Tag: Rayne

The Whisper of Old Magic: A Journey Through Emberhelm

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.

October 6, 2025
The Broken Circle: Rayne’s Fight for Survival

The Shattered Path

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

October 4, 2025
House of Lumen

For Rayne and the Healers of Dawn

If I fall, let me fall,

where the light still touches bark,
where elderflowers whisper secrets,
to the bees who dare return.

I will not fight with flame.
I have no sword but kindness,
no shield but truth.

My wounds are many,
but I dress them with honey.
Even the broken bloom
if the morning is gentle enough.

We do not strike first
we remember.

We remember what it was like
to be left behind,
and we vow never
to let another wake alone.

© 2025 StormborneLore by EL Hewitt. All rights reserved

July 21, 2025
House of Light (Lumen) Recipe
Honeyed Oat & Berry Cakes

Dawncakes of Lumen

Inspired by Rayne, the Knight of Light, and healing grove traditions.

Ingredients (Modern Adaptation)
- 1 cup rolled oats – £0.30
- 1 mashed banana (or 2 medjool dates, blended) – £0.25
- 1 egg (or flax egg) – £0.20
- 2 tbsp honey – £0.40
- 1 tbsp chopped nuts (hazelnuts or almonds) – £0.30
- Handful of fresh or dried berries (e.g. elderberries, blackberries) – £0.50
- A pinch of salt – £0.05
- Optional: edible flower petals for decoration (lavender or chamomile) – £0.25
Estimated Cost per Serving £2.25 (makes 6–8 small cakes)

Historical Insight

Oats, nuts, and

berries were key staples for Bronze Age peoples, especially those living in upland or forested areas. Honey was both food and medicine. Edible flowers were often added for spiritual or healing symbolism.

Substitutions
- Banana can be replaced with mashed apple or soaked dried fruit.
- Swap honey for date syrup or maple syrup if vegan.
- Any local berries or wild fruits (e.g. rosehip, sloes) will suit.
Method
1. Mix oats, banana, egg, and honey in a bowl until sticky.
2. Fold in berries and nuts.
3. Shape into small patties and bake on a lined tray at 175°C for 12–15 minutes.
4. Serve with herbal tea, ideally near morning light. Uplifting, healing, and full of lore.
Please also see

Solaris Kitchen
July 21, 2025
The Houses of Caernath Part 3

The Feast of Blood and Bond.

A colorful illustration of a bird soaring above a vibrant landscape, surrounded by a decorative border.

A striking illustration of a red wolf howling, symbolizing strength and kinship in the narrative of Emberhelm.

A howling wolf painted against a vibrant blue background, embodying themes of kinship and wilderness.

A striking artwork of a wolf howling at the moon, set against a vibrant purple background, symbolizing strength and spirit in the context of kinship.

A vibrant illustration depicting a dragon surrounded by nature, showcasing the essence of storytelling and fantasy.

The great hall of Emberhelm pulsed with firelight. Smoke curled upward from the long hearth, rich with the scent of charred lamb fat, root vegetables, and sweet herbs.

It was a scent that stirred memory of winter hunts. Harvest feasts, and nights when the storm howled but the fire held fast.

Taranis stood at the head of the long stone table. His arms folded behind his back, a rare softness in his eyes. To his right sat Lore, robes still dusted with ash from the spell that broke the curse. To his left, Drax toyed with his carving knife, his appetite as fierce as ever.

But it was the spaces beyond that caught the eye.

Boldolph sat with his broad, wolfish shoulders hunched, a strip of roast meat gripped in one clawed hand. Morrigan.

Once white wolf, now flame-haired woman, laughed as she stirred a pot near the hearth beside Solaris. Who sprinkled crushed nettle and wild garlic into the steaming soup.

And near the fire, two boys sat on a bench Nyx and Rayne. The latter still bore the bruises of captivity, but his shoulders had relaxed, his collar gone. Nyx offered him a chunk of honeyed root and a crude wooden spoon. The boy’s smile was slow, cautious. But it came.

Taranis raised a horn of wild berry wine.

“Tonight, no war. No judgment. No weight of kingship or curse. Tonight, we eat.”

A cheer rang through the hall.

The first course was served hearth-brewed vegetable broth, thick with barley, wild leeks, and stinging nettle. Simple, earthy. Morrigan’s touch. The nettle had been boiled thrice, mellowing its sting but keeping its iron-rich heart.

