the sacred ring of fire. The smoke curling into the twilight sky as the elders sat in silence. Each wore the furs of their lineage, feathers braided with bone and bark, their eyes sharpened by decades of judgement. The fire crackled with unease not just heat, but the energy of something unseen, something stirring.
Father stood tall, one hand resting on the haft of his ceremonial spear. He was prepared not just as a warrior, or chief, but as a father. A father standing between his blood and the storm.
“Your son broke the sacred law,” spat Elder Bran, his voice like dry bark in winter. “He entered the hut of an ostracised man without escort. That law is older than your title, Chief Conan.”
“He must be punished,” added Elder Tarn, slamming his staff into the scorched earth. “Compassion does not absolve disobedience. Rules are not bent for favoured blood.”
A silence fell taut as a bowstring before Drax stepped ahead. Gaunt, but no longer wild, his words rang with clarity.
“He saved my life.”
Gasps and murmurs broke across the council. Even those who had long abandoned hope for Drax looked at him now with flickers of wonder, or wariness.
“I would be dead if not for him,” Drax continued. “I felt it something leave me. A darkness burned away. I am… clear.”
Lore moved to stand beside our father. “He is barely one year old,” he said. “Yet he speaks in tongues, walks like a hunter, and heals the broken with words no one taught him.”
“This is what troubles us!” snapped Elder Ysra, rising in her many-layered cloak of ash and iron charms. “Power like this does not come without price. The last child marked by the storm brought famine, flood, and war.”
“We do not know what mark he carries,” my father replied, eyes level. “But I will not see my son punished for compassion.”
Ysra stepped ahead, face drawn like flint. “It was not just compassion. It was prophecy in motion. And prophecy unguarded is wildfire in a dry forest.”
Behind them, Morrigan and Boldolph stood watch just beyond the fire’s reach. The black wolf growled low, a rumble of warning. while Morrigan’s gaze stayed fixed on the chief’s hut where Taranis slept, gripped by fever.
The fire hissed and popped. Somewhere nearby, a nightbird called.
Elder Bran raised his staff. “The child shall remain under close watch, isolated from others but housed within the chief’s care. He will be marked not as cursed, but as unknown. No more unsanctioned visits. If he breaches this again”
“We will not exile a babe,” my father growled.
“No,” said Ysra coldly. “But we may exile what grows inside him.”
The flames danced higher, wind tugging at the circle as if the fire spirits themselves had stirred.
Lore bowed his head slowly. “Then we shall walk the knife’s edge between reverence and fear. But mark my words if you turn on him too soon, you lose more than trust. You lose the only light left.”
As the council slowly dispersed, dusk settled like a shroud. The camp held its breath. Only the crackle of fire and the quiet steps of retreating warriors broke the silence.
Later, beneath the stars, young Nyx turned to our father. “So what happens now, Father?”
“Isolation. No one speaks to him unless permitted. He’ll be watched not as punishment, but out of fear. They don’t understand what he is. And people fear what they do not understand.”
“If we don’t talk to him… won’t that break him?”
Conan’s voice was low. “That is what I fear most.”
Just then, the elders returned with the boy. His fever had broken. Taranis walked unaided into the firelight, eyes drowsy but glowing faintly.
“What is going on?” Conan asked, rising quickly.
“He entered the eternal sleep,” Elder Ysra whispered. “But then… he came back.”
Even the fire seemed to pause.
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Taranis lay silent in his cradle, just moments after birth. He didn’t cry, didn’t scream only watched with wide, storm-coloured eyes. I sat by his side, listening to the rising argument between our father and eldest brother, Drax.
“No one will hurt you, baby brother,” I whispered, “not while I and the others still draw breath.”
“Lore,” came our mother’s voice, tired but clear, “you’ll be good to him, won’t you? He’s weak…”
I turned to her and gave a gentle nod. “Yes, Mother. And so will you. You’ll teach him to gather berries and cook. And Father will teach him to hunt. He has eleven older brothers, we’ll teach him everything. But… what is Father going to do about Drax?”
