Tag: Stormborne Chronicles

From Chains to Legends: The Rise of the Black Shields

The Storm Returns

The tide was retreating when they found the broken chains. The sight of melted iron through as if struck by lightning.

“Gods preserve us,” whispered one of the guards, stepping back. “No blade have done that.”

Tiberius knelt beside the scorched links. “He didn’t break free,” he muttered. “He shed them.”

The centurion barked orders.,Sending riders to the northern watch and ships to sweep the channel. But even as they moved, the sky began to darken. The wind shifted, dragging the scent of iron and rain across the water.

“He’s gone home,” Tiberius said at last. “Back to the place Rome never tamed.”

“To Britannia?” asked the young guard again, voice shaking.

“Aye,” said the older legionary. “And if the stories are true, every storm between here and there will answer his call.”

From the cliffs, they can see the faint shimmer of the sea calm for now, but seething beneath.

The Emperor’s standard flapped once, hard enough to snap its pole.

“Should we tell the mainland?” the centurion asked.

Tiberius stood slowly, eyes on the horizon. “Tell them nothing. Let them think he drowned. If the gods favour us, maybe they’ll believe it.”

But none of them truly did.
Even as the orders went out, the men felt the pressure in the air, that strange stillness before thunder. Somewhere far to the north, in the heart of Britannia, the wind began to rise.

“What if he’s caught out there commander?”

Tiberius didn’t answer at first. His eyes stayed on the sea, the horizon split between light and shadow.

“If he’s caught,” he said finally, “then the sea itself will break first.”

The young guard frowned. “You speak as if he’s a god.”

Tiberius turned to him, his face hard. “You weren’t here when they brought him in chains. You didn’t see the storm that followed. The ships burned before they reached the harbour. No oil, no fire arrows, just lightning, and him standing in the rain, laughing.”

The guard swallowed, his knuckles white around his spear.

Another soldier older, scarred, voice low spat into the dirt. “Men like that ain’t gods. They’re reminders. Rome builds, Rome burns, and the earth keeps its own count.”

Thunder rolled far out to sea, deep and slow.

“Get word to the docks,” Tiberius ordered. “Seal the forges. Lock down the armoury. And if the Emperor asks…”
He paused, eyes narrowing.
“…tell him the storm never left the island.”

The men scattered to obey, but above them, the gulls were already fleeing inland.

The wind picked up again not from the west, but the north.
And on the water, beneath a bruised sky, something vast and dark moved with purpose.

Taranis stood at the prow of the small boat, the sea hissing beneath its hull as if warning him back.
He only smiled.

The wind carried the scent of earth his earth and beyond the mist. The cliffs of Britannia rose like the bones of old gods. Behind him, the island of exile vanished into shadow. Before him lay vengeance, memory, and the ghosts of his kin.

“Home,” he murmured. “Or what’s left of it.”

His brothers would be the first. Drax, bound by Rome’s gold and law; Rayne, lost between loyalty and freedom. Then the old comrades, the broken men who once bore the wolf upon their shields.
The Black Shields would rise again not as soldiers. But as something Rome can not name and never kill.

He shifted his weight, watching the distant shoreline of Letocetum take shape through the fog.

Beyond that lay the salt pits of Salinae. The forests near Vertis, the villages that still whispered his name like a curse and a prayer.

“Word travels faster than ships,” he said to the empty wind. “By the time I step ashore, they’ll already know.”

Lightning rippled across the far horizon, faint but deliberate, as though the heavens themselves answered.

He gripped the tiller and laughed quietly to himself not with joy. But with the fierce certainty of a man who had waited too long to be mortal anymore.

When the first gulls circled overhead and the shore drew near, Taranis whispered the words that had haunted his exile.

“Rome fears the storm. Now it will remember why.”

The tide carried him in. Somewhere in the fort at Rutupiae Drax Stormborne turned toward the sea. With a feeling of dread, without knowing, that the storm had come home.

Thank you for reading.

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

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October 14, 2025
Exile and Legends: The Story of Taranis and His Chains

The Echoes of Chains

A hundred years had passed since the storm was bound.

A hundred winters since Taranis Stormborne’s chains had sung beneath Rome’s hand yet still, his name whispered across the camps and the courts like a ghost too proud to fade.

In the hall of the Legion’s veterans, laughter rose among the embers.
Drax, Draven, and Lore sat together with old friends, all bound by immortality, all marked by the centuries. The world had changed around them Rome had fallen, risen, and reshaped itself but some wounds did not age.

“They want to see how far they can push him before he dies,” one of the legionnaires said, swirling wine dark as blood in his cup. “The Empire’s still obsessed with him. Calls him champion now.”

Draven’s brow arched. “Champion?” he repeated, half with scorn, half with disbelief. “The Emperor’s champion? Then he’s no prisoner he’s a prize.”

