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.
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