I cradled Taranis in my arms, gently rocking him the way I’d done with the others. Even then, he felt… different. Lighter and heavier at the same time.
“We’ll protect him,” Mother whispered. “But if Drax doesn’t stay quiet, your father may have him silenced.”
There was pain in her voice, thick with grief.
“Drax is being ostracised,” Father said later that day.
“He’s moved to the empty hut. My men are watching him. But Lore my boy you are to be chief when I enter the eternal sleep. Drax has forfeited his claim.”
“Yes, Father,” I replied, handing the baby to him before leaving for council training.
Many moons passed.
Drax had become more unstable touched by something dark. He talked to shadows. He thrashed like a wild animal when approached. Still, Father refused to have him killed.
But Drax had never been allowed near Taranis unbound not since the moment of his birth.
One afternoon, I sat carving a storm sigil into a flat stone when a scream echoed across the camp. It was Stone, a tribal woman and healer. I dropped my tools and ran.
Inside the birthing hut, Taranis barely four months old was standing unaided.
“L… Lore?” the baby said softly.
I froze. My heart thundered in my chest. “Yes… I’m Lore. You’re Taranis the stormborne one.”
No child had ever spoken or walked at that age. He was already taller than most children twice his age. His voice was clear. His steps were steady.
Our parents rushed in.
“Conan, he’s doing it,” Mother said, her voice laced with awe and fear. “But it’s far too early.”
Father’s eyes scanned the room. He bent down and lifted Taranis, pride and dread wrestling in his expression.
“Stone,” he said quietly, “you saw nothing. And neither did you, Lore.”
“Drax is here for visitation today,” I reminded him, uneasy.
“The shaman has blessed him. He’s… clear enough,” Father replied. “But I will not kill my own blood.”
“Dadda?” Taranis said with a toothless grin. “Momma. Daddy. Lore.”
“That’s right, my charmed one,” Father said softly. “And you are?”
“Tabaris,” he chirped, mispronouncing his own name.
“Close. It’s Taranis,” Father corrected gently.
“Taranis,” he said again, tapping his chest. “Me Tanaris. You Daddy. That Mommy Sweet Voice. That Lore.”
I chuckled. “That’s right, little one. I’m your brother Lore. That’s Stone. And these are your other brothers. Do you know their names?”
“Lore… Oak, Willow… River, Sky… Star…”
He paused, hiding his face bashfully.
“You did brilliantly,” I reassured him. “You’re only three moons old and already speaking better than most of us at one year!”
Time flew.
Taranis walked and talked far too early. At one year old, he was disappearing from sight vanishing, even. He was growing rapidly, faster than any child the tribe had ever seen.
One morning, he wandered toward the hut where Drax now lived, under guard by two warriors.
“What you doing, little brother?” Rain asked, trailing behind him.
“Why Drax in there alone?” Taranis asked, blinking up at the warriors.
“He’s touched,” Rain said. “They say a vengeful spirit cursed him.”
Taranis tilted his head. “I heal him,” he said matter-of-factly.
Before I stop him, he dashed toward the door.
“TARANIS! NO! STOP RIGHT NOW!” I shouted.
“I heal!” he giggled.
Rain and I exchanged looks. “Get Father!” I barked.
We followed him inside. Drax sat cross-legged, staring at the wall. He didn’t move, didn’t speak.
Taranis approached him with no fear and touched his hand. A strange, gentle glow pulsed from his palm.
“I call on my sacred friends,” he whispered, “to heal my brother Drax.”
The mystical bond between the black and white wolves, symbolizing the intertwined fates of Boldolph and Morrigan.
Boldolph’s people wept for him and Morrigan.
As the cursed pair fled the stone cave. Their new forms heavy with shame and grief, they knew the truth they would yet be hunted. Death would almost be kinder than living on, watching their people unravel from the shadows.
From the tree line, they watched.
The enchantress Whitehair was dragged to the punishment stones. Her mouth forced open as the chieftain stepped forward.
“Bring me my grandchildren,” he commanded.
A line of children stood before him. The oldest, a thirteen-year-old girl, stared straight ahead as the wind lifted her dark hair.
