I stood where thunder carved the sky, Where old oaths broke, and none asked why. The staff I raised was not for war, But for the ghosts I still fight for.
Boldolph’s eyes were iron flame, They spoke of love, not seeking fame. His growl a warning, not a threat A brother’s bond I won’t forget.
The wolves still watch. The dragons wake. Each vow we make, each path we take A storm-born soul must never stray From fire-wrought truth or shadowed way.
Let others rule with golden tongue, I lead where pain and praise are sung. For every scar upon my frame Is carved from love, not just from flame.
The courtyard had long emptied. The ash of the fire pits still glowed faintly, casting soft light on stone walls and weary limbs.
Taranis sat alone, legs stretched, a jug of broth in one hand,. the other flexing and sore from the clash with Boldolph.
The crack of staffs still echoed in his bones.
Footsteps approached not boots, but clawed paws. Heavy, padded, unmistakable.
Boldolph.
Without a word, the old wolf-man knelt beside him, a strip of clean linen in hand. He took Taranis’s wrist and began to bind the bruises, slow and methodical, like a ritual done a hundred times.
“You didn’t hold back,” Taranis said after a moment.
“You didn’t ask me to.”
The silence between them was old, familiar. Like the stillness before a storm. Or the hush before a boy became a warlord.
“I needed them to see I bleed too,” Taranis muttered, wincing as the linen tightened. “That I fall. That I get back up.”
Boldolph grunted.
“They already know you bleed,” he said. “They just needed to see you still feel it.”
Taranis looked toward the sky. Smoke trailed like threads into the blackness. One dragon circled high above, a quiet sentinel.
“I keep thinking,” he said, “about when I was exiled. Alone in the wilds. All I had was that storm inside me and the promise that no one was coming.”
He looked down at the staff beside him.
“And now… now there’s you. Solaris. Lore. Drax. Rayne. Even Draven. I have everything I never thought I would. And I don’t know how to hold it without crushing it.”
Boldolph didn’t speak at first. Just poured a second jug of broth and handed it to him.
Then he said, low and hoarse: “Every beast that’s ever bared teeth knows fear. Not of pain. Of losing what it’s fought to protect.”
He paused, eyes distant.
“I was exiled once too. Long before you were born. I clawed through snow and silence, not knowing if I was cursed or chosen. I still don’t.”
Taranis turned to him.
“You stayed. Even cursed. Even as a wolf.”
Boldolph nodded.
“Because someone had to. And because I believed that one day, the one I guarded would understand the weight of the fire he carried.”
The flames crackled beside them. Taranis took a slow sip of broth.
“I understand it now.”
Boldolph gave a grunt soft, almost approving. Then he stood, stretched, and turned toward the shadows.
“You’re not alone anymore, High Warlord,” he said. “Stop trying to fight like you are.”
Then he was gone, back into the night, tail flicking behind him like a whisper of old magic.
Taranis sat a while longer.
Then he smiled.
Not like a warlord. Not like a weapon.
Like a man who had bled, fallen, and been lifted again by the hand of a wolf.
The morning mist clung to the valley like a second skin. Emberhelm’s courtyard steamed with breath and sweat, the scent of stone, ash, and boiled roots heavy in the air. Around the inner circle, newly chosen warriors waited nervous, eager, some barely out of boyhood. Others bore scars older than Taranis himself.
At the centre stood the High Warlord of Caernath. His cloak cast aside, sleeves rolled, storm-grey eyes fixed on the line before him.
“No blades today,” he said. “Not until your hands know what weight feels like.”
He tossed a staff to the first in line. Then another. And another. Each warrior caught their weapon or fumbled it those who dropped theirs were told, simply, “Again.” And made to run.
On the other side of the training ground, beneath the shadow of the stone wolf banner, Boldolph paced in silence.
His pack half-men, half-beasts, with eyes like old moons watched him without blinking. He spoke low, but his voice carried like thunder over ice.
“You are not pets. Not soldiers. You are guardians.” A pause. “You see a child in harm’s way, you do not wait for orders. You act. That is the law of the wolf.”
One of the younger wolves whimpered. Boldolph turned sharply. “Fear is not failure. Freezing is. Move even if it hurts.”
Across the field, Taranis raised his voice again.
“This is Ignis. This is fire. You’re not here to impress me. You’re here to withstand the storm, and stand through it.”