Then came the main feast braised lamb neck, rubbed with ash salt and roasted on iron spits. It fell from the bone into honeyed mash made of parsnip and turnip, flanked by fire-roasted carrots. leeks, and bruised apples wrapped in dock leaves.

A vegetarian version of roasted nuts, wild mushrooms, and legumes. Bound with barley and wild garlic was passed to those who’d taken vows of gentleness.

The hall grew louder with warmth and full bellies. Solaris poured ladle after ladle of broth. Boldolph, face still savage, offered a growled blessing in the tongue of old wolf-warriors. Even Lore smiled briefly.

And then came dessert.

Forest fruit compote slow-stewed blackberries, crab apples, and hazelnuts served over a rough cake of grain and honey. It wasn’t sweet in the way of sugar, but it hummed with the wild tang of the land.

As the fire cracked lower, Taranis rose once more.

“We have reclaimed brothers,” he said. “Rayne is free. Draven will return soon. Boldolph and Morrigan have chosen forms of their own. Solaris has cast down his chains. And you my kin you have chosen your Houses.”

He turned, gesturing to three newly hung banners behind the head table.

Tempestras storm-grey with blue lightning: the House of the Storm.

Ignis flickering red and gold: the House of the Flame.

Umbra shadowed silver moon eclipsing a burnt-orange sun: the House of the Shadow.

“Caernath lives again,” Taranis said. “Not through conquest but through kinship. Through the storm we were broken. But by fire and shadow, we are reforged.”

Rayne rose, slowly, holding up a crude carving the three brothers etched into a cairnstone, side by side.

“Then let it be known,” he said, “that Stormborne is no longer just a name. It is a vow.”

Lore pressed a hand to the stone, then nodded.

“A vow… and a future.”

And beneath the storm-beaten beams of Emberhelm, the wolves howled once more not from pain or exile, but from joy.

Feast Notes (Modern Budget Version approx. £10 total):

Starter:

Wild Nettle & Leek Soup

Nettle leaves (free if foraged)

Leek or spring onion

Pearl barley

Garlic & herbs

Main:

Braised Lamb Neck or Shoulder (cheap cuts)

Honey-roasted root veg (parsnip, carrot, turnip)

Mashed turnip/potato

Vegetarian choice: wild mushroom & nut loaf

Dessert:

Berries & Graincake

Stewed blackberries/crab apples

Honey/oats cake

Optional: hazelnuts

Further Reading

The Prophecies and Tales of Taranis Unfolded

The Chronicles of Drax

Join the Adventure in Tales of Rayne’s Universe

Ancient Magic and Myth of the Stormborne

The Houses of Caernath – Act I: The Broken Howl

The Houses of Caernath – Act II: The Forgotten Blood

Solaris’s Kitchen:

Rustic Bronze Age Lamb Recipe: A Diabetic-Friendly Delight

July 8, 2025
The Houses of Caernath Part 2

The Forgotten Blood

Rayne collapsed before the cairnfire, the thick iron collar still tight around his neck. Etched with the jagged insignia of the Black Claw. Solaris had rushed to his side. Morrigan gathered water from the well, whispering healing words she barely remembered. Lore cast protective wards. Boldolph paced, fuming, red eyes narrowed beneath a heavy brow.

“This is madness,” Boldolph snarled, watching the collar pulse faintly with some cursed sigil. “The boy’s half-starved, and that brand it reeks of shadow magic.”

“He’s not a boy anymore,” Drax muttered. “He’s seen things. Same as the rest of us.”

“No child should wear chains,” Solaris said, voice tight. “Not in Emberhelm.”

Lore knelt by Rayne’s side, laying fingers over the rusted iron. “It’s not just a collar. It’s a seal. A blood-binding rune carved into bone. They meant for him to die wearing it.”

“And yet he made it back,” Morrigan added, her hand resting gently on Rayne’s fevered brow. “That means something.”

Taranis hadn’t spoken since Rayne collapsed. He stood just outside the circle of firelight. Eyes locked on the far horizon where Black Claw lands stretched like bruises across the night. Pendragon shifted restlessly behind him, wings tight to his sides.

“They have Draven,” Rayne had rasped before falling unconscious. “They kept him… because of me.”

That had been enough.

Without another word, Taranis had mounted the black dragon and taken to the sky.

The wind screamed around him, colder than it should have been for summer. Taranis kept low over the ridges, scanning the burned-out lands for signs of encampments. Black Claw banners once flew here clawed glyphs torn into hides, marked with bone. Now, they hid in the ruins, like maggots beneath ash.

