Tag: The Thirteen Brothers

The Crone

Written by

emma.stormbornelore
in

The moon shone in the darkest of nights as I gathered the herbs.Around my cave herbs of healing yarrow and nettle being the most used by our clan.

Only eight winters ago the leader of claw clan approached me. My son in custody I see him a bone chain around his neck.

“What do you want Clun?” I asked the small balding man dressed in simple furs .

“We promise no harm to the children,” said the tall man wrapped in makeshift coats. He thrust a small vial towards me “You’ll have your son by sunrise. Just brew a sleeping draft. Put Camp Utthar to sleep.”

I hesitated. The chief of Utthar had been good to us took my family in when no one else would. But River was my son. My blood. My only hope my future what else I do?

I nodded slowly but looked to my boy a sadness stirred in me. Ad i gathered berries, roots, sacred herbs and stirred them into the pot by firelight. That night, the warriors, the women, the children… all fell into deep, enchanted sleep.

So deep was the sleep that no one stirred when the men of Clun entered the encampment. As The Clun men crept in silent as shadow, savage as flame.

I watched from the trees as my eldest, Ryn, was dragged into camp forced to witness the massacre. His voice was broken when he turned to me:

“What did you do, Mother?!”Ryn cried

A silent attack killing women children and men who remained within the camp. Fifty men died that night warriors hunters their wives and children.

“You promised you’d leave the children” I cried

I was aware that utther wife had been taken to a local cave. A safe place where she would give birth when the time was right.

“Foolish old lady, why would we leave our enemies children? When they will grow to seek vengeance” Clun smirked riding away

I was left staring at the devastation . The next days passed and the Chief returned from battle, his warriors behind them. The chiefs horn was heard and his sons replied with the wolfs howl. But they ran with newborns in their arms Boldolph leading the charge.

Time froze the wind stilled as boldolph approached his father

“They came in the still of night no one would wake up. The claw killed all of then father and she helped” boldolph replied as if giving his report

Suddenly the screams came

“Take her! Bind her!” Raven shouted.
“She betrayed the family! Everyone’s dead! Mother’s alive but in labour!”

One of the wounded men pointed at me with blood on his chest.

“We heard her whispering with the Clun.
She brewed the sleeping draft… then brought death upon us.”

I turned and ran wishing for cover ducking from branches and jumping over roots from trees. The sound of hounds barking after me my heart racing beating like the drums. The hounds found me first. The men were not far behind.

They bound me in ropes and dragged me back to camp, fear pounding through my veins like war drums. Then he came…

Boldolph stood at seven feet tall.
“Let me have her,” he growled but his eyes softened when they found Morrigan, his wife, weeping with in a cave

“Lox is dead she did it” morrigan said

“We have her,” a man spat, dragging me by the hair.i screamed trying to fight against the men holding me

The chieftain stood tall.

“Whitehair, you have betrayed your tribe. Look around you. This is your doing you butchered them in their sleep.” The cheiftan said “Take her to the rocks. Strip her name. Cut her nose and tongue. Then bind her and take her far from here.”

The punishment was swift.

The curse came faster.

Before they dragged me away, my final spell shattered the night:

“May your line suffer,
May your form twist,
Until one born cursed by storms,
Breaks the wheel with mercy and fire.”

And then, the transformation.

As I was dragged out I could hear the howls of pain and anguish from boldolph and his mate morrigan. as Boldolph the giant, and Morrigan the gentle, were torn from flesh and given fur. Wolves. Forever cursed.

Later, bound and broken, I was dragged to the sacred stone. They beat me. Stripped me of sound. My nose. My tongue. My name.

Blindfolded, I was taken to lands unknown far beyond the reach of kin or mercy.

But my magic remains.
So does the curse.
And the storm is not yet done.

I could still taste blood.

The salt of my torn tongue. The copper of betrayal. The earth where they left me bound, blindfolded. my hands lashed with nettles so tightly i still bear scars decades later.

They called it mercy.