He glanced at Boldolph.
“Or do you want to spar with his lot instead?”
A low growl rippled from the wolf-warriors.
The chosen laughed nervously until Boldolph nodded. One of his warriors, a massive figure with a half-healed burn across his chest. stepped ahead, gripping a staff as thick as a child’s leg.
Taranis smiled. “Right then. Let’s see who learned to dance.”
The wolf-warrior advanced, silent but for the low crunch of earth beneath padded feet. His height matched any war-chief. His eyes amber, slit like a blade of dusk fixed on the line of young recruits now stepping back.
Taranis caught Boldolph’s eye.
The old wolf-man crossed his arms, his growl half amusement, half challenge.
“Too much for them?” Taranis asked.
“They need to know pain has teeth. And that not all enemies snarl first.”
The recruits shifted nervously. One tried to step ahead, but Taranis raised a hand.
“No,” he said. “Not yet.”
Then, slowly, he removed the silver cuff from his wrist. The one shaped like twisted flame and dropped it into the dust.
The courtyard hushed.
Boldolph straightened, his expression unreadable.
“You mean to fight me?” he said, stepping ahead, voice low.
Taranis rolled his shoulder and took a training staff from the rack. “Not to wound,” he replied. “To remind.”
Boldolph took his own heavier, gnarled like a branch torn from an ancient tree.
They circled.
The recruits, wolf-men, and even dragons above watched in stillness.
Then Boldolph struck fast, low, aiming to knock out Taranis’s legs. But the warlord leapt, twisting mid-air, landing in a crouch with a grin. He swept his staff up, tapping Boldolph’s ribs before stepping back.
“Sloppy,” he said. “You’re slower in your old age.”
Boldolph snarled, but it wasn’t anger. It was the old dance. The rhythm of claw and command.
He lunged again this time a full force blow. Their staffs cracked like thunder as they met. Sparks flew from the impact. Recruits flinched. One dragon above rumbled softly, folding its wings to watch closer.
They moved like storm and shadow:
Taranis fluid, forged in battlefields and flame.
Boldolph grounded, brutal, unshakable like the old hills.
Neither aimed to kill. But neither held back.
A final clash and both stopped, locked staff to staff, breathing heavy, eyes locked.
“You’ve grown,” Boldolph said, finally. “Not just in size.”
“And you’ve not changed,” Taranis replied, sweat on his brow. “Still the rock I lean on.”
He broke the hold, stepped back, and offered a hand.
Boldolph took it without hesitation. The courtyard erupted in cheers both from humans and wolves alike.
Taranis turned to the watching recruits. “This,” he said, gesturing between them, “is how you lead. Not with fear. But with fire, with honour, and with those who would bite your enemies long before they betray your trust.”
Boldolph gave a rare smile.
“And don’t forget,” he growled to the recruits, “the wolves are watching.”
By the fire at Emberhelm, the night before the ley lines awakened
We drank not for glory, but for breath. For blood that still ran, and brothers not yet turned to ash.
No crown weighed our heads that night. No blade hung between us. Only silence, and the crackle of wood older than war.
Lore sat still eyes on the shadow that never left his side. Drax, hands calloused, held the storm like a sleeping child. Draven, scar-bound, leaned on root and stone. Rayne, half-light, watched the stars as if to ask if they would wait for him to rise.
And I, I …. who had been all things and nothing looked at them not as soldiers, but as home.
We did not speak of battles. We did not weep for lost years. We passed the bread. We tore the fish. We shared warmth not made of fire.
And before the parting, we carved no words. For there are some truths that can’t be spoken without breaking.
The stone circle of Emberhelm stood silent under the pale light of morning., five cairnstones glowing faintly in their ancient places. The air shimmered with a stillness that only came before something eternal was spoken.
Taranis Stormborne, cloaked in black and silver. stepped ahead to the first cairn the one carved with roots and mountains, circled in white ochre. He turned to face the gathered warriors, wolves, and wanderers.
“Before the dragons flew,” he said, “before the wolves howled, there were five lines of fire. We knew only three. But today, we remember them all.”
He turned to Draven, who stepped ahead slowly, still favouring his side.
“Brother you bled for us. You survived what none should have. You guarded the line even when no one knew it was there.”
Taranis drew a shard of stone from the cairn itself. Then handed it to Draven, and placed a firm hand on his shoulder.
