The rain had not stopped since Caerwyn. Each morning it slicked the cobblestones of the fort. washing dust and ash into the gutters, as though Rome cleanse itself of guilt.
Praefect Drax Stormborne stood beneath the awning of the garrison, watching the centurions drill in the yard below. The sound of shields and iron echoed against the mist, rhythmic, hollow, and far too familiar.
“Word from the coast?” he asked without looking.
His aide the same grey-eyed veteran who had once served under him at Cannock stepped ahead. “None yet, sir. But reports spread through the camps. They say a ship found half-burned near the cliffs. No bodies. Just marks on the hull.”
“Marks?”
The man nodded. “A spiral carved deep into the wood. Like a storm-ring.”
Drax’s hand tightened around the railing. The symbol of the old clan. The one Rome had forbidden.
Behind him came the sound of boots lighter, hesitant. His second son, Maren, saluted awkwardly. “Father, the magistrate awaits. There’s unrest in the lower wards. They want judgment from the lawman.”
“The lawman,” Drax murmured. “Tell them the law doesn’t bend to whispers.”
“But it bends to Rome,” Maren said quietly.
Drax turned, eyes hard. “Careful, boy.”
The silence between them held the weight of unspoken things of oaths broken and storms returning. Drax looked at the lad and saw both his past and his punishment.
Finally, he exhaled. “Your uncle stirs the seas. I’ll not have him stir the streets as well. We hold the line.”
Maren hesitated, then stepped closer. “And if he calls us brother, not enemy?”
Drax looked past him, toward the horizon where thunder still rolled over the coast. “Then I’ll answer him as both.”
A horn sounded from the walls. Another patrol missing along the northern road.
Drax drew his cloak, the Roman crimson dulled by rain. “Have the riders ready by dusk,” he said. “We go to Pennocrucium The Empire claim the law but the storm still knows my name.”
The thunder rolled again, closer this time, shaking the banners loose from their poles. The banners of Pennocrucium hung limp in the rain Rome’s edge of order against the wild heart of Pennocrucium .”
The rain eased to a whisper by dawn. Mist lay low over the road, a grey ribbon winding north through the pines.
Drax rode at the front of the column, his cloak heavy with last night’s storm. The standards of Rome sagged in the wet, crimson turned dull and earth-brown.
Behind him, twenty riders moved in silence. Men who had followed him through three campaigns and would follow him into a fourth. Even if none of them knew whose banner they truly served anymore.
The track narrowed as they neared the Chase. Crows wheeled above, their cries lost in the fog. Somewhere beyond the mist lay Pennocrucium the old land, the hill once sacred to his kin. Before Rome built its roads through the heart of it.
At his side, Maren broke the quiet. “They say the woods here are haunted.”
“They are,” Drax said. “By memory.”
The boy frowned, unsure if it was jest or truth.
By noon, they reached the stone marker where the Roman paving gave way to mud and root. There Drax reined in, eyes narrowing at the shape half-buried in the verge. An old shield, blackened by time, its boss marked with the faint spiral of the Stormborne ring.
“Leave it,” Drax murmured as one of the soldiers bent to lift it. “The dead have earned their ground.”
From the treeline came the sound of a horn low, distant, old. Not Roman.
The men stiffened. Maren’s hand went to his blade.
Drax only listened. The tone carried memory, not threat a call. One he had not heard since he was young enough to run barefoot across the Chase. A day when he named the wind his brother.
He turned to his son. “We camp here. No fires. No noise.”
“Sir?”
“They’ll come to us,” Drax said. “The Black Shields never forgot the way home.”
As the mist thickened, he dismounted and placed a hand on the wet earth. Beneath his palm, the ground hummed faintly the old song of the storm returning.
“If Taranis walks these woods,” he whispered, “then I’ll find him before Rome does.”
Thunder rolled somewhere far off not from the sea this time, but from the hills.
The river carried him through the marshes like an old friend whispering secrets of home. The oar bit into the brown water, steady, unhurried. Ahead, smoke rose in thin curls Roman campfires. His brother’s camp.
Taranis smiled faintly. Drax always did love his rules and rituals.
He pulled the boat onto the bank, the mud sucking at his boots, and paused to listen. The faint clang of armor, the laughter of children. The low murmur of Latin prayers so out of place in this land of bog and stone.
Then he saw him. Drax, standing by the fire, cloak draped in perfect folds, a soldier carved out of duty itself.
“Hello, brother,” Taranis called, his voice light but carrying weight enough to stir the air.
Drax turned, hand on his sword. Typical.
“Taranis. Show yourself.”
“Why?” he asked from the shadows. “So you can look at me and scowl like the Roman you’ve become?”
The words were easy, but his chest ached as he stepped ahead. He had dreamed of this moment through a hundred lonely nights on the island his brother alive, unbroken.
“I see you have sons,” he said softly. “And a fine uniform. Praefect now, are we? Rome’s loyal hound.”
Drax’s eyes hardened. “You acknowledge their law, then?”
“I acknowledge survival,” Taranis said. “But I bow to no empire.”
His gaze flicked toward the boys—curious, brave, full of questions. One of them smiled at him, and for a moment, the years fell away. He saw his brother laughing beside him on the cliffs above Letocetum. Before the legions came, before blood was traded for banners.
“You shouldn’t have come,” Drax said.
“I didn’t come for Rome.” He met his brother’s eyes. “I came for what’s left of us.”
The words hung between them, raw and quiet.
The youngest boy tugged at Drax’s cloak. “He doesn’t look like a villain, father.”
Taranis almost laughed. “No, lad. Villains rarely do.”
Then thunder rolled, deep and distant, like memory returning.
Drax looked to the horizon, and Taranis knew he felt it too—the pull of storm and blood.
“The storm’s coming,” one soldier muttered.
Taranis turned toward them, eyes bright with mischief and grief. “No,” he said. “The storm’s already here.”
He stepped back into the trees, the forest closing around him. When the boy’s voice called after him—“How did you escape the island?”—he turned once more, smiling through the rain.
“I built a boat,” he said simply. “Remember that when the world tries to cage you.”
Then he was gone.
Behind him, the Roman camp crackled in the rain, and his brother’s name lingered on the wind.
The wind rolled down from the mountain like a warning.
Three days had passed since the Trial by Fire. Taranis had been seen walking beside Grael’s warhorse, the shattered collar left behind, and the obsidian pendant still warm against his chest. But not everyone had accepted his transformation.
Some called him storm-marked. Others, cursed.