But mercy would have been death.

Instead, they gave me exile: cast beyond the sacred stones with only the breath in my lungs. The curse they feared more than her voice.

Ad i crawled for days dragging my broken body through marsh and thorn. Wolves circled but did not bite. Ravens flew overhead but did not cry. And the spirits… the spirits walked with me.
I did not die i became something else.

Something older than their laws.

As i found shelter in the hollow of a tree once used by midwives. A place where blood had been spilled in both birth and death. There, pressed my palms to the bark, and for the first time in weeks, i did not feel pain.

Only power.

It rose from the roots. From the bones buried deep the old ones, the forgotten, the nameless. Their stories rushed into me like a storm tide.

And over time i remembered my own name.

Not the one they spat when they cursed me. Not the one the elders tore from the village scrolls.

But the one my mother gave me beneath the silvery moon.

“Cceridwyn,” whispered, mouth bleeding, lips cracked.

As the Years passed more people feared me. As i walked among the bones now, barefoot and veiled. My form barely seen except by those on the edge of death or madness. Her tongue never healed. Her voice never returned. But her curse… her curse remained intact.

And more potent than ever.

For every 13th child born of her bloodline, a sign would come:
A sickness no healer cure.
Eyes the colour of stormlight.
A voice that spoke truths no one taught.

The 13th of the 13th would be the end or the beginning.

She waits still.
Her bones lighter now, her spirit heavier.
Watching as the stories repeat,
as her great-grandson walks into the same woods where she once crawled.

Taranis.
The boy with the storm in his chest.

The one they tried to exile, like her.

But this time…
the storm remembers.

© written and created by ELHewitt

October 13, 2025
Cursed Love: Themes of Fate and Freedom in Poetry

From Boldolph to Morrigan

I howled to the moon,

but it gave me no answer,
Just the echo of paws in the frost-bitten heather.
I searched for your scent in the whispering rain,
Through bones of the hills and the breath of the plain.

We were fire and fang, you and I,
Bound by curse, by claw, by sky.
You ran ahead white flash through trees
While I remained, dragged down by knees.

I saw you in dreams where no man treads,
Where wolves wear crowns and ghosts break bread.
Morrigan, my moon-heart, do you still roam
The hollowed-out places we once called home?

I would trade my strength, my storm-wrought hand,
For one more touch, for one command.
To run beside you beneath the stars,
Free of these chains, these cursed scars.

But if fate is cruel and time is blind,
I’ll wait through seasons undefined.
For love like ours does not decay
It howls, it hunts, it finds a way.

Thank you for reading

© StormborneLore. Written by Emma for StormborneLore. Not for reproduction. All rights reserved.

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Further Reading

A Journey Through My Poetic Collection

July 4, 2025
The Rise of Taranis: Storm and Blade

Taranis Stormborne.

A poem from the Stormborne Scrolls

Beneath the hollow tree he bled,
With wolves for kin and stone for bed.
The fire was not in hearth or hand
It roared within, a storm unmanned.

He trained where no man dared to tread

On roots of yew and rivers red.
His blade was bone, his shield was will,
His foes were silence, hunger, chill.

Each sunrise found his form anew,
A breath of frost, a bruise of blue.
He carved his strength on bark and skin,
And learned the rage that sleeps within.

He watched the hawk, he stalked the deer.

He danced with ghosts that others fear.
His feet grew swift, his arms like oak,
His breath break a hunter’s yoke.

No tribe remained to call him son,
No elder crowned what he’d become.
Yet mountains bowed, and storms would still .

For he had shaped the world by will.

The wolves ran wide, the skies grew torn.

And from the storm, the blade was born.
A boy no more. No child of scorn.
By fire and shadow…
The warrior was born.

Thank you for reading.