“By the weight of the earth and the strength of the mountain, I name you Lord of Terra.”
A cheer rose from the crowd, led by the wolves, then echoed by the dragons above. Draven bowed not to Taranis, but to the people.
Taranis turned then, slowly, toward the fifth cairn the one none had touched in generations. It bore a sunmark, and a spiral, and a cut across its base. where an old flame once split the stone.
Beside it stood Rayne, straight-backed now, though his eyes still bore the shadow of the collar. And beside him stood Tirena, a woman of stone and flame, silent and radiant. With one hand resting lightly on the hilt of her sun-marked blade.
Taranis paused before speaking not as a warlord, but as a brother.
“Rayne. We lost you once. You were chained, beaten, turned into a whisper. But you came back. And with you came fire not born of wrath, but of forgiveness.”
“Yet even flame must have form. And no one guards the flame better than the one who sees in silence.”
He turned to Tirena.
“Knight of Lumen, daughter of the dawn do you stand beside him of your own will?”
Tirena gave a single nod, her voice soft and fierce.
“I do. Not for crown. For cause.”
Taranis placed his hand on Rayne’s shoulder, and raised his other toward the sun.
“Then by the fire that remembers and the light that does not burn. I name you Rayne of Lumen, Lord of the Fifth House.”
The crowd was still for a heartbeat.
Then a pulse rolled through the cairns. A faint hum, like the deep breath of the land itself, stirred the hair of every person there.
The ley lines had awakened.
Five fires, once lost, now stood again.
Taranis looked out across the gathered faces his brothers. His people, the wolves, the dragons, the flame keepers and shadow walkers who had followed him through storm and silence.
His voice dropped low, just above a whisper, but the wind carried it to every ear.
“I know I wasn’t there for you. I’ll always regret that. Father exiled me… and maybe I would’ve run anyway. But that exile taught me many things.”
He looked to each brother in turn Lore, cloaked in dusk and silence. Drax, ever the storm, hands calloused from war. Draven, grounded like stone. And Rayne, flame rekindled beside the steel gaze of Tirena.
Taranis smiled, but it was not the smile of a warlord. It was that of a boy who had once been cast out. Now stood at the heart of everything he loved.
Just then, Draven stepped ahead again, his voice steady.
“Brother… you were exiled at eight,” he said. “We not protect you then. But we can stand with you now.”
Taranis’s gaze faltered for the briefest moment not from shame, but from the sudden weight of grace.
“And I will never walk alone again,” he answered, his voice thick with feeling.
Around them, the wind stirred the banners of each House. The cairns pulsed faintly, glowing at their roots. Overhead, the wings of dragons cast long shadows across the circle. And for the first time in generations, all five ley lines were whole.
Thank you to everyone who took the time to read yesterday’s Authors Note.
just a warning : This is NOT EDITED in anyway so there will be spelling mistakes and grammar issues., structure issues.
Why am I doing this?
The reason I’m saying hello in English. German, Russian, Spanish, Swedish and Welsh (I do apologise if I’ve spelt or wrote anything wrong)
The reason for it is those are the top countries in my stats for viewing my site.
THANK YOU
Thank you and USA youre number one. Thank you, and last night’s authors note had more likes than any other piece.
AI and Me
Well I’ve tried AI and still think even with all the errors. My writings probably better, than ai even though I use it to Polish my work it feels wrong.
Less human! Less capable of putting in what it takes to make the reader feel. SO after talking to my child who is a one of the biggest book nerds I’ve know. Someone who states don’t use AI they steal from other writers.
They are right but my stories are mine and double checked even triple checked not just through grammarly. But I also paste anything that I’m suspicious of direct into search engines manually check. If something worth doing it’s worth doing right !
The Plan Today
What’s on the plan today is easy 4 pieces.
This authors note
1 story – Three houses of Caernath part 7
1 poem – based on the eternal lords
1 article
1 recipe. Inspired by the bronze age
Where is my world based?
Someone asked me where are my stories / world based?
Worcestershire.
The House of Flame – Ignis.
Infact Emberhelm is based on the Malvern Hills and surrounding areas. Where I walked every weekend as a child and teen. An area stepped in history and folklore from Roman Britain to today.