Another man leaned closer, the firelight cutting sharp lines across his face. “Word is they’ll grant him exile. An island of his own. Somewhere the storms never touch.”

Lore laughed softly though there was no warmth in it. “Exile,” he said. “Rome’s mercy always comes wrapped in iron.”

Marcos older than them all, though untouched by time raised his cup. “Your brother’s no man anymore,” he said quietly. “He’s a story they can’t kill. A weapon they don’t understand.”

The hall fell silent. Only the fire spoke a low hiss, a breath of smoke curling upward.

A woman’s voice, cool as silver, broke the quiet. Calisto, immortal like the brothers, leaned against the pillar’s shadow. “Calisto owns your brother now,” she said. “Gladiator. Slave. Sold to noble women to keep their beds warm and their secrets buried.”

Draven’s hand tightened on the table. “You speak lies,” he growled.

Marcos shook his head slowly. “Not lies. Rome believes a man can be broken if he’s humiliated long enough.” His eyes darkened. “They never understood what blood he carried.”

Drax stared into the fire, jaw set like stone. “Then they’ve forgotten what happens when storms remember,” he murmured.

Outside, thunder rolled faintly over the hills distant, but coming closer.

October 7, 2025
Unlocking Ancient Powers: Lore Stormborne’s Awakening

The Whisper Beneath Stone

Artistic representation of Lore Stormborne, featuring intricate patterns and vivid colors, symbolizing his connection to ancient powers and storms.

Rain fell soft upon Emberhelm not in sheets, but in threads, weaving through the night like strands of memory. Each drop whispered against the walls, tracing paths down stone carved before empires rose. The air smelt of iron, damp moss, and prophecy.

Lore moved through the Hall of Echoes with deliberate silence. The torches burned low, their flames bending in strange rhythm, as though swayed by unseen breath. Beneath the central arch lay the dais of oath and upon it, the gold ring.

It shimmered faintly in the half-light, a pulse of life within metal. Not the glow of firelight, but of something older.

Lore hesitated before it. His reflection warped in its surface his eyes darker, sharper, his face marked by the faint runes of bloodline and burden. “The ring of storm and oath,” he murmured. “The bond of the five.”

He reached out. The moment his fingers brushed it, the hall sighed.

A low hum filled the air not from stone or wind, but from within.

Then came the voice.

“Brother…”

The word was barely sound more vibration, more memory. It coiled through him like smoke through glass.

“Taranis…” Lore whispered, his voice trembling. The name itself seemed to awaken something. The torches guttered. The shadows around the walls began to move not randomly, but with purpose, forming the faint outlines of chained figures, of men bowed beneath lightning.

The ring pulsed again, once, twice. Gold bled to storm-grey.

“Show me,” Lore said. “Show me where he walks.”

The pulse deepened and suddenly, the hall was gone.

He stood in mist. Iron gates loomed before him, slick with rain. Beyond them, sand bloodstained and torn an arena. He heard the roars of lions, the clash of blades, the chanting of a foreign crowd. And there, in the centre, Taranis bare-armed, chained, and unbroken. His eyes like stormlight.

“Still he stands,” Lore breathed.

The vision shattered like glass beneath a hammer. He was back in the hall, gasping, knees to the stone floor. The ring still glowed in his palm, its pulse slowing to match his heartbeat.

He knew then: his brother lived but the bond between them had stirred something greater. The old powers beneath the land the ones the druids had whispered of were waking again.

A new sound reached him. A voice, aged as winter bark.

“The ring calls the storm again,” said Maeve, the seer. She stepped from the shadowed archway, her staff crowned with raven feathers and iron charms. “You’ve felt it too the pulse of the deep earth, the cry of the stones.”

Lore rose slowly. “He lives. I saw him. Rome cannot hold him.”

Maeve’s gaze was sharp, knowing. “No but when the storm returns, it will not come gently. Bonds such as yours were not forged for peace. The land remembers its oaths, Lore Stormborne. The blood remembers. And blood always calls for blood.”

He turned toward the open window, where thunder rolled faintly beyond the hills. The storm clouds were gathering again not yet upon them, but coming.

“Then let it come,” he said softly. “We are Stormborne. We do not kneel to the Empire. We endure… and when the sky breaks, we rise.”

The gold ring flared once more, bright as lightning and somewhere far to the south, in a Roman cell slick with rain, Taranis felt it too.

October 7, 2025
Legends of Taranis: The Fire Within

Whisper not his name too loud,
Lest storms descend and fire shroud.
The child who walks ‘twixt wolf and flame,
Was never born to live the same.

His cradle rocked in winds that roared,
His breath was thunder, wild, untoward.
At one moon old, he called the stars
At two, he broke his brother’s bars.

The elders spoke with furrowed brows,
“This one will break our sacred vows.”
But in his hands, a light did grow,
Too pure to burn, too fierce to slow.

He healed the sick with dragon’s grace,
And sorrow fled his glowing face.
Yet fear, like roots, took hold and spread
“He brings both blessing… and the dead.”