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

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If you would like to read more Taranis stories please see: The Prophecies and Tales of Taranis Unfolded

July 2, 2025
A Child’s Destiny Unfolds

My uncles and father stood within the sacred ring of fire. The smoke curling into the twilight sky as the elders sat in silence. Each wore the furs of their lineage, feathers braided with bone and bark, their eyes sharpened by decades of judgement. The fire crackled with unease not just heat, but the energy of something unseen, something stirring.

Father stood tall, one hand resting on the haft of his ceremonial spear. He was prepared not just as a warrior, or chief, but as a father. A father standing between his blood and the storm.

“Your son broke the sacred law,” spat Elder Bran, his voice like dry bark in winter. “He entered the hut of an ostracised man without escort. That law is older than your title, Chief Conan.”

“He must be punished,” added Elder Tarn, slamming his staff into the scorched earth. “Compassion does not absolve disobedience. Rules are not bent for favoured blood.”

A silence fell taut as a bowstring before Drax stepped ahead. Gaunt, but no longer wild, his words rang with clarity.

“He saved my life.”

Gasps and murmurs broke across the council. Even those who had long abandoned hope for Drax looked at him now with flickers of wonder, or wariness.

“I would be dead if not for him,” Drax continued. “I felt it something leave me. A darkness burned away. I am… clear.”

Lore moved to stand beside our father. “He is barely one year old,” he said. “Yet he speaks in tongues, walks like a hunter, and heals the broken with words no one taught him.”

“This is what troubles us!” snapped Elder Ysra, rising in her many-layered cloak of ash and iron charms. “Power like this does not come without price. The last child marked by the storm brought famine, flood, and war.”

“We do not know what mark he carries,” my father replied, eyes level. “But I will not see my son punished for compassion.”

Ysra stepped ahead, face drawn like flint. “It was not just compassion. It was prophecy in motion. And prophecy unguarded is wildfire in a dry forest.”

Behind them, Morrigan and Boldolph stood watch just beyond the fire’s reach. The black wolf growled low, a rumble of warning. while Morrigan’s gaze stayed fixed on the chief’s hut where Taranis slept, gripped by fever.

The fire hissed and popped. Somewhere nearby, a nightbird called.

Elder Bran raised his staff. “The child shall remain under close watch, isolated from others but housed within the chief’s care. He will be marked not as cursed, but as unknown. No more unsanctioned visits. If he breaches this again”

“We will not exile a babe,” my father growled.

“No,” said Ysra coldly. “But we may exile what grows inside him.”

The flames danced higher, wind tugging at the circle as if the fire spirits themselves had stirred.

Lore bowed his head slowly. “Then we shall walk the knife’s edge between reverence and fear. But mark my words if you turn on him too soon, you lose more than trust. You lose the only light left.”

As the council slowly dispersed, dusk settled like a shroud. The camp held its breath. Only the crackle of fire and the quiet steps of retreating warriors broke the silence.

Later, beneath the stars, young Nyx turned to our father. “So what happens now, Father?”

“Isolation. No one speaks to him unless permitted. He’ll be watched not as punishment, but out of fear. They don’t understand what he is. And people fear what they do not understand.”

“If we don’t talk to him… won’t that break him?”

Conan’s voice was low. “That is what I fear most.”

Just then, the elders returned with the boy. His fever had broken. Taranis walked unaided into the firelight, eyes drowsy but glowing faintly.

“What is going on?” Conan asked, rising quickly.

“He entered the eternal sleep,” Elder Ysra whispered. “But then… he came back.”

Even the fire seemed to pause.

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Futher Reading

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
The Tragic Curse of Boldolph and Morrigan

Written by emma.stormbornelore
in Ancient Britain

Once, I was a man.
A cherished warrior.

The youngest of three lords, the only surviving heir before the word chieftain had even been carved into stone.

I was a protector, a trader,

a traveller to far shores…
but above all, I was a husband and a father.

Morrigan.

She was everything.
Three children had blessed our home and that was enough.

It was all her body can carry after the night she met the old crone in the woods.

The one whose words still haunt me.
“The howl will return to your house, but not in the way you dream.”

I remember that day like thunder.