Shropshire, Welsh marches and Staffordshire
The houses of Lore and Drax
Tempestas (house of storm) and Umbria (the house of shadow)
While Drax guards the marches with his armies of tempestas. Lore works his charms throughout his lands of Umbra. Taranis sits in the main house of Ignis. Soon to be joined by two others.
Again I spent hours walking not just around my village. But Cannock chase and Tettenhall woods, Walsall woods, cannock woods. I listened to historians, folklorists, read books on mythology, folklore, hauntings of the areas.
Other areas
I’ve walked Glastonbury Tor. (The hard way even ended up crawling at the top. But worth it and I proved to myself I can achieve the impossible. )
I’ve walked the long mynd (shropshire)where a village is said to have disappeared. The walks beautiful but not for those with mobility issues.
I’ve visited Wales (let’s face the truth at one point most of England was welsh). so when I include Welsh it more of a nod to ancestral heritage. My favourite place in Wales is Pembrokeshire.
Everywhere I go I’m learning not just the history but any folklore people are willing to share.
Growing up in Staffordshire gave me an opening to learn the Lore. Of not just my village but cannock chase and many other areas.
I was told “never put rough articles on your blog”. but when you don’t have funds for an editor for your articles where do you go?
Many indie writers told me once Grammarly but that’s ai isnt it? If anyone has any suggestions please let me know.
I’m learning and slowly starting to use my own raw writing on this site.
Have a good day, and to those in war torn areas or going through tough times. blessing and positive thoughts go out to you.
From the first howl on the wind to the firelit feasts of Caernath, StormborneLore now stands tall a living archive of myth, memory, and meaning.
In these past 19 days, you’ve journeyed through:
✨ Poems of Spirit and reflections from wolves, dragons, outcasts, and gods 🔥 Tales of Hardship and Hope, stories born in darkness, rising toward the light 🍖 Feasts of the Ancients, recipes inspired by the meals of warriors, crones, and storm-born kings. ⚖️ Truths of Our Time articles echoing modern struggles: disability, injustice, survival, and healing
Each post is more than just a page — it’s a voice from the halls of Emberhelm.
“When all the world forgets us, we will still sing around the fire.” Taranis Stormborne
To every reader who’s wandered these halls, thank you. To every warrior, wolf, and flamekeeper yet to come welcome home.
StormborneLore Fiction forged in myth. Truth written in fire.
Draven watched his younger brother with the quiet reverence of a man who had walked through fire. To find a home on the other side. Though the aches in his ribs still tugged at his breath, he laughed a genuine, full-throated laugh. as he caught Rayne peeking from behind a weathered oak near the feast.
Rayne’s cloak hung awkwardly over one shoulder, and though his hands were free. He held them stiffly as if still expecting chains.
Draven looked back to Taranis, who stood tall and proud. The firelight glinting off the rings etched into his forearms marks of every clan he’d freed, every vow he’d kept.
“You’re not the only one who can’t die, Taranis. The bards will call us the Eternal Lords. The Man of the Woods, the Warrior of the March… But what about you, brother? What will they say?”
Taranis grinned, but his eyes stayed on Rayne.
“The Lord with a Heart. The Flame that Walks. The Warlord who Wept.”
He turned to Draven. “What ails him, truly?”
Draven’s smile dimmed.
“He survived,” he said softly. “And survival… isn’t as easy to wear as a legend.”
Taranis nodded, the smile gone. “Then I’ll not offer him a title. Or a command. I’ll offer him what was once denied us all.”
He walked from the firelight and toward the shadows where Rayne stood alone, arms folded and eyes like flint.
“You Came Back.” Rayne didn’t speak as Taranis approached. His jaw twitched. He stepped backward out of habit until his heel hit a root and stopped him.
Taranis said nothing at first. He simply sat on the fallen log nearby, stretching his legs and sighing into the evening air.
“When I was your age,” he said, “I thought silence made me strong. That if I didn’t speak of the beatings, or the exile, or the hunger… then I had won.”
He picked up a small stone and turned it over in his hand.
“But silence doesn’t win. It buries. And buried things don’t stay buried, brother. Not forever.”
Rayne looked down, fists clenched.
“They said you were dead.”
“So did I,” Taranis replied. “And then I woke up… and realized I wasn’t done.”
Rayne’s voice cracked.
“Why didn’t you come for me?”
Taranis flinched not visibly, but somewhere behind the eyes.
He finally looked up, tears bright in his eyes. “And I believed them.”