“Gwyn,” the chieftain said, “you are the eldest of my blood. This honour is yours. Remove her tongue and nose.”
Without a word, the girl obeyed. She carried out the sentence without question her hand steady. Her eyes blank while Boldolph and Morrigan looked on from the trees.
“The youngest three,” the chieftain continued, “shall be raised among us. Spared. But the oldest, Ryn…”
A fourteen-year-old boy was dragged forward.
“…He will be cast out.”
“No! Please…” Ryn cried. “I was hungry she hadn’t fed me in weeks…”
“You’re old enough to hunt,” his father barked. “Old enough to fish. Old enough to gather. You chose to steal.”
As the blade was drawn, Morrigan gave a sharp growl.
Boldolph stepped from the trees not attacking, but shielding the boy with his massive black form.
“Morrigan? Boldolph?” the chieftain asked, surprised but calm. “Do you understand what is happening here?”
Boldolph gave a single nod.
“Do you agree with this judgment?” another tribesman called out.
Morrigan whimpered, then moved beside Boldolph, gently nosing Ryn toward the tree line.
“Boy,” the chieftain said, “how can we speak to the wolves?”
“My father knows a chant, sir,” Ryn answered softly. “I’ve heard him whisper it to the earth spirits.”
A moment later, the chant rose in the air low and trembling. The spirits stirred.
“It is done,” the seer confirmed. “The wolves may not speak through mouths, but they will speak through minds. A bond has been made between Boldolph and the tribe’s spirit.”
“Father,” Boldolph said in thought alone, “let the boy live. Morrigan wishes no harm.”
“If she could poison her own people, she may have cursed him too,” someone muttered.
But Morrigan white as snow, her eyes full of sorrow pressed her head into the chieftain’s hand.
“He has always seemed… touched by something,” she said. “Not cursed. But not untouched either. Let him go. For me.”
The chieftain knelt.
“Boy,” he said, “do you understand what this means?”
“No, sir.”
“It means my grandfather will spare your life,” Gwyn said, stepping forward. “But you must leave, Ryn. And never return. You will walk with the cursed wolves. And you will not bear a name. Not in any tribe. You will be the boy who walks in exile. The boy of silence.”
Ryn’s father added, “You will walk until you sleep. And when you sleep, you will not wake.”
Tears welled in Ryn’s eyes. “Can I say goodbye to my brothers and sisters?”
“Five minutes,” the chieftain said. “Then the exile begins. You’ll be given a spear, a stone knife. One day’s food for you. A week’s for my son and his mate.”
The children nodded.
The chieftain’s hand rested on Morrigan’s head, then Boldolph’s.
“You are not forgotten,” he whispered.
Boldolph’s mother stepped from the crowd, her eyes wet with love and regret.
“Boldolph,” she said, “you are always welcome at our fire.”
And with that, the wolves turned toward the deep forest and the cursed child walked beside them.
An artistic representation of a mother holding her baby, symbolizing love and protection, echoing the themes of warmth and celebration in the naming ceremony of Taranis Stormborne.
The fire rose high, its heat warming us as we sang and danced around it. the Song of the Spirit carried on our voices.
But beneath the music, there was a chill in the air, something wrong. something dark, as though a shadow had seeped into the world unseen.
“My brother cried once, Father,” I said, pride swelling in my chest. “It was like he answered the thunder god himself. Even the wolves are silent. Even the dragon doesn’t strike.”
I ran my fingers gently over Stormborne’s face. my baby brother, wrapped in warmth, calm in a world that seemed to hold its breath.
Father War, chief of our people placed a strong hand on my shoulder.
“I’ve noticed the strangeness too, Lore,” he said quietly. “But tonight we don’t fear each other’s company we embrace it. Tonight, my son, we celebrate. Tomorrow… we stand guard.”
“Yes, Father,” I replied. “As you consider.”
I stepped back and watched, as he and Mother approached the fire. They stepped ahead proud carrying Taranis wrapped in the freshly cut fox hide. its red fur a symbol of cunning and strength.