In a low tent near the edge of camp, whispers brewed.
“He defied the gods,” one said.
“Walked through flame and came out smiling,” said another.
“Flame tricks the weak. It blinds.”
The men gathered around the edge of the fire, cloaks pulled close against the creeping mist. They weren’t Grael’s most loyal, nor Solaris’s brothers. They were wolves without a pack mercenaries who had once served the Clawclan, now waiting for coin and chaos.
They didn’t wear Stormborne colours. Not yet.
“Tonight,” muttered Kareth, his eyes gleaming with spite. “We do what fire could not.”
A few nodded.
“He should’ve died in chains. He’s no warrior. He’s a beast.”
“And beasts don’t get reborn.”
They struck after moonrise.
Taranis had gone to the stream to refill his waterskin, alone as he often did, choosing solitude over celebration. The camp had begun to sleep. The guards were half-drunk from fermented berry wine.
They came from the trees six of them. Faces covered, blades drawn.
The first blow caught him across the shoulder, sending him to the ground.
“Traitor,” one hissed. “Freak.”
Taranis fought back with bare fists, striking like the wolf they feared but it was too many. A second dagger found his ribs. A club broke across his spine.
He fell to one knee.
They kicked him until he stopped moving.
Until his breathing went quiet.
Until he bled into the moss and stones.
They dragged the body to the far side of camp, past the standing stones, into a hollow in the woods where no firelight reached.
They left no markers. No words. Just dirt over his body and a curse on their breath.
“He walks no more,” Kareth said. “The storm dies in silence.”
And they returned to camp, blades clean, alibis ready.
No one would find him.
No one would weep.
They believed the gods had finally corrected their mistake.
But Taranis was not dead.
He dreamed of fire.
He dreamed of wolves.
He dreamed of the black dragon watching from above not with pity, but with fury.
And beneath the soil, his fingers twitched.
The early morning sin rose and grael could be heard hollering
“STORMBORNE WHERE ARE YOU?” grael shouted looking around for taranis
“He fled, he’s a coward” one of kareths men said smirking Wolves circled where his body lay leading them to discover taranis body still and cold.
Two days passed “we will find him tether him again no escape this time.” A warrior said as the wolves circled a piece of land “Hes dead grael” a Saris said “He deserves a real burying ” another said
The earth did not keep him.
Not on the first day, when silence reigned. Not on the second, when the wolves came. But on the third the wind changed.
At first, just a shift. A stillness. Then, a scent.
Morrigan arrived first. White fur gleaming against the ash-darkened trees. She paced in a wide circle around the hollow. Then came Boldolph, the black wolf, teeth bared, hackles raised.
They howled.
A low, haunting sound not grief. Warning.
Grael rode at once, followed by Solaris and half the guard. When they reached the hollow, they found the wolves digging. Claws tearing through dirt, paws flinging soil like rain.
Grael dismounted. Something in his chest cracked.
“Taranis…”
Solaris dropped to his knees beside the wolves, hands trembling.
“Help me dig!”
No one moved until the first scrap of cloth was exposed. A torn edge of tunic, blood-black, crusted to the earth.
Then the digging began in earnest.
It took three men and two wolves to drag the body out.
He was pale. Lips cracked. Blood dried to his skin. The obsidian pendant still hung around his neck, dirt pressed into the ridges.
One eye was swollen shut. Bruises ran like vines across his chest and arms.
But he was breathing.
Shallow. Ragged. But alive.
Solaris shouted for the healer. Grael stared at the boy like he was seeing a ghost.
“No burial mound,” he said softly. “No cairn. Just a shallow grave… and a storm too stubborn to die.”
The healer worked in silence, hands quick and firm. Crushed pine and fireweed were pressed into the wounds, stitched with thread made from gut and hope. Taranis didn’t speak. He didn’t need to. Each time the wind shifted, the wolves growled low in their throats, sensing the old power flicker just beneath his skin.
By nightfall, they had moved him to a guarded hut near the heart of camp. Four warriors stood watch. Grael gave orders that anyone who tried to enter unbidden would be struck down no questions asked.
Solaris sat beside the boy, wiping dried blood from his temple.
“You stubborn bastard,” he whispered. “Even the grave gave up on you.”
Taranis didn’t reply. But his eyes opened barely and fixed on the obsidian pendant now laid upon his chest.
Grael returned before moonrise.
“Speak if you can,” he said.
Taranis’s voice was a thread. “They buried me.”
“I know.”
“They didn’t even check.”
“I know that too.”
“Will you punish them?”
Grael paused. “I already have.”
He tossed something at Solaris’s feet a piece of fur, torn and bloodied.
“Kareth?”
“Gone,” Grael said. “Dragged into the trees by Boldolph. I don’t expect him back.”
Silence settled between them again.
“I should be dead,” Taranis murmured.
Grael nodded slowly. “You were.”
That night, as the wind moaned through the valley, a scout returned from the northern ridge.
“There’s smoke again,” she said. “Not ours. Not Clawclan. Something… older.”
She hesitated before finishing.
“There’s no fire. But trees are blackened. Stones cracked. Something passed through.”
“What kind of something?” Grael asked.
The scout swallowed.
“The kind that flies without wings.”
By dawn, word had spread. Taranis had survived. Taranis had risen.
They called it impossible. Witchcraft. Proof of corruption.
But some whispered another name.
Stormborne.
He stood the next morning.
Not for long, and not without pain, but he stood.
Morrigan watched from the doorway. She did not enter only nodded once, her red eyes gleaming.
“Even the wolves thought you were lost,” Solaris said.
“I was,” Taranis replied, voice raw. “But I heard them. In the soil. Calling.”
He stepped out into the morning light slow, stiff, but upright. The warriors turned to look. One dropped to a knee. Another stepped back in fear.
Grael met him near the edge of the camp.
“We’re riding soon. There are still wars to fight.”
Taranis nodded. “Then I’ll ride.”
“No packs,” Grael said. “No chains.”
Solaris handed him his cloak. “And no grave can hold you.”
Taranis turned to the standing stones, where birds now circled. Thunder echoed in the far hills.
He placed his palm against the earth the earth that had tried to hold him.
“Not today,” he whispered. “I am not done.”
In Emberhelm, the elders would speak of that day for generations.
The day the Stormborne rose from the grave. The day the wolves howled not for mourning but for warning.
And from that moment on, no one dared bury him again.
The trial fire still burned in the hearts of the warriors long after the flames had faded.
