Tag: Staffordshire

The Eagle and the Storm

Dawn crept slow over Cnocc, a thin gold edge behind the rain clouds. Mist clung to the standing stones, turning the world to shadow and breath.

Drax waited alone within the circle, his Armour dark with dew. Around him, the forest held its silence not even the birds dared speak before the storm.

A shape emerged from the trees. Bare-headed, cloak torn by wind, eyes bright with the same lightning that lived in the sea.

“Taranis,” Drax said quietly.

“Brother.”

They faced each other across the stones, a dozen paces apart soldier and exile, lawman and outlaw, blood and storm.

“You sent the boy,” Drax began. “You risked Rome’s wrath to deliver a letter. Why?”

“Because words still travel where armies can’t,” Taranis replied. “And because you needed to see the truth before Rome writes it for you.”

Drax’s hand went to the hilt at his belt, but he did not draw. “The truth is that you lead rebellion.”

“The truth,” Taranis said, stepping closer, “is that Rome rots from within. You see it, even in Pennocrucium the taxes, the prisons, the wards rising against their own peacekeepers. You know their order is just another storm wearing iron.”

“Law keeps the world from tearing itself apart.”

Taranis smiled faintly. “Then tell me, brother which law spared our people?”

The question hung like a blade between them.

Drax’s voice dropped. “You’ll bring ruin on every soul north of the wall.”

“And you’ll call it justice when the legions do it first.”

Lightning cracked behind the hills, casting their faces in white fire. For a heartbeat, they were children again mud on their hands, the taste of rain on their tongues.

Then it was gone.

Drax exhaled slowly. “If I turn my back on Rome, they’ll come for my sons.”

“Then send them to me,” Taranis said. “I’ll keep them safe and teach them what it means to be Stormborne.”

Drax met his brother’s gaze, every oath and scar warring inside him. “You ask too much.”

“I ask what blood demands.”

The wind rose, carrying the scent of thunder and pine. Somewhere beyond the ridge, a horn sounded Roman, sharp and close.

Taranis looked toward it, then back at his brother. “You didn’t come alone.”

Drax’s jaw tightened. “I had no choice.”

“You always had a choice.”

He turned, cloak whipping in the wind, and vanished into the mist.

Drax stood amid the stones, thunder rolling like a closing gate. For the first time in years, he no longer knew which storm he served.

The horn still echoed when Drax turned toward the ridge.
Rain came again sharp, cold, unending washing the footprints from the mud where his brother had stood.

From the southern slope came the sound of Armour. The steady rhythm of Roman discipline: shields clashing, orders barked, hooves grinding stone.

Centurion Varro rode up through the mist, helm crested, voice clipped.
“Praefect! You were told to wait at the lower ford. Our scouts saw movement rebels, by the look.”

Drax said nothing. His men shifted behind him, uneasy under the Centurion’s glare.

Varro’s gaze swept the clearing. “You’ve been here long, sir?”

“Long enough.”

“Any sign of the outlaws?”

Drax’s hand brushed the rain-darkened hilt of his sword. “None that concern Rome.”

Varro frowned. “Sir?”

“Withdraw your men to the ridge. If they move through the forest, they’ll spook what they can’t catch.”

Varro hesitated, suspicion flickering behind his eyes. “The Governor will want a report.”

“He’ll have one,” Drax said, voice like iron. “But not from you.”

Varro opened his mouth, then thought better of it. He saluted stiffly and wheeled his horse. The soldiers followed, vanishing into the haze.

When the last sound of their march had gone, Drax turned back to the standing stones. The mist seemed thicker now, the air charged and whispering.

He drew his sword not for battle, but for memory. The blade caught a sliver of light and, for a heartbeat, reflected the spiral carved into the nearest stone.

From the forest edge came a faint flicker of movement a figure, hooded and still. Not Taranis, but one of his kin. She raised her hand, palm out, the mark of the storm inked in black across her skin.

A silent vow.

Drax sheathed his sword. “Tell him,” he said quietly, though she not hear, “that I won’t be his enemy again.”

The woman vanished into the fog.

Behind Drax, Maren approached, cloak dripping. “Father… what will you tell Rome?”

“The truth,” Drax said, mounting his horse. “Just not all of it.”