Pendragon dove suddenly, a cry bursting from his throat.

There a ridge of slate carved into makeshift battlements. A fortress not meant to keep armies out, but prisoners in.

Taranis landed hard, blade drawn before his boots touched the ground. He didn’t speak. He didn’t call out.

He moved.

Two guards fell before they could scream lightning dancing along the edges of his blade. A third tried to flee. Pendragon caught him mid-run and dropped him without effort.

Taranis moved through the ruined keep like a storm incarnate silent, swift, merciless. These were slavers, torturers, the kind who’d once held him in chains. He knew every sound of their cruelty.

He’d been trained in their darkness. Now he wielded it against them.

In the lower chamber, he found Draven.

Naked but for rags, wrists chained above his head, bruises blooming along his ribs. He lifted his face at the sound of boots.

“Taranis?” he croaked.

“I’m here,” his brother said.

“You came back…”

“I always come back.”

Taranis cut the chains in two strokes, catching his brother as he fell.

“Can you walk?”

“No.”

“Then I’ll carry you.”

He slung Draven over his shoulder and stormed out as the keep burned behind him.

Not once did he look back.

By the time Taranis returned to Emberhelm, Rayne was awake.

Solaris had removed the collar with Lore’s help shattering it against a carved cairnstone. It took three days of chanting, and a night of fire that refused to go out. Boldolph had offered to chew the thing apart. Morrigan declined the offer.

Rayne sat in the healing hall, bandaged and trembling. When Taranis entered carrying Draven, the boy’s face crumpled.

“You got him.”

“I said I would.”

Morrigan rushed forward. “Lay him here.”

Taranis set Draven down gently. Lore began his work, murmuring ancient words. Solaris lit the fire with a whispered flame. Rayne crawled forward and took his brother’s hand.

“I’m sorry,” Rayne whispered. “I told them everything. They used me. And I still couldn’t save him.”

“You survived,” Taranis said. “That was enough.”

Drax entered moments later, axe slung over his back.

“You went alone.”

“I didn’t need an army.”

“You’re lucky I like you, brother.”

Boldolph huffed from the doorway. “I told you not to go alone. Next time, I’m riding the dragon.”

Pendragon let out a soft growl as if agreeing.

“Next time,” Taranis said, “there won’t be a need.”

That night, they gathered in the Hall of Storms. The Three Houses stood beneath banners newly hung. The thunder-mark of Tempestras, the flame glyph of Ignis, and the silver eclipse of Umbra.

Rayne, still weak but standing, stepped forward.

“I was taken when I followed a shadow beyond the border. They said my blood would buy silence. But my silence almost cost a life.”

Taranis laid a hand on his brother’s shoulder.

“It is not your shame to carry.”

“No,” Rayne said, looking around, “but I want to stay. I want to fight. I want to belong.”

Lore smiled. “Then choose your house.”

Rayne hesitated.

Then: “House of the Shadow.”

Umbra’s banner unfurled behind him.

Draven, barely upright, spoke next.

“I never stopped believing we’d meet again. Even when they broke my ribs and chained my hands. I clung to the howl of a wolf I couldn’t see. I thought it was memory. Now I know it was Boldolph.”

The great wolf-man stepped forward, placing a fist over his chest.

“You’re one of us.”

Draven smiled through broken teeth. “Then I choose House of the Storm.”

The warriors roared their approval.

Taranis turned to Solaris.

“We’ve brought them back. But we’re not finished, are we?”

“No,” Solaris replied. “Not until all chains are broken.”

Boldolph grunted. “I say we raise a hunt. Take out the last Black Claw den.”

Drax cracked his knuckles. “Been waiting for that.”

Lore added quietly, “We’ll need more than swords. The blood magic they used—it’s older than the cairnstones.”

Taranis nodded.

“Then we rebuild. We teach. We prepare.”

He turned to face the assembled tribes.

“The era of exile is over. The age of the Stormborne rises.”

And above them, Pendragon howled not in anger.

But in unity.

Later, as the fires dimmed, Boldolph stood outside the gates, leaning on his axe like a watchful father. Morrigan brought him stew.

“You stayed.”

“I always stay.”

“Still think about eating Taranis?”

“Not lately.”

They laughed quietly.

“Do you think they’ll ever stop fearing him?” Morrigan asked.

“No,” Boldolph said. “But that’s not what matters.”

He turned to her, eyes soft.

“They follow him anyway.”

July 8, 2025