They left the stone circle at sunrise, the air thick with silence. Taranis walked unbound now, but still marked the collar firm around his neck, his wrists bruised, the pendant of obsidian pressing warm against his chest beneath the tunic Solaris had given him.
No one spoke of the dragon.
They didn’t need to. Its shadow had burned itself into every man’s memory.
By midday, they reached the edge of a sprawling war camp carved between high ridges and pine forest. Smoke rose from scattered fires. Grael dismounted first and gave the order for rest and supplies. Taranis stood nearby, posture straight, though his limbs ached from the days of trials and visions.
A hush followed him wherever he moved. Some men nodded. Others turned away.
One older warrior spat at his feet and muttered, “Dragon-kissed freak.”
Taranis didn’t respond. But Grael saw and said nothing.
Inside the central tent, the tension grew.
“You should exile him,” said Kareth, a clan captain with blood on his hands and ambition in his eyes. “Or bind him again. The men are talking.”
“This boy walks free after breaking formation, defying orders, and drawing the attention of beasts older than the gods?”
Grael looked up from the war map.
“Exactly. He walked through fire and survived. He fought off Clawclan while half my guard bled out in the dirt. He was named by a Seer. You want to leash him again? You do it.”
Kareth hesitated. “If he leads a rebellion, it’ll be your head.”
“No,” Grael said. “It’ll be his. If he earns death, he’ll find it. But if he earns something more, I won’t stand in the way.”
That night, Taranis sat near the outer fire, the pendant warm against his chest again. Solaris approached with a fresh poultice and a torn piece of roasted meat.
A growl echoed in the hills not wolf, not wind. Something deeper. Some warriors looked up. A few rose to check their weapons.
A young scout came running from the ridge.
“Smoke! North side. Something’s burning!”
They scrambled toward the hill’s edge and saw it.
A rival clan’s border camp was ash and ruin. No screams, no survivors. Only smoldering black earth and claw marks in the rock.
“Raiders?” Solaris asked.
“No,” Taranis said quietly. “It’s a warning.”
Grael joined them, silent, jaw tight.
Kareth was already shouting. “This is what he brings! The dragon follows him. Death follows him!”
“No,” Taranis said. “The dragon doesn’t follow me. It watches.”
“Same thing.”
Grael raised a hand. “Enough. We return to Emberhelm. There, the chieftains will decide what happens next.”
The journey to Emberhelm took two days. The stone fortress carved into the mountains stood stark against the dawn ancient, proud, watching the valley like a sentinel.
When they entered, the whispers turned to stares.
Children peeked from behind barrels. Elders crossed their arms. A group of shieldmaidens flanking the gate parted only after Grael rode forward and gave the sign.
Taranis dismounted, cloak billowing slightly behind him. No chains. No mask. Only the obsidian pendant.
In the Great Hall, the Five Voices of the War Council sat in a semi-circle.
Old warriors. Mothers of fallen sons. Leaders of lesser clans.
One stood Sern, a matriarch with fire in her eyes and silver in her braid.
“We saw the storm,” she said. “We saw the dragon’s wings. We heard the Seer’s cry.”
Another voice cut in a young man named Fenric, blood cousin to the boy Taranis had crippled.
“He’s cursed. He bled our kin, broke our laws, walked with beasts. Now you bring him here unbound?”
Grael stepped forward. “I bring you a warrior.”
“Not yet,” Sern said. “Not until the rite is finished.”
“What rite?” Taranis asked.
She pointed to the firepit at the centre of the chamber.
“You were bound by man. Now let the flame judge if you are bound by fate.”
They handed him a staff and stripped him to the waist. The collar remained. So did the pendant.
The fire was lit with dried hawthorn, wolf hair, and elder root.
He stepped into the circle.
“Do you claim name or no name?” Lady Sern asked.
Taranis raised his head. “I claim the storm.”
A gust of wind blew through the open doors behind him.
“Then speak your vow.”
Taranis closed his eyes.
“I was chained as beast. I was broken by man. But I rise not to rule only to walk free. I serve the flame, the wolves, the storm. If I break my word, may the dragon turn from me.”
He thrust the staff into the fire.
It did not burn.
Instead, the flame spiraled into the air and far above, the sky answered with a distant roar.
The hall went silent.
Lady Sern bowed her head.
“Then you are no longer beast. Nor slave. Nor tool.”
She placed her hand on his collar.
“From this day, you are Stormborne.”
She broke the collar with a hammer of bronze.
The pieces fell to the stone floor like the last chains of a life left behind.
Does that mean he’s free?” Solaris asked.
Taranis placed a hand to his neck, fingers brushing the worn ridge where the collar had once pressed deep.
“Or am I to be exiled?”
A hush fell again, broken only by the wind rustling through the pine above.
“Exile him,” came a voice from the gathered crowd, “and I will hunt him myself.”
All heads turned.
It was not Grael who spoke, nor one of the regular warband. It was a man cloaked in dark fur, standing apart from the others near the treeline scarred face, sun-dark skin, hair braided with bone. A chieftain from another clan.
“He bears the storm’s mark. He’s no beast. No slave. And not mine to cast out.” His voice was low, graveled with age and fire. “But if you send him away, don’t expect him to come back.”
Taranis didn’t flinch. His eyes locked on the stranger’s. He neither bowed nor raised his head. Just… endured.
Grael stepped forward.
“He’s not exiled,” the general said. “Nor is he yet free. The trial burned away the mask, but chains leave scars longer than flame.”
“And what is he now?” Solaris asked.
Grael looked to the warriors, the gathered villagers, the scouts and wounded men who had seen the dragon descend.
“He is Stormborne,” he said. “Named not by man, but by thunder. And while I draw breath, that name will be honoured.”
There was a ripple in the crowd not agreement, not rejection. Just change. Unease becoming belief.
Taranis turned to Solaris. “Then I stay?”
Solaris nodded. “If you want to.”
“I don’t know what I want,” the boy admitted. “I only know I’m still breathing.”
Beside him, the black scale the one left by the dragon was now strung on a simple leather thong, hanging from his belt like a forgotten relic. He touched it once, gently.
A woman stepped forward from the watching crowd. She carried no weapons only a clay bowl filled with ash and herbs.
“I came from the ridge when I heard the trial fire was lit,” she said. “If the dragon marked him, then his wounds must be sealed properly. Not with chains. With earth.”
She knelt before Taranis and dipped two fingers into the bowl. Ash and sage stained her fingertips. She reached up and slowly touched each side of his jaw where the mask had pressed hardest.