Some say his eyes hold forest lore,
The wolves’ old grief, the fae-folk’s war.
Some say his blood recalls the flame
Of gods who walked with no true name.

What tribe can hold a storm so wide?
What fire endures when fear must hide?
So mark these words on bark and bone,
The Stormborne never walks alone.

For when the wind begins to wail,
And branches sing a deathless tale,
Look not for mercy, shield, or guide.
The fire within the child will rise.

Thank you for reading.

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The Prophecies and Tales of Taranis Unfolded

June 29, 2025
The Awakening of a Charmed Hero

Taranis lay silent in his cradle, just moments after birth. He didn’t cry, didn’t scream only watched with wide, storm-coloured eyes. I sat by his side, listening to the rising argument between our father and eldest brother, Drax.

“No one will hurt you, baby brother,” I whispered, “not while I and the others still draw breath.”

“Lore,” came our mother’s voice, tired but clear, “you’ll be good to him, won’t you? He’s weak…”

I turned to her and gave a gentle nod. “Yes, Mother. And so will you. You’ll teach him to gather berries and cook. And Father will teach him to hunt. He has eleven older brothers, we’ll teach him everything. But… what is Father going to do about Drax?”

I cradled Taranis in my arms, gently rocking him the way I’d done with the others. Even then, he felt… different. Lighter and heavier at the same time.

“We’ll protect him,” Mother whispered. “But if Drax doesn’t stay quiet, your father may have him silenced.”

There was pain in her voice, thick with grief.

“Drax is being ostracised,” Father said later that day.

“He’s moved to the empty hut. My men are watching him. But Lore my boy you are to be chief when I enter the eternal sleep. Drax has forfeited his claim.”

“Yes, Father,” I replied, handing the baby to him before leaving for council training.

Many moons passed.

Drax had become more unstable touched by something dark. He talked to shadows. He thrashed like a wild animal when approached. Still, Father refused to have him killed.

But Drax had never been allowed near Taranis unbound not since the moment of his birth.

One afternoon, I sat carving a storm sigil into a flat stone when a scream echoed across the camp. It was Stone, a tribal woman and healer. I dropped my tools and ran.

Inside the birthing hut, Taranis barely four months old was standing unaided.

“L… Lore?” the baby said softly.

I froze. My heart thundered in my chest. “Yes… I’m Lore. You’re Taranis the stormborne one.”

No child had ever spoken or walked at that age. He was already taller than most children twice his age. His voice was clear. His steps were steady.

Our parents rushed in.

“Conan, he’s doing it,” Mother said, her voice laced with awe and fear. “But it’s far too early.”

Father’s eyes scanned the room. He bent down and lifted Taranis, pride and dread wrestling in his expression.

“Stone,” he said quietly, “you saw nothing. And neither did you, Lore.”

“Drax is here for visitation today,” I reminded him, uneasy.

“The shaman has blessed him. He’s… clear enough,” Father replied. “But I will not kill my own blood.”

“Dadda?” Taranis said with a toothless grin. “Momma. Daddy. Lore.”

“That’s right, my charmed one,” Father said softly. “And you are?”

“Tabaris,” he chirped, mispronouncing his own name.

“Close. It’s Taranis,” Father corrected gently.

“Taranis,” he said again, tapping his chest. “Me Tanaris. You Daddy. That Mommy Sweet Voice. That Lore.”

I chuckled. “That’s right, little one. I’m your brother Lore. That’s Stone. And these are your other brothers. Do you know their names?”

“Lore… Oak, Willow… River, Sky… Star…”

He paused, hiding his face bashfully.

“You did brilliantly,” I reassured him. “You’re only three moons old and already speaking better than most of us at one year!”

Time flew.

Taranis walked and talked far too early. At one year old, he was disappearing from sight vanishing, even. He was growing rapidly, faster than any child the tribe had ever seen.

One morning, he wandered toward the hut where Drax now lived, under guard by two warriors.

“What you doing, little brother?” Rain asked, trailing behind him.

“Why Drax in there alone?” Taranis asked, blinking up at the warriors.

“He’s touched,” Rain said. “They say a vengeful spirit cursed him.”

Taranis tilted his head. “I heal him,” he said matter-of-factly.

Before I stop him, he dashed toward the door.

“TARANIS! NO! STOP RIGHT NOW!” I shouted.

“I heal!” he giggled.

Rain and I exchanged looks. “Get Father!” I barked.

We followed him inside. Drax sat cross-legged, staring at the wall. He didn’t move, didn’t speak.

Taranis approached him with no fear and touched his hand. A strange, gentle glow pulsed from his palm.

“I call on my sacred friends,” he whispered, “to heal my brother Drax.”

And in that moment, something ancient stirred.

To be continued…

Further Reading

The Prophecies and Tales of Taranis Unfolded

June 29, 2025