Taranis didn’t speak. He rose slowly, walked the short distance, and pulled Rayne into his arms.
Rayne stood stiff as iron pthen broke. His head fell against Taranis’s shoulder, and the boy who had been a slave sobbed like the child he never got to be.
The Wolves Watched From the trees, Boldolph watched, crouched low, Morrigan beside him.
“He’s not ready,” the black wolf growled.
“He’s more ready than you were,” Morrigan said softly.
Boldolph grunted. “He’s not like Taranis. Or Draven. The fire isn’t in him.”
Morrigan smiled. “No. But the river is.”
Boldolph glanced at her, confused.
“Some of us are made for flame and rage. Others for healing and flow. Rayne… is the river that remembers every stone.”
Morning Comes to Emberhelm By dawn, the fires had burned low and the children were asleep in bundles of wool and bracken.
The warriors sat nursing sore heads and full bellies, and the dragons Pendragon and Tairneanach lay curled in silence, watching the horizon like guardians of an old dream.
Taranis stood before the gathering. His cloak flapped in the morning wind, and behind him the stone cairns of Caernath glowed faintly as if the ancestors were listening.
“Brothers. Sisters. Flamekeepers. Healers. Shadowwalkers and Stormborn alike. You have all walked through fire, through blood, through the turning of the old ways. Now it is time to choose.”
“Today we name the Three Houses of Caernath not for power, but for purpose. No longer shall bloodlines dictate loyalty. From now on, you choose where you belong.”
“Those who fight whose strength lies in blade and storm come to the House of the Storm.”
“Those who heal, protect, and serve who hold flame and lore come to the House of the Flame.”
“And those who walk between who guard the forgotten places, who speak to shadows, or carry wounds that cannot be seen come to the House of the Shadow.”
Rayne Steps Ahead The crowd murmured. Solaris stood tall near the Flame. Draven took his place beneath the storm banner. Morrigan stood beneath the flame, Boldolph beside her though his stance was still more wolf than man.
And then slowly, silently Rayne stepped forward.
All eyes turned.
He walked past the flame. Past the storm. And stood alone beneath the third banner, woven with deep purples and grey threads: the House of the Shadow.
Gasps rippled.
Rayne turned, voice calm but steady.
“I am not whole. But I am not broken.”
“I have walked in chains. I have worn silence like a second skin. I am no warlord, no healer, no dragon-slayer.”
“But I remember. And I will not let the forgotten be lost again.”
After the Choosing Later that night, Taranis found him by the cairnstones.
“The House of the Shadow,” he said. “I never thought someone would choose it first.”
Rayne smiled faintly. “Someone had to.”
“You know… I think it might be the strongest house of all.”
Rest your weary head, sweet child, For our lord and his men stand guard. Fear not the shadows, hush your mind They hold the dark ones far behind.
Sleep now, my boy, for dawn draws near, The Day of Selection is almost here. When the High Lord walks among the brave, To choose the ones with hearts unshaved.
Rise, my child, today you train, Chosen by the Warlord through ash and rain. He sees in you a warrior’s light So heed no fear, for he brings no fright.
He is kind, though forged in fire, A stormborne soul who lifts you higher. Stand tall, young one, your time is come— To walk the path, to beat the drum.
A man of honour a man who cares A man who shared the darkness yet brought the light.
His tables long but round
with a star of five points So his warriors can all hear his point From near and far.
While the dragons fly over head The wolf-man warrior by his side tall, protective like a father figure Our leader raised by cursed wolves but with his grace freed his friends No slaves exist in Caernath he made it so
The high war lord of Caernath rules equal with charm and grace. but fury like the darkest of storms His group of 12 warriors, seers, healer. around the table making laws, deciding wars and peace.
Come one, come all,
to hear the tales of. The High Warlord of Caernath. A giant in spirit, a friend in kin, Whose heart burns brighter than the wrath of wind.
He lets no soul go hungry nor cold. For in his eyes, all people hold The spark of flame, the worth of kin. No exile too lost, no outcast too thin.
The fire burns bright at Emberhelm’s gate, For weary travellers and those burdened by fate. Hungry, tired, or wounded deep, He offers food, a place to sleep.
So if you wander, far or near, Know this truth and hold it dear. The High Warlord of Caernath stands, With open heart and open hands.
StormborneLore 