As they rode back toward Pennocrucium, thunder rolled once more not from the sky, but from the earth itself. The storm was awake again.

Thank you for reading.© 2025 Emma Hewitt / StormborneLore. All rights reserved.Unauthorized copying or reproduction of this content is prohibited.

If you enjoyed this story, like, share, or leave a comment. Your support keeps the storm alive and the chronicles continuing.

If you want to read more about Drax please see The Chronicles of Drax

October 16, 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
The Quiet Storm

The heavy wooden door slammed shut behind him, sealing Taranis in a narrow cell. That smelled of damp stone and old iron.

The sound echoed like a distant drum . For a long moment, silence claimed the space as if daring him to break it. No guards, no soldiers, no jeers. Just the cold walls, the narrow slit high in the stone, and the faint, rhythmic pulse of the world beyond.

Taranis lowered himself onto the floor, legs folded, wrists free of chains but shackled at the ankles. The red marks from yesterday’s lashes ached like embers under his skin, a constant reminder of Roman cruelty. Yet he welcomed the pain; it was familiar, honest. Fear, he knew, had no place here.

A sliver of morning light cut across the cell. Illuminating dust motes that danced lazily like sparks from a distant fire. He watched them drift, tracing patterns he alone can read. Shapes of storm clouds, of wolves circling, of the great oak at the cairn.

Memory and instinct intertwined. Here, in solitude, he listened. Not just to the camp, but to the wind, the earth. Even the faint murmur of the brook beyond the palisade.

The door rattled. A shadow fell across the stone floor.

“Eat,” the guard said, tossing a small bowl of gruel onto the floor. He lingered, eyes sharp, measuring Taranis with a caution that bordered on fear. For a moment, the barbarian’s gray eyes met his, unyielding and calm.

The guard shifted uneasily and left. Taranis did not touch the food. Instead, he pressed his palms to the stone. The feeling its cold strength, imagining it anchoring him to the earth while the world beyond spun on.

Hours dragged. The sun arced across the sky outside, shifting the thin line of light that fell into the cell.

Taranis lay back, listening to every sound. From the distant clatter of armor, the muted shouts of guards. The whisper of wind through the treetops past the camp. Even the faint murmur of water in the brook he remembered from home. Each sound became a pulse, a heartbeat he measured and wait upon.

Isolation tested patience. It forced the mind inward, to a place where anger is contained and sharpened into strategy.

He closed his eyes, recalling every strike he had delivered. Every arrow loosed, every lesson of wind and rain and earth. That had been hammered into him long before Roman chains. The storm inside did not weaken it grew.

Marcos appeared at the bars as dusk began to fall, shackles clinking with each step. His one good eye flicked across Taranis’ face, noting the lines of exhaustion and defiance alike.

“Rome believes it can break you with walls and emptiness,” Marcos said quietly. “They do not know the storms from which you come.”

Taranis allowed a faint smirk. “Walls mean nothing to a storm,” he whispered, almost to himself, letting the words settle in the damp air.

Marcos crouched, lowering his voice. “Patience. They will test you again. Always. But storms… storms wait for the right moment to strike.”

From outside the cell, a shout echoed, steel striking wood. The centurion’s voice barked orders to the camp. Taranis’ ears picked out every detail. The rhythm of the soldiers’ movements, the soft shuffle of feet on mud, the clink of armor.

Observation became weapon as much as axe or bow. He cataloged every detail, storing them in the back of his mind.

Night fell, but the world did not sleep. Moonlight cut across the cell in a pale line. He flexed his ankles against the shackles, testing the limits. Each movement was a meditation, a rehearsal of strikes, sidesteps, and throws.

He imagined the centurion in the ring. The Roman soldiers flanking him, and planned counterattacks not just for survival, but for leverage.

The boy from the earlier day appeared at the doorway, clutching a piece of bread. He offered it quietly, eyes wide with tentative trust. Taranis did not take it, but he pressed his fingers briefly against the boy’s in silent acknowledgment. Even in chains and isolation, small acts of loyalty and courage mattered.

Taranis pressed his palms to the cold stone once more, listening to the pulse of the world beneath the camp. Every sound was a warning, every shadow a lesson. Rome had tried to crush him with crucifixion, lash, and intimidation. It had failed.