I had walked the long trail from the hunt., a wolf’s pelt across my shoulders, the carved head resting like a crown.

There was smoke above the village.
And shouting.

An old woman beaten, clothes torn was being dragged toward my father’s cave.

“Wait!” I shouted.

I stepped ahead eighteen, tall, muscle-bound, burning with promise.
They said I would one day unite the valleys.

“What’s the meaning of this?” I demanded.

A freckled, tattooed man stepped ahead, fury carved into every line of his face.

“This enchantress worked against us in the last battle,” he spat.
“She betrayed us, Boldolph. We demand justice for our dead.”

My jaw clenched.
I turned to her.

“You?” I growled.
“You’re the reason my brothers now sleep the eternal sleep?
The reason my mother weeps?
The reason the blood of my people feeds the grass?”

She said nothing.

With a roar, I seized her
hauled her high above the firepit, as if ready to cast her into flame.

But then
“NO!”

A voice like wind cut through the rage.

Morrigan.

Only she reach me.
Only she still the fire in my chest.

“This is not you, my love,” she said.
“Let the chieftain decide. Please…”

And I listened. Because she was the one thing I would never fight.

I carried the woman into the cave.

The chieftain stood waiting.
Red-haired, tattooed in victory and sorrow, wise beyond warriors.

“I have heard your crimes, Whitehair,” he said, voice like stone.
“You drugged the warriors. You let the enemy pass through us like wind through grass.
You gave our children to fire. You made the wombs of mothers empty.”

Still, the woman did not plead.

“Death is too easy,” he continued.

“You will be taken to the deepest part of the wood.
Stripped of your name.
Your hands will be marked so that the spirits do not recognise you.
You will eat only what you can dig or steal. None shall speak your name, nor carve it. You will walk in silence until the earth swallows you. Or until the wolves forget your scent. So say the spirits. So says the tribe.”

And so she was cast out not as woman, not as witch. As nothing.

But my rage had not cooled.

“Father, banishment is too easy for one who knows these lands,” I said.
“Bind her. Take her children. Take her tongue, and theirs,so none curse us again.”

And that’s when she finally spoke.

Her voice was dry like wind over bones.
“I curse thee, Boldolph… son of Marnak.
And thy wife Morrigan, daughter of Ayr.
You shall be wolves until the day you meet a boy. a giant of seven feet, who befriends all animals and dragons.
The house of your father will fall.”

The pain came instantly.

My darling wife and I we transformed, howling and breaking,
before the entire tribe.

Thousands of years have passed since that day.
Many cubs later, we have never seen each other in human form.

I bear black fur as dark as night.
a golden five-pointed star on my head,
a red crescent moon on my chest.

And my Morrigan…
She is snow-white,
with a red star between her eyes
and a golden sun over her heart.

If I have spared her this
I would have.

© StormborneLore. All rights reserved.

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The Prophecies and Tales of Taranis Unfolded

June 28, 2025
Stormborne: The Thirteenth Son and His Prophetic Naming

An artistic representation of a mother holding her baby, symbolizing love and protection, echoing the themes of warmth and celebration in the naming ceremony of Taranis Stormborne.

The fire rose high, its heat warming us as we sang and danced around it.
the Song of the Spirit carried on our voices.

But beneath the music,
there was a chill in the air,
something wrong.
something dark,
as though a shadow had seeped into the world unseen.

“My brother cried once, Father,” I said,
pride swelling in my chest.
“It was like he answered the thunder god himself.
Even the wolves are silent.
Even the dragon doesn’t strike.”

I ran my fingers gently over Stormborne’s face.
my baby brother, wrapped in warmth,
calm in a world that seemed to hold its breath.

Father War, chief of our people
placed a strong hand on my shoulder.

“I’ve noticed the strangeness too, Lore,” he said quietly.
“But tonight we don’t fear each other’s company we embrace it.
Tonight, my son, we celebrate.
Tomorrow… we stand guard.”