“You have walked through smoke,” she whispered. “Now rise through flame.”
Taranis stood, a little taller than before.
Grael gave a curt nod. “We break camp tomorrow. Clawclan still stirs in the lowlands. But the boy rides his own horse now. No packs. No tether.”
“And the collar?” Solaris asked.
Grael glanced at it now lying in the dirt.
“Leave it where it fell.”
As the crowd began to scatter, a new chant rose quietly from the younger warriors near the fire.
The campfire had burned low, all golden coals and wind-tossed ash, when Solaris approached the general.
Taranis knelt nearby, shoulders hunched. His wrists were bound, but not tight just enough to remind. The black collar still pressed against his neck like a verdict carved in bone. His mask, polished smooth and pitiless, lay beside him like a shadow waiting to return.
“Sir?” Solaris spoke softly. “Are we binding him again tonight?”
Grael didn’t respond at once. He studied the boy or whatever he was becoming with a gaze that weighed survival against prophecy.
“He walks beside the horse now,” Grael said. “Not behind it. That’s earned.”
“But still tethered?”
“Until trust is more than fire and fury.”
Solaris hesitated, then asked more plainly, “And the food? He eats with us now?”
“He eats what he earns,” Grael said. “He trains. He serves. He carries burdens. So we feed him as one of the line half rations until proven otherwise. If he bleeds for us again, the portions grow. But he’s no beggar. He earns it.”
Taranis stirred. His voice cracked when he spoke.
“Now I’ve got one foot in both worlds… the world of a chosen, and one of an outcast. One step wrong, and I’m whipped or worse. One step right, and they carve my name into stone.”
Solaris frowned. “But the mask…”
Grael stepped closer. He picked it up and turned it over in his hand.
“We remove it when he fights. When he trains. When he speaks with command. But in towns and camps?” He pressed it gently to the boy’s face. “It reminds him and us of what he was forged from.”
“Forged?” Solaris echoed. “Or broken?”
Grael didn’t blink. “Both.”
“And can he see through it?”
“Barely. But that’s the point. To teach him to listen more. Feel more. Trust the wind and the wolves.”
The fire cracked.
Solaris stepped back, watching as the leather straps were tightened once more.
“And when does it come off for good?”
“When the storm calls him by name,” Grael said.
“And if it never does?”
Grael didn’t answer.
The wind howled across the ridge sharp and ancient.
And far above, in the swirling clouds, something winged and watching passed through the sky without sound.
After the fight taranis was dragged back to the hut. He knew the boy was harsh on other slaves and couldn’t miss the looks of hatred in some of the villagers eyes. The mask now back in place along with the tether and binds meant he couldn’t move his head. As soon as his hut was reached he stepped in and the door shut behind him.
He sat in the corner of his hut prisoner of war common, exile and excommunication was common but his life was far from the normal. He was more than a slave he was a tool to be forged and weilded at graels command. He was left with his thoughts uncomfortable and in pain as solaris walked in with a warriorand healer.
“Grael ordered fir you to see the healer. ” the Warrior stated “if we remove the mask you going to be good?”
Taranis tried his hardest to nod after a few minutes the mask was off.
“Are you OK? Grael said you can talk for a bit ” solaris said
“I’ve had worse you know that, thank you for everything.” Taranis said “how’s your brother?”
“Hes awake, says he can’t feel his legs but father told him to take it that the gods punishment for lying and dishonoured our ancestors. The wolves came they sit outside “
“Are they going to kill me?” Taranis asked
“No but your new master Grael is not an easy man. We move out in the morn, you’ll leave this behind you and fight. battles and wars, deliver food and water to troops train. One of our men needs a pack horse you’re it.” The Warrior said “but you’ll meet dragons”
“A pack horse?” Solaris asked
“Tanaris will be in binds and harnessed all the warriors belongings attached to this boy and the boy tethered to a horse. One thing falls then it’s the whip but he will be fed and watered “
“Just like with the water I spill a drop I’m beaten. It’s a slaves life solaris, I might survive or I might die but if I die it’s in battle”
“Honourable death” the Warrior said
“If that’s my future so be it.” Taranis said hearing the chieftain and freezing
“I want him dead Grael”
I want him dead, Grael!” the chieftain shouted from the edge of the fire circle. “That boy humiliated my son. The slaves whisper his name like he’s some hero!”
Grael didn’t flinch. He stepped forward slowly, hands clasped behind his back.
“Then teach your son not to lose.” “He can’t walk!” the chieftain barked. “Then perhaps next time, he’ll stand with honour before charging at one who’s already bleeding.”
Taranis stayed kneeling, the tether tightening each time he moved his neck. He didn’t dare speak but Solaris stood beside him, jaw clenched.
“He’s a slave, Grael. You’re a general why defend him?”
Grael stepped into the firelight.
“Because he fought. Because your warriors complain when it rains, but this one trains while bleeding through the mask. He obeys orders. He endures.”
A silence settled over the camp.
“Kill him,” Grael said flatly, “and you lose me. You lose your general, and every warrior loyal to my command.”
The chieftain said nothing for a long time.
Finally, he spat into the dirt.
“Then he’s your problem. But if he steps out of line he dies.” The chief stated seeing taranis being dragged for the final whipping.
Grael nodded once. “Fair.”
He turned to Taranis. “You leave at dawn. You’ll carry a warrior’s gear. You’ll bleed if you drop it. But you’ll eat. And if you survive… you may earn more than chains.”
They didn’t let him sleep and two guards sat with him watching every move he made and woke him up when he fell asleep.
He was bound to the horse before the sun rose. Packs were strapped to his chest, shoulders, and hips weapons, cloaks, food, firewood, even a spare shield. His arms were still tied at the wrists. A long leather tether looped from his collar to the saddle.
When the horse moved, he had to follow he struggled as his hands and ankles was secured and tried to fight out.
“Move like a beast,” one warrior sneered, “or we treat you like one.”
Solaris walked beside him for a while, silent. He didn’t speak until the ridge came into view.
“You won’t die today, Taranis.”
“I might.”
“No,” Solaris said. “I heard the wolves howl last night.”
By midday, the warriors halted for water and cold ashcakes. Taranis was given a small share enough to stand, not enough to rest.
One soldier deliberately dropped his pack just to watch Taranis stumble and get whipped.
“One drop, boy,” the punisher whispered. “One drop and I taste your blood again.”
But still he walked.
That night, they made camp near the edge of the highlands. The wind carried the scent of pine and smoke. The sky churned with clouds.
