StormborneLore

Tag: The Circle

  • The Whisper of Old Magic: A Journey Through Emberhelm

    The Whisper of Old Magic: A Journey Through Emberhelm

    A vibrant artwork featuring a stylized ice cream cone with intricate patterns and bright colors, surrounded by bold concentric rings.
    A vibrant artistic depiction of a stylized object, blending intricate designs with bright colors, invoking themes of lore and magic.

    The Quiet Flame


    The wind that swept over Emberhelm carried no warmth, only the ghost of fire long spent. I stood where the circle had once been whole, where twelve stones still defied the weight of empire, and one lay split a wound upon the land.

    The others had gone. Drax to fury, Draven to silence, Rayne to his choices, and Taranis to chains. I remained, bound not by steel but by memory. It was not courage that kept me here; it was knowing that something sacred had been broken and that it was not yet done with us.

    The Romans called this valley conquered. They built their roads and forts as if they could hammer meaning from earth and stone. But meaning does not bow to empire. It whispers, it lingers, it waits. And I have learned to listen.

    I knelt beside the thirteenth stone, tracing the crack with my fingers. The split hummed faintly, as though it still remembered the storm that birthed it. I could almost hear Taranis’s voice beneath the wind, a murmur of thunder too distant to strike.

    “Brother,” I whispered, “if the storm is caged, does the sky mourn its silence?”

    A shadow passed across the ridge perhaps a hawk, perhaps a sign. In the old days, I would have asked the druids for meaning, but now I was the only one left to ask.

    Rayne’s betrayal still cut deep, though part of me understood it. He had always been the one to see the long game, the patient serpent coiled beneath the waves. I did not forgive him, but neither could I condemn him fully. Perhaps this is how the gods feel when they look upon men weary, knowing, endlessly disappointed.

    Night crept over the hills. I lit no fire; the Romans watched for smoke. Instead, I watched the stars, the same constellations our ancestors had trusted when the world was still young. Somewhere beyond those lights, I felt the pulse of something waking old magic, stirring beneath stone and soil, called forth by blood and betrayal alike.

    The Circle was broken, yes. But its power had not vanished; it had merely changed shape. The storm that once lived in Taranis’s heart now whispered through the bones of the earth. I could feel it gathering, quiet but sure, as if the land itself prepared to rise.

    In that silence, I spoke the old words not prayer, not spell, but remembrance. A promise carved into breath:

    “When the storm returns, it will not ask who was loyal. It will ask who remains.”

    The air stilled. Even the night seemed to listen.

    And somewhere, far to the west, thunder answered.

    A circular wooden plaque featuring a painted landscape with a sun, blue sky, and green hills. The text on the plaque reads 'Thank you for reading. Please like & Subscribe. https://www.stormbornmore.co.uk' in various colors.
  • Unraveling Secrets: Rayne’s Silent Journey

    Unraveling Secrets: Rayne’s Silent Journey

    The Weight of Silence

    The morning broke pale and cold, a thin mist rolling across the fields like a ghost that had forgotten its name. My horse shifted beneath me, uneasy. The world felt quieter than it should have been not the quiet of peace, but the kind born from expectation. Something waited ahead.

    I had traveled for weeks now, keeping to forgotten roads, trading false names and favours for shelter. Rome’s messengers had ceased for a time, and that silence was heavier than any command. I began to wonder if I had been released… or abandoned.

    At night, when the campfire dwindled, I caught myself tracing the symbol of the Ring into the dirt a circle broken clean through. No matter how many times I erased it, my hand drew it again. Habit or guilt, I couldn’t tell. Perhaps both.

    Rumours reached me in fragments: a rebellion rising in the north, whispers that Drax had taken to leading the scattered tribes, and that Lore had vanished into the mists of the west, chasing prophecies no man could name. Draven was silent. And Taranis…
    Taranis had become a legend again.

    They said he had escaped Rome’s chains, that his eyes burned brighter than ever, that lightning followed where he walked. I did not believe all of it but I wanted to. The world is easier to bear when its ghosts refuse to stay buried.

    One night, beneath a blood-red moon, I reached the edge of the marshlands near Ravenmere. The air there was heavy, each breath tasting of iron and old secrets. The ruins of an outpost stood crooked against the skyline Roman stones built upon older foundations. It felt… familiar.

    Inside, beneath moss and dust, I found carvings of the Circle faint, half-effaced by time. Words I had spoken in another life echoed in my memory: “We are the Ring. Bound by oath, unbroken by fear.”

    I knelt, running my hand over the stone, feeling the groove of each line.
    “I broke it,” I whispered. “But perhaps it was already breaking.”

    Something stirred in the shadows not human, not beast, but presence. A warmth against the air, like breath drawn from memory itself. For the first time since Emberhelm, I felt the Ring respond.

    A whisper, faint but unmistakable, rippled through the ruin.
    “The Circle is never broken, only divided. The storm remembers.”

    I rose slowly, the hairs on my arms prickling. Whatever force had once bound us had not died it waited, fragmented, patient. And now, it was calling.

    When I rode from Ravenmere at dawn, I carried no banner, no ally, no command. Only purpose.


    The Ring was broken but not gone.
    And if Taranis still lived, if the others still walked their paths… then the storm was far from finished.

    The time for silence was ending.