“Yes, Father,” I replied.
“As you consider.”

I stepped back and watched,
as he and Mother approached the fire.
They stepped ahead proud carrying Taranis wrapped in the freshly cut fox hide.
its red fur a symbol of cunning and strength.

War cleared his throat,
lifted the baby high,
and turned to face the tribe.

“I name him Stormborne,” he said,
“for he was born from the storm
the thirteenth son, under thunder and fire.
He will be a mighty warrior.”

The people gathered close.

One by one, they reached into the sacred ash. They marked the child’s forehead and chest black smudges to bind him to the tribe,to earth, flame, sky, and spirit.

Food and drink flowed.
Smoke curled into the sky.
Even the animals gathered at the forest edge to witness the naming.

So was born Taranis Stormborne
the thirteenth son,
the thunder child,
and the one the winds would never forget.

Further Reading

The Prophecies and Tales of Taranis Unfolded

June 28, 2025
Life and Prophecy: The Birth of Taranis Stormborne

Birth and Celebration

The Naming

The women of the tribe had already begun preparing the celebration.
Only the finest foods would be offered on this special night the night of my brother’s birth.

The birth of Taranis Stormborne.

In the woods, the younger children laughed as they filled baskets with berries, blackberries and raspberries, bilberries (wild blueberries).
elderberries (cooked only), hawthorn berries, rose hips, crab apples, and sloes from the blackthorn.

Their chatter echoed with pride
a new life meant strength for the tribe.

The women worked in quiet rhythm.
Hazelnuts, acorns (leached to remove tannins), beech nuts, pine nuts, and the seeds. Young leaves of nettles
were piled high beside bundles of wild garlic and sacred greens.

I saw my mother’s sister lay a sprig of rosemary at the fire. Not for seasoning but for blessing.

“Hey, young Lore,” someone called, grinning.
“You coming hunting? Father says we’re after red deer and boar, fox, grouse, even river salmon. Only the finest meats for your mother and father. A new chieftain has been born!”

“Father’s naming him tonight? I’m coming!” I said, breath quickening.
I tried to keep the smile off my face, but it broke through anyway.

I was seventeen — broad-shouldered, proud, still hungry to prove myself.
I grabbed my spear and cast a glance back at my brothers and father.

our father, stood straight as an ash tree his expression unreadable.
Part of him was already in the cave, beside my mother and the child.
The rest of him… watched the woods.

I ran to join the others, my heart pounding. Together, we hollered and sprinted into the deep forest
a forest older than memory.

But as our laughter faded behind us,
a silence settled.

And then…
that chill again.

Not the kind that comes with wind or storm. No, this cold was the kind that clung to your bones. The kind that made birds quiet and your breath feel too loud.

Something was watching.
But nothing moved.

Still, we pressed on.
The Naming Feast had to be worthy.

“I hope he survives,” I muttered, trying to sound casual but Nyx heard the worry in my voice.

“Drax is furious,” he said under his breath.“He thinks the prophecy’s come true.”

He didn’t say what the prophecy meant but we both knew the stories.

A child born under eclipse.
A name written in fire.
A brother… destined to break us or save us.

Suddenly, Nyx raised a hand.
A deer just ahead.

I nodded once, crouched low, and let my spear fly.
A perfect strike.

Nyx gave the bird-call whistle to alert his father. We hauled the carcass back to camp together.

The others returned soon after.
The fire was lit. The meat laid out.
Herbs were thrown onto the flames
and their smoke curled skyward.
in a spiral that reminded me of a dragon’s breath.

Tonight, my baby brother would be named.
But even as the tribe gathered in joy.
I couldn’t shake the feeling
that something was coming through the trees.

© written by ELHewitt

Further Reading

The Prophecies and Tales of Taranis Unfolded

June 27, 2025
Taranis and Boldolph: The Birth of a Chosen One

The Myth of Taranis and Boldolph.

The rest of us stepped back.

Father’s eyes had changed
flashing a pale shade of red.