Taranis sat tethered to a post beside the horses, his mask unhooked for only minutes as he drank from a wooden bowl.
He didn’t speak. He listened.
The warriors talked of raids and dreams. Some whispered about dragons. One swore he’d seen a shadow in the sky.
“It was just a bird.”
“A bird doesn’t shake the trees when it lands.”
“Shut up. The general says we ride at dawn. We’ll see no dragons.”
But Taranis felt it.
There was a change in the air not wind, but something deeper. Older.
That night, chained and exhausted, he dreamed of fire. Of wings. Of eyes that glowed like suns.
And of a voice, not his own, whispering in the dark.
“The storm remembers you.”
The battle faded. Clawclan retreated, dragging their wounded into the trees.
Taranis collapsed onto his knees.
Solaris limped to him, his cheek slashed open. “You saved us,” he whispered.
Grael stepped forward. He looked down at the boy who, only days ago, had been whipped, starved, and muzzled like a beast.
“You’re bound. And still you fight.”
Taranis didn’t speak.
“You could’ve run. You didn’t.”
Still, silence.
“I said you’d be a tool. Maybe you’re more than that.”
He reached down and, without a word, cut the tether with his dagger.
“You still wear the collar. But from now on… you walk beside the horse.”
Taranis looked up just long enough to nod.
And far above them, in the grey sky beyond the trees, something passed overhead. Something large. Something with wings.
No one saw it clearly.
But Taranis looked to the sky and whispered, under his breath:
“I remember you.”
“They talking about him?” A warrior asked
“Yes I remember his birth, the sun and moon crossed the wolves howled and dragons roared. He’s been chosen by our ancestors and gods but the Seer said he was cursed “
Taranis looked to the boy then grael “am I to be the pack horse?’
Grael didn’t answer right away.
He crouched down, blood drying on his jaw, and looked the boy in the eye.
“You were meant to carry our burdens. Now you carry our survival.”
Taranis looked down at his wrists. The rope marks were deep. He flexed his fingers slowly testing the damage, testing the truth of the moment.
“Then I carry it,” he said quietly. “Until I break… or become something else.”
A few warriors exchanged glances.
One spat. Another bowed his head.
“Let him sleep near the fire tonight,” Grael ordered. “No post. No chains. The wolves already guard him.”
Taranis blinked.
“What about the mask?”
“That’s your punishment,” Grael said. “And your shield. When you’ve earned the right to speak freely, I’ll take it off.”
He turned to walk away, but paused.
“You fight like a beast. You serve like a soldier. But the way you looked at the sky… you don’t belong to either.”
“Then what do I belong to?” Taranis asked.
Grael didn’t answer.
That night, they laid him near the fire. Not close enough for comfort but not tied like an animal.
He lay on his side, the stars overhead flickering like coals in the stormclouds.
Solaris sat a few feet away, rubbing his wounded cheek.
“You saw it too, didn’t you?” Taranis whispered.
“The shape in the sky?”
Taranis nodded.
“It wasn’t a bird. It was watching.”
Solaris didn’t reply, but the fire cracked loudly. The wolves had not returned but they were near.
And from the distant hills, a single, low roar echoed through the trees.
Taranis closed his eyes.
“I remember you,” he whispered again.
The following morning taranis worked on preparing food for the warriors his keepers and master even though the mask was on tight he tried to remove it
“Leave it ” grael ordered “let the villages we pass through see you, now we rebind your hands but you walk next to your escorts horse. “
The following morning, Taranis worked on preparing food for the warriors, his keepers, and his master. Though the mask was tight across his face, he kept trying to loosen it with his bound hands.
“Leave it,” Grael ordered. “Let the villagers we pass through see you. Now we rebind your hands but you walk beside your escort’s horse.”
Taranis said nothing. He only lowered his head and allowed them to tie his wrists. He wasn’t sure if it was obedience or something colder, something heavier settling over him like rain.
They passed through two valleys and a narrow ridge before making camp near the edge of a standing stone circle. Some of the warriors murmured uneasily. Even Grael gave the stones a wide berth.
That night, they made no fire.
Taranis was tethered again, not far from the edge of the trees. The air turned colder, sharper. Mist crept along the earth like breath from a wounded god.
No wolves howled. No birds sang.
And yet, he heard something.
It was not sound. It was presence. A warmth in the back of his skull. A shimmer in the spine.
He shifted in the darkness, straining against the binds. The mask scraped his face. He whispered to no one:
“Are you still watching me?”
Then something answered.
Not with words. With flame.
The world tilted. He saw fire not burning but dancing. Wings that cast no shadow. Eyes that looked through memory, through bone, through time itself.
He saw wolves white and black running beside him. He saw the collar fall. He saw the whip break. He saw himself standing atop a high ridge, cloaked in storm.
And the dragon. Always the dragon.
Massive. Black. Eyes like dying stars. Its breath shimmered with lightning. Its wings spread wider than the sky.
“You are not made. You are called.”
The voice was thunder in his chest, in his blood. His limbs burned but not with pain. With recognition.
“You are not theirs. You are ours.”
He fell.
He didn’t remember hitting the earth, but when he woke, the sun had not yet risen. His shirt was soaked with sweat. The tether was still tied but something was different.
The mask was gone.
He sat up, panicked, reaching for it, expecting punishment.
But there, in the grass before him, was a single black scale.
No one else was near. Not Solaris. Not Grael. Just the wind, and the watching stones.
And footprints.
Not human. Not wolf.
Clawed. Burnt into the soil like coals had kissed it.
He stared at them, wide-eyed, breath catching in his throat.
Behind him, a voice broke the silence.
“I heard you cry out.”
It was Grael.
Taranis turned, expecting fury but Grael only studied the ground.
He knelt, picked up the black scale, held it to the sky.
“I’ve seen this once before,” he murmured. “When I was a child, a dragon fell on the coast and scorched the rocks. My father said it was an omen. A war was coming.”
Taranis didn’t speak.
Graell looked at him. Not as a slave. Not as a tool.
As something else.
“Did it speak to you?” he asked.
Taranis hesitated. Then, slowly, nodded.
“It remembered me,” he whispered.
Grael studied him for a long time.
Then, instead of shouting or binding him tighter, he tossed the scale back into the dirt.
“We leave at sunrise,” he said. “But you ride now. No pack, no tether.”
“But?”
“Don’t argue. The wolves walk tonight. I won’t have them mistaking my general for a jailer.”
He left without another word.