War cleared his throat, lifted the baby high, and turned to face the tribe.
“I name him Stormborne,” he said, “for he was born from the storm the thirteenth son, under thunder and fire. He will be a mighty warrior.”
The people gathered close.
One by one, they reached into the sacred ash. They marked the child’s forehead and chest black smudges to bind him to the tribe,to earth, flame, sky, and spirit.
Food and drink flowed. Smoke curled into the sky. Even the animals gathered at the forest edge to witness the naming.
So was born Taranis Stormborne the thirteenth son, the thunder child, and the one the winds would never forget.
The women of the tribe had already begun preparing the celebration. Only the finest foods would be offered on this special night the night of my brother’s birth.
The birth of Taranis Stormborne.
In the woods, the younger children laughed as they filled baskets with berries, blackberries and raspberries, bilberries (wild blueberries). elderberries (cooked only), hawthorn berries, rose hips, crab apples, and sloes from the blackthorn.
Their chatter echoed with pride a new life meant strength for the tribe.
The women worked in quiet rhythm. Hazelnuts, acorns (leached to remove tannins), beech nuts, pine nuts, and the seeds. Young leaves of nettles were piled high beside bundles of wild garlic and sacred greens.
I saw my mother’s sister lay a sprig of rosemary at the fire. Not for seasoning but for blessing.
“Hey, young Lore,” someone called, grinning. “You coming hunting? Father says we’re after red deer and boar, fox, grouse, even river salmon. Only the finest meats for your mother and father. A new chieftain has been born!”
“Father’s naming him tonight? I’m coming!” I said, breath quickening. I tried to keep the smile off my face, but it broke through anyway.
I was seventeen — broad-shouldered, proud, still hungry to prove myself. I grabbed my spear and cast a glance back at my brothers and father.
our father, stood straight as an ash tree his expression unreadable. Part of him was already in the cave, beside my mother and the child. The rest of him… watched the woods.
I ran to join the others, my heart pounding. Together, we hollered and sprinted into the deep forest a forest older than memory.
But as our laughter faded behind us, a silence settled.
And then… that chill again.
Not the kind that comes with wind or storm. No, this cold was the kind that clung to your bones. The kind that made birds quiet and your breath feel too loud.
Something was watching. But nothing moved.
Still, we pressed on. The Naming Feast had to be worthy.
“I hope he survives,” I muttered, trying to sound casual but Nyx heard the worry in my voice.
“Drax is furious,” he said under his breath.“He thinks the prophecy’s come true.”
He didn’t say what the prophecy meant but we both knew the stories.
A child born under eclipse. A name written in fire. A brother… destined to break us or save us.
Suddenly, Nyx raised a hand. A deer just ahead.
I nodded once, crouched low, and let my spear fly. A perfect strike.
Nyx gave the bird-call whistle to alert his father. We hauled the carcass back to camp together.
The others returned soon after. The fire was lit. The meat laid out. Herbs were thrown onto the flames and their smoke curled skyward. in a spiral that reminded me of a dragon’s breath.
Tonight, my baby brother would be named. But even as the tribe gathered in joy. I couldn’t shake the feeling that something was coming through the trees.
Father’s eyes had changed flashing a pale shade of red.
Thunder cracked as he stepped into the cave. Ready to lay eyes on Mother and the newborn she had fought to bring into the world.
We stood behind him in silence, all of us but one.
One brother, whose eyes held no joy. Only fear. Only the taste of blood.
“Thirteenth son of the thirteenth son,” he muttered. “Born during a storm… and an eclipse. Even the dragons have fallen silent. And the wolves, they’ve stopped howling.”
Just then, as if the forest itself heard hima sound split the trees in two.
Boldolph.
His howl rose like thunder turned voice, a cry so powerful the very air seemed to flinch.
Artistic depiction of Boldolph, the powerful wolf, alongside symbols of mythology and nature.
At his side stood Morrigan, his bonded mate white as new snow. She gave a low, haunting cry and pressed her head gently against his.
Then the dragon stirred.
It lifted its head, wings stretching wide like a storm reborn.