Thunder cracked as he stepped into the cave. Ready to lay eyes on Mother and the newborn she had fought to bring into the world.

We stood behind him in silence,
all of us but one.

One brother, whose eyes held no joy.
Only fear.
Only the taste of blood.

“Thirteenth son of the thirteenth son,” he muttered.
“Born during a storm… and an eclipse.
Even the dragons have fallen silent.
And the wolves, they’ve stopped howling.”

Just then, as if the forest itself heard hima sound split the trees in two.

Boldolph.

His howl rose like thunder turned voice,
a cry so powerful the very air seemed to flinch.

Artistic depiction of Boldolph, the powerful wolf, alongside symbols of mythology and nature.

At his side stood Morrigan,
his bonded mate white as new snow.
She gave a low, haunting cry
and pressed her head gently against his.

Then the dragon stirred.

It lifted its head,
wings stretching wide like a storm reborn.

And with a roar that lit the sky,
it rose.

Fire molten and blinding
erupted from its throat,
painting the clouds in gold and crimson.

And there, across the eclipsed heavens, the name appeared.

TARANIS.

Burning.
Brilliant.
Undeniable.

As if the stars,
the storm,
and the breath of the gods themselves
had spoken as one:

This child is no curse.
He is chosen.

© StormborneLore. All rights reserved.

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Further Reading

The Prophecies and Tales of Taranis Unfolded

June 27, 2025
The Mystery of Callum Hargreaves: A Ghostly Tale

A Ghostly Encounter 2

A painted circular stone depicting a serene landscape with trees and a sun, contrasting the eerie atmosphere of the forest.

The air was wrong.

Callum Hargreaves opened his eyes to silence so deep it pressed against his chest. No engines in the distance. No birdsong. No radio crackle.

Only the trees. And the damp earth beneath him.

He sat up slowly, wincing. His body felt heavier, like the atmosphere itself had thickened. The forest wasn’t just quiet it was ancient. The trunks were massive, rough with moss and lichen, and the undergrowth twisted in ways he didn’t remember. Even the colours seemed muted. More… real. Older.

His phone was dead. No signal. Not even a flicker of battery life.

The feather was still in his hand.

White. Burnt at the edge.

He stood, breath visible in the still air. The mist clung low to the ground, like it was trying to hide something.

The stone was gone. The path was gone.

He turned full circle. No trails. No signs. Just forest. Endless.

“Okay,” he whispered to himself. “Get your bearings. Pick a direction. Stay calm.”

But as he moved ahead, he noticed something.

There were no footprints. Not his. Not animals. No trash. No broken branches. Nothing that said people had ever been here.

Except one thing.

A shape in the clearing ahead barely visible in the haze.

It was another stone.
Taller. Deeper carved. The same symbol as before a spiral, or a horn, or… something.

At its base, a small pile of bones. Clean. Arranged in a ring. And at the centre, an ash-blackened tooth.

A vibrant painted stone featuring a spiral design, symbolizing mystery and connection to nature.

Callum backed up a step.

A low growl rippled through the silence.

His eyes snapped up.

A wolf stood across the clearing.

It wasn’t moving. Just watching.

Eyes like molten gold. Fur dark and matted. Muscles tensed, but not ready to strike.

Behind it… a second figure. Not a wolf.

Human.

Massive. Silent. Cloaked in furs. A silhouette against the trees.

Callum couldn’t breathe.

He blinked.
And they were gone.

Just trees again. Just mist.

But the whispering had changed.

Not words anymore.

A name.

One he didn’t know.
One he couldn’t pronounce.

But it curled in his head like smoke:
Taranis.

To be continued…

From the Author

I grew up visiting the Chase, walking the woods and hearing the stories. Have you experienced anything unusual in woods? The whispers among the trees?

If you enjoyed this please read part 1
Read more: The Mystery of Callum Hargreaves: A Ghostly Tale
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Further Reading

The Prophecies and Tales of Taranis Unfolded

June 25, 2025