Taranis looked once more at the scale.
He didn’t pick it up.
He didn’t need to.
Because far above, in the mist just clearing from the trees, he saw it.
A black shape. Not flying circling.
Watching.
The trail narrowed where the pines grew thicker. Roots tangled like veins across the path, and a wet mist clung low to the earth. It was the kind of mist that swallowed sound, choked movement, and stirred old tales of spirits that walked in silence.
Taranis walked beside the horse, arms still loosely bound, though the reins were slack. No mask, but the bruises where it had been were livid. He moved stiffly, eyes always searching. Behind him, Solaris coughed twice, limping slightly from his wound.
They passed under an arch of old stone weathered, moss-covered. No one knew who had built it. Even Grael avoided looking at it for too long.
“Hold,” came the call. Grael raised a hand. The warriors stopped. The silence was heavy, too heavy.
Birds had vanished. The wind had gone still.
Taranis felt it first. Not fear instinct. A tremor through the earth. He reached for the horse’s mane, steadying it. The animal was restless, nostrils flaring.
Then movement.
From the mists came arrows.
Three struck the front scout before he could cry out. Grael shouted and drew his axe, but shadows surged from the trees on both sides. Raiders or worse. Perhaps Clawclan remnants, or wild clans untamed by any banner.
The battle was chaos. Horses reared, warriors scattered. Solaris was knocked to the ground. Grael fought like a bear, roaring commands.
Taranis didn’t hesitate.
The bindings fell away in the confusion a mercy or a mistake, he didn’t know. He grabbed a dropped spear and ran.
Two raiders cornered Solaris. One raised a club.
Taranis screamed a guttural, wordless sound and drove the spear through the attacker’s side. Blood sprayed his face. The second turned too late. Taranis tackled him, fists flying.
It wasn’t grace. It was rage. Raw survival.
Behind him, Solaris scrambled up, eyes wide.
“Taranis!”
But the boy didn’t stop. Another warrior was down the horse wounded. He yanked the reins and shouted, forcing the beast to rise and kick. Then he turned, grabbed a fallen axe, and joined the circle around Grael.
They fought back-to-back.
The mist swallowed screams.
The enemy fled at last dragging bodies, howling curses.
Taranis stood bloodied, panting, face cut and limbs shaking. Grael stared at him.
“You broke formation,” the general said.
“I saved Solaris.”
“You disobeyed orders.”
Taranis nodded.
“And?”
Grael’s mouth twitched.
“And you live. That’s more than can be said for six of mine.”
He turned to the surviving warriors. “Form ranks. Bury the dead. Leave the cursed.”
Taranis felt the weight of that last word. But no one bound him again.
Solaris came to him later, pressing a bandage to his side.
“You shouldn’t have done that.”
“They would’ve done worse if I hadn’t.”
He stared at the mist, which still hung beyond the stones.
“They were hunting me, I think. Not you.”
Solaris didn’t answer. But he didn’t argue.
That night, the dragon circled again. But this time, Taranis didn’t flinch.
He stood outside the camp’s firelight, head raised to the clouds.
And whispered, “I’m not done yet.”
Vision and the Flame
The sun had barely risen, and the mist still clung to the hills like a shroud when they set out again. Taranis rode beside the horse now, his wrists still bound to the mane, but the pack had been removed. His shoulders ached from days of carrying warrior burdens, but now they felt strangely light too light, as if something unseen pressed down instead.
Behind them, the standing stones faded into the fog, silent witnesses to whatever had happened the night before.
Solaris walked beside him.
“You dreamt again, didn’t you?” he asked.
Taranis gave a slow nod.
Solaris leaned in. “Was it him?”
“I think so. Not a man. Not a god. Not… entirely dragon either.”
Solaris frowned. “Then what?”
Taranis didn’t answer.
Grael rode ahead, silent but alert, his eyes scanning the ridgeline as if expecting danger. The rest of the war party followed in a narrow column. They were headed toward the cliffs of Mornhallow, where Clawclan had last been seen regrouping.
By midday, they halted to rest at a wide outcrop overlooking a valley. Taranis was allowed to drink, but his hands remained bound. Solaris crouched near him with a waterskin.
“You’re changing,” Solaris said quietly. “Even they see it. Some of the warriors bowed their heads this morning when you passed.”
“I’m still a slave.”
“You’re something else too.”
Taranis turned away, but not before Solaris caught the flicker of doubt in his eyes.
The sky darkened again before the meal was finished. Smoke not campfire smoke, but thick, rising plumes was seen in the east. Grael gave the signal. They moved quickly, descending the ridge, navigating goat trails that wound between crag and cliff.
By the time they reached the valley floor, the earth trembled.
At first, they thought it was an earthquake. But no quake smelled of sulfur. No quake hissed like breathing from beneath the earth.
And then came the roar.
Not beast. Not storm.
Something older.
The horses bucked. One warrior fell and screamed as his leg snapped under a panicked hoof.
Taranis barely stayed upright. His tether snapped and he fell, face-first into the mud. The mask bit into his skin.
Solaris was shouting. Grael drew his blade.
Then the sky opened.
A shape black and massive hurtled through the clouds. It didn’t land. It circled once. Twice.
And then it vanished beyond the cliffs.
Silence followed. Every man stared.
“Did we just”
“A dragon,” another whispered. “Not a tale. Not a shadow. A real one.”
Taranis rose slowly. His knees shook. Not from fear but from recognition.
“That’s the one,” he muttered.
Solaris helped him up.
“You knew it would come.”
“I don’t know how I knew. But it saw me again.”
Before anything more could be said, the sound of warhorns echoed from the east.
Clawclan.
They hadn’t been retreating. They’d been setting a trap.
Grael didn’t hesitate.
“We hold the ridge. Shield line at the rocks. Archers up high. Taranis stay behind.”
Taranis stepped forward.
“No.”
Grael turned. “You’re not armed.”
“Then arm me.”
For a moment, the general stared at the boy.
Then he nodded once.
Solaris tossed Taranis a short spear and a wooden shield with a dented rim.
“You know how to use these?”
“I’ll learn fast.”
They made their stand on a narrow path between two jagged boulders. Only five could pass at once. Perfect for defense, if they could hold.
Clawclan came like thunder painted warriors, snarling and shirtless, brandishing stone blades and axes. Their faces were streaked with blood. Their chants shook the cliffs.
Taranis took his place beside Solaris, shield raised, heart pounding.
“Steady,” Grael called. “Let them come.”
And they did.
