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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