Chapter Thirteen – The Shattered Circle
The circle of stones stood under a bruised sky. The thirteenth stone, already cracked from the battle at Emberhelm, seemed to strain against itself as though it knew what was coming. Thirteen seats. Only twelve filled.
Taranis Storm to his outlaws stood at the centre. His cloak was damp from rain, his wrist still bandaged from the Hill of Ashes. Around him, the brothers of the Ring shifted like wolves uneasy in their own skins.
Drax spoke first. “The Black Shields raid in your name. The people whisper of you, not of us. The balance is broken.”
“It was never balanced,” Taranis replied. His voice was low, bitter. “We bled for fields that gave us no bread. Rome takes salt from our earth while we quarrel. If I raid, it is to feed our people, not to wear a crown.”
Lore’s eyes flicked to the sky. “And yet the crown follows you, brother. The omens have turned. The storm no longer waits.”
Then Rayne stepped forward, the firelight showing the sly curve of his smile. “No storm lasts forever. Some of us have chosen survival.”
From the shadows came the tramp of iron boots. The air filled with the rhythm of Rome square shields, horsehair crests, iron blades that gleamed even in the grey. The circle of stones was surrounded.
Draven’s face went pale. His lips moved as if to speak, but no words came.
“You led them here,” Taranis said.
Rayne did not deny it. “Our people will live beneath Rome’s law. Better chains of iron than graves of ash.”
The thirteenth stone split with a sound like thunder. Dust trickled down its face. The Ring was broken.
Battle erupted. Drax drew steel, Lore called fire from the runes, Aisin shielded the cradle where Caelum slept. Nessa’s blade sang bright before she was dragged into the fray, her cry lost in the clash.
Taranis fought like the storm itself blade flashing, shield breaking, each stroke cutting down another soldier. But for every man he felled, three more closed in. Nets weighted with lead tangled his limbs. Chains of iron bit deep.
He roared once, a sound that shook the stones. Lightning split the sky as if the gods themselves mourned. Then the Romans dragged him down. His black shield shattered under their boots.
“Take him alive,” the centurion barked. “Rome has use for beasts like this.”
When the fighting ended, the circle lay in ruin. Smoke curled from broken fires. Brothers lay wounded or scattered. The thirteenth stone was nothing but rubble.
Taranis, Storm of Emberhelm, was shackled in chains and marched south along the salt road. Behind him, the old world fell silent. Ahead lay the lash, the arena, and the roar of foreign crowds.
He lifted his head once to the sky and whispered through bloodied lips:
“If I must fight, let it be as storm, not as slave.”
The storm rolled east with him, into Rome.
© StormborneLore Emma Hewitt, 2025. All rights reserved.
StormborneLore 