The first wave slammed into the shield wall. Taranis staggered but held. He drove his spear forward, felt it sink into flesh. A scream. Blood sprayed across his mask.
Another came, swinging wildly. Taranis ducked. The shield cracked from the impact, but he held the line.
Beside him, Solaris shouted and slashed.
More fell.
More came.
Then the sky split again.
A streak of flame carved across the cliffside. Rocks exploded into the air. The Clawclan halted mid-charge. Some turned and ran.
Above them, the dragon hovered.
Its wings didn’t beat they ruled the air.
Its eyes twin suns fixed on Taranis.
And it roared.
This time, Taranis didn’t flinch.
He stepped forward, mask dripping blood, shield broken, spear held in both hands like a torch.
And the dragon landed.
Right before him.
The warriors fell back. Even Grael froze.
But Taranis walked forward.
Closer.
Closer.
Until the dragon lowered its head.
And spoke.
Not aloud. Not with words.
But in fire, and wind, and memory.
“You remember me. And I… remember you.”
Taranis knelt.
Not as a slave.
Not as a beast.
But as something becoming.
The dragon blinked once.
Then, with a gust that knocked warriors off their feet, it took flight.
And vanished again into the clouds.
Solaris approached, wide-eyed.
“Why you?”
Taranis looked up, face pale beneath the blood and ash.
“I don’t know.”
Grael finally stepped forward, voice low.
“I do.”
Taranis stood.
“You are the storm’s child,” Grael said. “Not born to chains, but tested by them.”
And no one, not even the elders, spoke against it.
They reached the war camp by dusk.
The Clawclan had vanished into the trees, routed and broken. The warriors murmured as they set up their shelters some glanced at Taranis with wide eyes, others crossed themselves when he passed. The dragon’s presence still hung over them like a storm that refused to break.
Taranis was no longer tethered.
He walked freely hands still raw, the mask still slung at his belt, but his stride had changed. Even Solaris noticed it.
“You walk like one of us now,” he said.
“I’m not.”
“You’re not one of them either.”
Grael called the warriors to the central fire. It blazed tall and angry, fed with cedar and hawthorn. The general stood before it, arms crossed.
“We lost three. The rest live. And we saw a dragon today,” he began.
No one argued.
He looked to Taranis.
“This boy stood when others fell. He held the line. He walked forward when we stepped back. And the dragon” he paused, “bowed its head to him.”
A few warriors whispered. One spat again, but more now watched with quiet awe.
“Some say he is cursed. Others, chosen.”
A new voice cut the air.
“The prophecy speaks of one who carries fire without flame.”
Everyone turned.
A woman stepped from the darkness.
Tall, hooded, robes stained with travel and blood. Around her neck hung bones carved with ancient sigils.
“The Seer,” Solaris whispered.
Taranis stood still as she approached. She carried no weapon, yet everyone stepped aside.
She looked into his face without blinking.
“You have seen it,” she said.
He nodded.
“The wings. The storm. The breath that burns without smoke.”
Another nod.
“You wear no mark, and yet you are marked. You are not born of dragons, but they know your name.”
Grael stepped forward, cautious. “You spoke of this before?”
“I saw it in the flames when he was born,” she replied. “I warned the elders. They said he was cursed that wolves would follow him, that chains would bind him, that thunder would weep at his death.”
Taranis narrowed his eyes.
“At my death?”
She touched his shoulder. Her hand was cold. “You must die to rise.”
The fire cracked loudly.
Grael frowned. “Speak plainly.”
The Seer turned toward the flame. “He must break. Only then will the storm choose him. And only then will the dragon name him.”
Taranis looked at her sharply.
“The dragon has no name?”
“None that mortals are worthy to speak,” she said. “But it may grant him one. If he survives what’s coming.”
Solaris stepped forward. “What is coming?”
She didn’t answer. Instead, she reached into her cloak and drew out a pendant obsidian carved with a spiral.
She placed it in Taranis’s hand.
“You’ll know when to use it.”
He stared at the stone. It was warm. Pulsing, almost. Like a heartbeat.
The Seer turned to go.
“Wait!” Taranis called.
“What am I?”
She paused at the edge of the firelight.
“You are not yet.”
And then she vanished into the dark.
The camp slowly quieted. No one laughed. No one sang. They drank in silence.
Taranis sat beside the fire, the pendant still in his hand. Solaris joined him.
“You believe her?”
“I don’t know what I believe,” Taranis whispered. “But I remember that dragon. Not just from this week. From before. From… childhood. Dreams.”
Solaris tilted his head. “You think it’s the same one?”
“I know it is.”
The wind shifted. Smoke curled into the stars.
“Then you’re not just a slave, Taranis,” Solaris said. “You’re the start of something.”
Taranis stared into the fire.
“I don’t want to be.”
“Too late.”
He closed his fist around the pendant.
And far in the distance, where the cliffs met the clouds, the dragon watched.
Grael walked up the hill toward the restrained boy. He knelt before the clan’s leader.
“You called, and I came. Is this the boy you spoke of?” Grael asked, glancing toward the child bound to the stone.
“Yes. The other clans call him Stormborne, or say he’s cursed. He’s been with us seven years now,” the leader replied.
“The mask?” Grael asked.
“He threatened to kill the clan. And me. The mask is punishment. He hasn’t had food or water for two days. He killed a farmer.”
“Boy!” Grael barked at a nearby child. “Go fetch broth and ashcake. I can’t train a half-starved slave.” He smirked, adding, “But he remains under punishment.”
As the boy ran back to the village, Grael stepped forward. In a single motion, the mask was unhooked. Grael knelt by the water.
“Are you thirsty?” he asked.
Taranis looked to his master, seeking permission to speak.
“Answer him,” came the order.
“Yes, sir. Very,” Taranis whispered. The rope pulled tight at his throat, but he managed a faint smile as Grael offered water.
“Why did you take the man’s life?” Grael asked.
“I didn’t mean to. I was trained to obey the family. I heard my master’s eldest say, ‘Kill the farmer.’ I followed the order.” Taranis hoped Grael might listen—unlike the others.
“So your punishment is for following orders?” Grael rubbed his chin.
“The ridge is, sir. This stone is.”
“And the mask?”
“I spoke defiance. I threatened the clan. I’m just an exile. They want me to remember it.”
“I know who you are. The mask stays. But under my command, you’ll be fed and watered. Training will be punishing ĺso harsh you’ll wish you were back on this rock.” Grael studied the boy.