And with a roar that lit the sky, it rose.
Fire molten and blinding erupted from its throat, painting the clouds in gold and crimson.
And there, across the eclipsed heavens, the name appeared.
TARANIS.
Burning. Brilliant. Undeniable.
As if the stars, the storm, and the breath of the gods themselves had spoken as one:
The moon hung low over the marshlands of Cymru, a pale and silent witness to all that stirred beneath. Mist curled along the ground like ghost-breath. Threading through reeds and thorns, cloaking the land in a hush that even time dared not break.
Morrigan stood at the water’s edge, her white fur shimmering with silver dew. The red pentagram upon her brow pulsed faintly with memory not magic, not prophecy, but something older still loss.
She remembered the laughter of her children, once. Their small feet dancing on stone, their breath warm against her skin when she had a face and a name.
That was long before the curse had sealed her fate. A punishment for defying death, for choosing the path of protector instead of prey.
She had not been seen in her human form by another soul in centuries.
The wind carried the scent of heather, salt, and far off fire. It shifted, and she turned her head sharply. From the west, a presence stirred. Not prey. Not predator. Something… remembered.
Her mate, Boldolph, emerged from the shadows. A black wolf with eyes like fire and a gold sigil carved into the fur of his brow. The mark of the king of wolves. He towered beside her, but even he did not speak.
Boldolph, the king of wolves, with glowing red eyes and a mystical sigil on his brow.
They not speak.
They had not touched in human form since the binding.
And still, their silence said more than words ever.
A sudden cry pierced the stillness not a howl, but the breathless whimper of cubs. Morrigan turned. Nestled in the hollow of a fallen tree, her children stirred, sensing the shift in the wind. She padded over, nose to fur, and breathed them back into slumber.
Her heart, once burned hollow by grief, beat now for them.
But the forest would not rest.
Tonight, something ancient woke.
Chapter 1
The Scent of a Storm.
The first rain came softly a warning more than a downpour. Tapping gently against the heather and bracken as dusk bled into the marshes. Morrigan crouched low on a rise of dry stone, her pale red eyes scanning the windswept valley below.
Somewhere to the north, a herd of deer was shifting. Their hooves left trembles in the ground. Their scent curled up through the fog.
But Morrigan wasn’t hunting tonight.
She was waiting.
Beneath her, in the hollowed belly of a mossy yew, three wolf cubs whimpered and stirred. Her children not the kind born of curse or storm, but of blood and memory. The youngest one, all white save for a copper ear, squeaked for her warmth. Morrigan tucked her body closer, curling like a shield around them.
Above her, the clouds began to crackle with unnatural colour. A shade of light not seen since…
Not since the last time the veil split.
The Shape of the Wind A sudden gust brought a foreign scent.
Not prey.
Not predator.
Something old.
Something… broken.
Her hackles rose.
Across the ridge. Boldolph stood, silhouetted against the sky like a god of the old wilds. His black fur glistening with rain, red eyes aflame with alertness. He hadn’t seen her in human form for hundreds of years. Neither had she seen him. The curse did not allow it.
But she felt him now that familiar gravity, that fierce ache of loyalty and loss.
“Do you feel it?” her voice stirred the wind, though no one else hear it.
He gave no answer, only turned his head westward toward the forests. Vasts woodlands of what would one day be called Cannock Chase.
Chapter 2
The boy in the trees
They saw him before he saw them.
A shadow moving through the trees. Too small to be a warrior. Too slow to be a deer.
He was staggering. Starving. But the flame in his eyes refused to die.
Morrigan stepped ahead, paws silent on the stone. The cubs whimpered behind her. Boldolph moved to block her path, lips curled, teeth bared but not at her.
At fate.
At what it meant.
At what it would cost.
Another child. Another risk. Another ache that never leave.
She looked again.
Not a warrior. Not yet.
Just a boy.
But storms followed him.
She turned back to her cubs. Nestled, safe for now. She licked each one gently, then closed the hollow with fallen bark. The marsh would protect them. She whispered an old name into the soil to guard them a name she hadn’t used in centuries.