And as the night deepened. A low rumble of distant thunder rolled across the horizon, almost imperceptible at first, then gathering in strength. He smiled faintly, feeling it in his chest. Rome had not yet learned this: storms do not serve. They return.

Taranis closed his eyes, letting the cold stone and the rising wind guide him. He did not know when they would return to test him, or what cruelty they would devise next.

But one thing was certain: the storm had only paused. The reckoning would come. When it did, Rome would feel the force of a tempest it had tried to chain.

Further Reading

The Prophecies and Tales of Taranis Unfolded

October 4, 2025
The rising sun

A colorful drawing of a house beneath a vibrant, rising moon, highlighting a tranquil, story-filled atmosphere.

The Rising Moon

A quiet home under trees, lit by the glow of a rising moon. This piece blends memory, place, and the sense of stories waiting just beyond the window.

See it now in the Storm Arts Gallery:
👉 https://stormbornelore.co.uk/storm-arts/

September 22, 2025
Prefab in Tettenhall Wood

An acrylic painting depicting a prefab home in Tettenhall Wood, complete with a vibrant red door, green lawns, and a flowered path.

Prefab in Tettenhall Wood

This acrylic piece captures a slice of post-war life a prefab home in Tettenhall Wood, Wolverhampton surrounded by green lawns and a flowered path leading to a vivid red door.

Prefabs were once a symbol of resilience and renewal, homes built quickly after the war to give families shelter and hope.

Painted here under a wide sky, the scene is both nostalgic and grounding: a reminder that history lives not only in battles and legends, but also in the everyday places people called home.

© StormborneLore – Emma Hewitt 2025.

September 22, 2025
Shadows in the Twilight: The Stormborne Chronicles

They rode the wind before the fire,
Two shadows in the dying light.
Draven, bold with wrath in hand,
Rain, the whisper wrapped in night.

They vanished where the moors grow cold.
Where Black Claw banners stain the sky,
No horn was blown, no tale was told,
Only silence dared reply.

Some say the claw took brother’s breath,
Chained their spirits to the stone.
Others claim they walk the wilds,
Stormborne blood, but all alone.

Did the lightning call them homeward?
Did the wolves not hear their cry?
Taranis burns beneath their stars,
Yet still no answer from on high.

But we remember, night and flame,
Those brothers lost, not truly gone.
Until the final howl is sung
The Stormborne line goes on.

© StormborneLore. Written by Emma for StormborneLore. Not for reproduction. All rights reserved.

A thank you note inviting readers to like and subscribe, featuring a bright sky and green fields.

Thank you for reading.

© 2025 Emma Hewitt / StormborneLore. All rights reserved.
Unauthorized copying or reproduction of this content is prohibited.

If you enjoyed this story, like, share, or leave a comment. Your support keeps the storm alive and the chronicles continuing.

If you would like to read more Taranis stories please see: The Prophecies and Tales of Taranis Unfolded

If you would like to read more about Drax : The Chronicles of Drax

If you would like to read more about Rayne: The tales of Rayne

If you would like to read more about Lore: The Keeper of Cairnstones: Myths and Mysteries Revealed

July 2, 2025
Cymru’s Secrets.
Myths of Morrigan and the Wild.

(Cyfrinachau Cymru: Mythau Morrigan a’r Gwyllt)

Prologue: When the Wind Remembers

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’.