“Roake,” he called to the clan chief, “this boy is already half-starved. But if he is who you say he is, he’ll become a beast of a warrior. How long left on the rock?”
“Until sunrise. One more night in the mask two sunrises in total. But tonight we celebrate. You’ve arrived, and we have business.”
“Indeed,” Grael said. “And he is my business. Have you seen the dragons and wolves nearby?”
“Yes. They raised this one until my son, Solaris, and I found him. He was curled into a white wolf, half-dead from fever and hunger.”
“They still cry for him, Father,” Solaris said, approaching with a bowl of porridge and wild berry drink. Without a word, other slaves joined him and began to feed Taranis.
“Take him down once he’s eaten. Keep the binds on. He’ll fight Rock if he wins, the mask is removed. If he fails, we add stone to his punishment,” Grael said, glancing at the boy’s hands.
Taranis was cut down and led back to the training circle. Grael himself loosened the ropes. “Until I trust you,” he warned, “you’ll remain bound—even in battle.”
Taranis stayed silent as a spear was tossed toward him and the match began. Rock, a short but muscular man, charged and struck Taranis’s arm. Taranis moved fast, twisting around each blow, using his restraints to his advantage. Blow for blow, he met the attack until finally, Rock crashed to the ground.
Taranis hesitated.
“Kill him! He’s worthless!” the clan leader shouted.
“No one’s worthless,” Taranis said, breathing hard. “No matter what we are.”
“Sixty lashes!” the chieftain roared. “Spread over three days.”
“Chief,” Grael interrupted, “don’t tie him to the rock. Let him walk through the village under my warriors’ guard. At dawn, he fights two of my men. Let him train and work in the mask if you must but feed him. Water him.”
Grael turned to Taranis. “You talk like a chieftain, but you wear binds. You are the property of your master just like his house is his, just like this land is his. Never forget it. You’re a strong warrior, but you’ve much to learn. Tonight, you will serve my meal masked and restrained.”
The warriors dragged Taranis by the tether to the flogging tree. His arms were stretched wide as the branch was brought down.
Taranis bit his tongue, stifling screams. He hadn’t just disappointed Grael he’d embarrassed him. His eyes scanned the slaves watching faces of black and white, eyes wide, breaths held. His legs buckled. His will broke.
“Lift him! He still has ten to go!” the punisher growled.
They hoisted him upright again, forced to endure every final strike. Among the gathered slaves, whispers began.
“We are not just meat… We are people. Like our masters.”
“ANYONE DARES DEFY ME, YOU’LL GET THE SAME!” the chieftain bellowed. But the whispering didn’t stop.
Something had been seeded.
Later, Taranis was carried to a hut. A woman entered with herbs and cloth.
“I know you can’t talk with the mask on,” she said, kneeling beside him. “But Grael sent me to tend your wounds. What you said… gave the others hope. Dangerous hope.”
Taranis nodded, noticing the slave brand on her arm.
“Water and food,” she said, motioning to a guard. The mask was removed briefly.
“Careful. He bites like a wolf,” the man muttered, tightening the tether.
She ignored him and began to feed Taranis warm, fruity porridge. Blissful after starvation. As a warrior-slave, he received small privileges others didn’t.
Moments later, guards grabbed him again.
“Dig the fire pit.”
Taranis met the man’s eyes and didn’t move.
“GRAEL! HE’S REFUSING ORDERS!”
“DO AS YOU’RE TOLD!” Grael barked.
Taranis obeyed. Pain burned through every movement, but he didn’t complain. Hours passed.
“Now the troops need water,” Grael said.
A yoke was placed across Taranis’s shoulders, buckets tied at either side.
“ANY spillage, whip him,” Grael ordered, knowing full well the task was nearly impossible.
That night, as the feast began, the druid sang of warriors and spirits. Taranis, masked and tethered, served Grael’s meal.
“Have you tried this before, boy?” Grael asked, eyeing the meat on his plate.
Taranis shook his head, unable to answer.
“Hold it, slave,” one of the chieftain’s sons barked.
“I challenge the slave to a fight to the death,” the eldest declared.
“He will win. Are you sure?” Grael asked.
“My son wants justice for the farmer. Let him fight,” the chieftain said proudly.
“So be it,” Grael agreed. “After the meal, we’ll have entertainment.”
“What does he get if he wins?” a child asked.
“He’ll live to breathe another day,” Grael replied. “Perhaps an extra ration.”
It didn’t sound like much—even to Taranis but it was more than most.
“Then let him fight without the binds,” Solaris challenged. “Or are you afraid?”
“Very well. No restraints.”
Taranis nodded. At least the fight would be fair. He stepped into the fighting stones. Grael unshackled him.
“I hope you win,” he said. “You could give us the edge in battle. If you lose at least you’ll die with honour.”
“Yes, sir.”
Taranis refused a weapon. His opponent came in fast with a staff, but he ducked, twisted, and struck. The collar remained, but without the tether, he moved freely. They clashed with raw force until the chief’s son crashed to the ground, groaning and bleeding.
Taranis stood over him. One final stamp would end it.
“I refuse to kill the chieftain’s son,” he said, dropping to one knee.
“I command you kill him!” Grael shouted.
“I cannot. I will not take a sacred life unless in battle.”
“You may be a slave,” Grael said slowly, “but you act with honour. A killer obeys orders. A warrior knows restraint. You know the difference.”
“Place him back in binds. He lives to breathe another day,” the chieftain said. “And tend to my son, who lives with the shame of defeat. The gods have spoken Taranis followed his orders. It is proven.”
As wolves howled in the distance, the crowd fell silent.
“Take him to the hut,” Grael ordered. “Not the rock. He’s a warrior. He will still be punished but he’s earned the right to stand.”
Colorful hand-painted stones depicting various abstract and natural scenes.
After Taranis’s Exile
The wind mourns,
through the ancient trees, Whispering tales of broken kin, A son cast out beyond the flame, Where shadows dwell and wild beasts grin.
The fire we built,
Now cold and dim, The bond once strong,
now stretched and torn. I sent you forth, my blood and bone, To face the night, alone, forlorn.
Yet in the stars, your name still burns, A flicker bright against the dark. Though exiled from the hearth’s warm heart, You carry still our family’s mark.
Run swift, my son, through storm and stone, May strength be yours when paths grow rough. The wolf still howls within your blood, And I, your father, watch from dusk.
One day the earth may shift again, And bring you back where you belong. Until that time, beneath the sky, I sing this lonely, bitter song.
StormborneLore 