Then, she stepped into the mist.
Boldolph growled low, a warning.
She brushed against him as she passed her head beneath her head beneath his muzzle, a gesture older than language. Boldolph did not move, but the tension in his shoulders eased. Just for a moment. Enough.
The storm scent was growing stronger.
Morrigan slipped into the trees, her paws silent against the mulch of leaf and root. Branches clawed at her fur like hands from a forgotten dream, but she did not flinch. She knew these woods. She had bled in them. Breathed in them. Hidden in them.
The boy was not far.
She found him collapsed beside a fallen trunk. his arms wrapped around his ribs as though trying to hold himself together. Dirt and blood streaked his face. His feet were bare, blistered, and blue with cold. He had a stick in one hand sharpened crudely, but not recently used.
Even in sleep, his jaw was clenched. Even in pain, his spirit did not bend.
Morrigan circled him in the shadows, one silent loop, then two. She tilted her head. A vision stirred fleeting and broken of a campfire once lit in the hollows of men’s hearts. A voice crying in a tongue lost to fire and flood.
A name.
Taranis.
It did not belong to this boy yet.
But it would.
She drew closer.
The Unseen Form had she still worn her human face, she have wept. But wolves did not weep. They watched. They endured.
Still, some griefs slipped through the fur.
She lowered herself beside the boy, her body a wall against the wind. Carefully, she placed her muzzle against his shoulder. His skin was fever-hot, but beneath it pulsed a stubborn rhythm.
He lived.
From the trees behind, Boldolph appeared, silent as the dusk. He said nothing, but his stare asked everything.
“What are you doing?”
She answered without words.
What we once promised what the old ways demand.
Another life. Another orphan. Another soul cast out by fear and ignorance.
The forest whispered around them voices of old gods and buried secrets. Morrigan raised her head and howled, low and haunting, a call only the wild would understand. It wasn’t a summoning.
It was a vow.
For three days, they watched over the boy.
She hunted while Boldolph guarded. He fetched water from the shallows, carried in his great jaws. She chewed softened bark and nettle, placing it near the boy’s lips. He drank in his fever-dreams, whispering names not yet earned, warnings not yet understood.
On the second night, he opened his eyes.
Just a sliver.
And saw her.
Not as a wolf. Not as a monster.
But as something else.
He reached a hand out. Weak. Trembling.
She did not pull away.
On the third morning, he stood.
Not steady. Not tall. But standing, nonetheless.
And behind him, the sky split with light.
Stormborne
He walked between them then between Boldolph and Morrigan as though he had always belonged.
The name passed once more through Morrigan’s mind like a wind returning home:
Taranis.
Storm-born. Marked. A child of prophecy and exile.
She didn’t yet know the shape of his story. Only that it would be vast. Only that it had begun.
And that somewhere in its ending, her curse would find its purpose.
The bond between Taranis and Morrigan, symbolizing the awakening of ancient legacies in ‘StormborneLore’.
Diolch am ddarllen. Os gwnaeth y stori hon eich cyffwrdd, eich ysbrydoli, neu aros fel sibrwd yn y coed ystyriwch hoffi, rhannu, neu danysgrifio i ddilyn y daith.
💬 Got thoughts, theories, or echoes of your own? Drop a comment and join the legend.
🌩️ The storm remembers every soul who listens.
A moment of connection between Tanaris and two mystical wolves under a full moon, symbolizing a bond forged by destiny.
Authors note: Unfortunately I needed to use Google Translate for the Welsh so appologise if I got any of it wrong.
They say it happened on the edge of the fire season. When the trees stood crisp as tinder and the sky was low with storm breath. The boy was no longer just a boy then not quite a man, not quite a ghost. They called him Taranis Stormborne, though none dared speak it aloud after what he did that day.
He had been wandering for days with Boldolph limping and Morrigan stalking ahead like a shade. Hunger bit at them, sharp and constant. The streams were low, and even the birds had gone quiet. But it was not food that found them first it was smoke.