© StormborneLore. Written and created by ELHewitt
```
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.
June 26, 2025
Exiled at Eight the story of Taranis Stormborne.

Exiled at Eight tells the story of Taranis Stormborne.

A flicker of life enters a world that is both brutal and beautiful. From the moment chieftain Connor held the little boy wrapped in wolf fur, he knew his son was different.

The baby’s bright grey eyes sparkled with curiosity and wonder, hinting at future heartache, nightmares, and beauty.Five Years Later

“He’s alone again, I see, Drax,” Knox said to his best friend and the chieftain’s son.

“World of his own, father says. He’s different from us,” Drax replied, glancing at his little brother before shielding a strike.

“Nice try,” Drax smirked.The chieftain and his wife watched Taranis, worry and stress etched on their faces. Neither knew how to handle their youngest son, who paled in comparison to his brothers.

Taranis was a tall child, standing almost five feet, muscular from birth a blessing many remarked on. His striking grey eyes were like a stormy night. In contrast, his brothers were broad-shouldered and hardened by years of hunting and battle, already warriors in training.

One cool morning, as the damp scent of earth and pine filled the air, Taranis wandered near the edge of the forest. “Everything you see is ours, my son the woods, the green fields,” he recalled his father’s voice in his mind.

The more he walked, the louder the birds sang and the more he heard the roar of Pendragon, the king of dragons.

The howl of Boldolph whistled through the trees as he picked up a stone and threw it in the air. Suddenly, the stone flew from his hand and struck a small black bird.

It fell silent, wings broken, heart still. Taranis ran to the young bird, tears streaming down his face. Kneeling beside it, he pressed his hands gently on its broken wings, willing them to heal.

As time seemed to slow; the forest quieted. Miraculously, the bird shuddered and breathed, gradually returning to life. With a flutter, it soared free again.

The chieftain raised an eyebrow as he looked to his people, then back to his son.

“What is dead should stay dead,” one man stated.Soon, the entire community murmured in hushed tones.“ENOUGH,” the chieftain said, addressing the council of elders.

“Sir, we will call a meeting,” Janus stated. A woman with clouded eyes and a trembling voice approached quietly. She gazed deeply at the boy and spoke a chilling prophecy.

“The boy who mends what death has touched shall walk a path both blessed and cursed, a flame born of feather and storm.”Taranis looked at the old woman with a defiant smirk and his deep grey eyes, as if he wielded a storm at any moment.

He didn’t understand it, nor did he care.

“He’s old enough to train as a guide with the spirits,” another man said. “He’s five; he’s a man now.”

“No, he’s a man who can work, but he must follow his brothers and me as warriors and hunters,” Chieftain Connor stated.

The year passed quickly, and everyone focused on the warring neighbors while crops failed, turning life upside down. At six years old, the harshness of life hit hard.

When men and women charged the camp, and the clash of spears echoed.

Within minutes, the noise stopped abruptly on both sides. With uncanny fierceness, Taranis moved like a whirlwind of rage and grace. His strikes were swift and precise, as if guided by a primal force beyond his age.

“It’s like he’s a god,” Lore said, while his brothers watched in awe and fear, uncertain of what this meant for their youngest brother.

Beneath the warrior’s fire, though, was a boy barely understanding the cost of blood and death.

“I helped protect us, right, father? I’m good?” Taranis asked, but he stopped when Drax pulled him away, aware of how fear could lead people to do stupid things.

“I’m a warrior, not a seer!” Taranis cried as he was taken away.“Shh, little brother. You’ve seen too much for one day.”

“From today, my son Taranis will train with his brothers. Should another fight arise, he will be ready,” Chieftain Connor said. Another war came, but this time it was one they wouldn’t win.

As the years went by, he trained and grew into a skilled fighter. At eight years old, he stood on the hills as his friends developed coughs and fevers like never seen before, while the village was struck by a shadow darker than any blade.

A sickness crept through the children like a silent predator.Mothers wept, fathers raged, and the once vibrant laughter of youth faded into silence and sorrow. Soon, the people began to whisper, like cold wind slipping through cracks.

Was this the curse Janus spoke of? Was Taranis’s strange power a blight upon them?

“Exile Taranis!” one voice boomed. “Execute him!” another shouted. “Sacrifice him to appease the gods!”As time passed, more voices joined in as fear turned to blame, and blame hardened into calls for exile.

“We find, for the sake of the clan, we must exile Taranis,” Janus said.

Taranis stepped beyond the only home he had ever known. As he looked back at his brothers and father.

“I didn’t do it. Please, this isn’t because of me,” Taranis pleaded. But the forest that once whispered secrets now felt endless and cold.

Alone, he battled with the cruel balance between lost innocence and a destiny forced upon him.Yet beneath the storm of doubt, a fierce flame burned a hope to find meaning, reclaim his place, and someday heal what had been broken.

written and copyrighted to ELH

Further Reading

The Prophecies and Tales of Taranis Unfolded

written and copyrighted to ELH

June 22, 2025