Taranis crouched low in the bracken and smelled it before he saw it: the reek of burning pitch, not wildfire. Deliberate. He motioned with his hand, and the wolves flanked him in silence. Through the underbrush, he saw it the den.
Nestled beneath the roots of an ancient yew was a she-wolf, panting, bloodied, and gravid with life. Around her lay ash and ruin. Two men not of Taranis’s tribe circled the den with torches and stone axes. Laughing. Taunting.
One of them stepped too close, and the she-wolf lunged. He clubbed her across the snout, and she crumpled, still breathing. Taranis felt something stir in his chest something hot and ancient, older than exile.
“She has done no wrong,” he muttered to the wind. “Then why do I burn?”
He rose from the bracken like thunder. The wolves ran with him, all teeth and fury. The first man turned and Taranis’s spear was already flying. It found flesh.
The second man screamed, torch raised but Morrigan leapt, black shadow, and his cry was cut short. The woods howled then, louder than wolves, louder than any storm. A torch dropped. The dry brush caught.
Flame leapt into the canopy.
Taranis didn’t run.
He tore the yew’s roots apart with bleeding hands and dragged the she-wolf to safety. Boldolph howled into the fire’s roar, guiding him. He covered her with his own cloak and stood between her and the blaze, smoke pouring into his lungs.
When the fire passed, the glade was scorched, the sky blackened and the she-wolf was alive.
She gave birth beneath the ashes, three pups whimpering in the smoldering earth.
One with a streak of red across its back. One with golden eyes. One with fur white as ash.
They say those pups were no ordinary wolves. They say the Phoenix’s line began that night the fire born. The storm guided, the ones who would follow only him.
But when Taranis rose from the ruin. His face black with soot and eyes like lightning, the people stopped calling him cursed.
They called him something else.
Stormfire. Brother of Wolves. Protector of the Ashborn.
A painted circular stone depicting a serene landscape with trees and a sun, contrasting the eerie atmosphere of the forest.
The air was wrong.
Callum Hargreaves opened his eyes to silence so deep it pressed against his chest. No engines in the distance. No birdsong. No radio crackle.
Only the trees. And the damp earth beneath him.
He sat up slowly, wincing. His body felt heavier, like the atmosphere itself had thickened. The forest wasn’t just quiet it was ancient. The trunks were massive, rough with moss and lichen, and the undergrowth twisted in ways he didn’t remember. Even the colours seemed muted. More… real. Older.
His phone was dead. No signal. Not even a flicker of battery life.
The feather was still in his hand.
White. Burnt at the edge.
He stood, breath visible in the still air. The mist clung low to the ground, like it was trying to hide something.
The stone was gone. The path was gone.
He turned full circle. No trails. No signs. Just forest. Endless.
“Okay,” he whispered to himself. “Get your bearings. Pick a direction. Stay calm.”
But as he moved ahead, he noticed something.
There were no footprints. Not his. Not animals. No trash. No broken branches. Nothing that said people had ever been here.
Except one thing.
A shape in the clearing ahead barely visible in the haze.
It was another stone. Taller. Deeper carved. The same symbol as before a spiral, or a horn, or… something.
At its base, a small pile of bones. Clean. Arranged in a ring. And at the centre, an ash-blackened tooth.
A vibrant painted stone featuring a spiral design, symbolizing mystery and connection to nature.
Callum backed up a step.
A low growl rippled through the silence.
His eyes snapped up.
A wolf stood across the clearing.
It wasn’t moving. Just watching.
Eyes like molten gold. Fur dark and matted. Muscles tensed, but not ready to strike.
Behind it… a second figure. Not a wolf.
Human.
Massive. Silent. Cloaked in furs. A silhouette against the trees.
Callum couldn’t breathe.
He blinked. And they were gone.
Just trees again. Just mist.
But the whispering had changed.
Not words anymore.
A name.
One he didn’t know. One he couldn’t pronounce.
But it curled in his head like smoke: Taranis.
To be continued…
From the Author
I grew up visiting the Chase, walking the woods and hearing the stories. Have you experienced anything unusual in woods? The whispers among the trees?
StormborneLore 