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?
Exiled at Eight tells the story of Taranis Stormborne.
A flicker of life enters a world that is both brutal and beautiful. From the moment chieftain Connor held the little boy wrapped in wolf fur, he knew his son was different.
The baby’s bright grey eyes sparkled with curiosity and wonder, hinting at future heartache, nightmares, and beauty.Five Years Later
“He’s alone again, I see, Drax,” Knox said to his best friend and the chieftain’s son.
“World of his own, father says. He’s different from us,” Drax replied, glancing at his little brother before shielding a strike.
“Nice try,” Drax smirked.The chieftain and his wife watched Taranis, worry and stress etched on their faces. Neither knew how to handle their youngest son, who paled in comparison to his brothers.
Taranis was a tall child, standing almost five feet, muscular from birth a blessing many remarked on. His striking grey eyes were like a stormy night. In contrast, his brothers were broad-shouldered and hardened by years of hunting and battle, already warriors in training.
One cool morning, as the damp scent of earth and pine filled the air, Taranis wandered near the edge of the forest. “Everything you see is ours, my son the woods, the green fields,” he recalled his father’s voice in his mind.
The more he walked, the louder the birds sang and the more he heard the roar of Pendragon, the king of dragons.
The howl of Boldolph whistled through the trees as he picked up a stone and threw it in the air. Suddenly, the stone flew from his hand and struck a small black bird.
It fell silent, wings broken, heart still. Taranis ran to the young bird, tears streaming down his face. Kneeling beside it, he pressed his hands gently on its broken wings, willing them to heal.
As time seemed to slow; the forest quieted. Miraculously, the bird shuddered and breathed, gradually returning to life. With a flutter, it soared free again.
The chieftain raised an eyebrow as he looked to his people, then back to his son.
“What is dead should stay dead,” one man stated.Soon, the entire community murmured in hushed tones.“ENOUGH,” the chieftain said, addressing the council of elders.
“Sir, we will call a meeting,” Janus stated. A woman with clouded eyes and a trembling voice approached quietly. She gazed deeply at the boy and spoke a chilling prophecy.
“The boy who mends what death has touched shall walk a path both blessed and cursed, a flame born of feather and storm.”Taranis looked at the old woman with a defiant smirk and his deep grey eyes, as if he wielded a storm at any moment.
He didn’t understand it, nor did he care.
“He’s old enough to train as a guide with the spirits,” another man said. “He’s five; he’s a man now.”
“No, he’s a man who can work, but he must follow his brothers and me as warriors and hunters,” Chieftain Connor stated.
The year passed quickly, and everyone focused on the warring neighbors while crops failed, turning life upside down. At six years old, the harshness of life hit hard.
When men and women charged the camp, and the clash of spears echoed.
Within minutes, the noise stopped abruptly on both sides. With uncanny fierceness, Taranis moved like a whirlwind of rage and grace. His strikes were swift and precise, as if guided by a primal force beyond his age.
“It’s like he’s a god,” Lore said, while his brothers watched in awe and fear, uncertain of what this meant for their youngest brother.
Beneath the warrior’s fire, though, was a boy barely understanding the cost of blood and death.
“I helped protect us, right, father? I’m good?” Taranis asked, but he stopped when Drax pulled him away, aware of how fear could lead people to do stupid things.
“I’m a warrior, not a seer!” Taranis cried as he was taken away.“Shh, little brother. You’ve seen too much for one day.”
“From today, my son Taranis will train with his brothers. Should another fight arise, he will be ready,” Chieftain Connor said. Another war came, but this time it was one they wouldn’t win.
As the years went by, he trained and grew into a skilled fighter. At eight years old, he stood on the hills as his friends developed coughs and fevers like never seen before, while the village was struck by a shadow darker than any blade.
A sickness crept through the children like a silent predator.Mothers wept, fathers raged, and the once vibrant laughter of youth faded into silence and sorrow. Soon, the people began to whisper, like cold wind slipping through cracks.
Was this the curse Janus spoke of? Was Taranis’s strange power a blight upon them?
“Exile Taranis!” one voice boomed. “Execute him!” another shouted. “Sacrifice him to appease the gods!”As time passed, more voices joined in as fear turned to blame, and blame hardened into calls for exile.
“We find, for the sake of the clan, we must exile Taranis,” Janus said.
Taranis stepped beyond the only home he had ever known. As he looked back at his brothers and father.
“I didn’t do it. Please, this isn’t because of me,” Taranis pleaded. But the forest that once whispered secrets now felt endless and cold.
Alone, he battled with the cruel balance between lost innocence and a destiny forced upon him.Yet beneath the storm of doubt, a fierce flame burned a hope to find meaning, reclaim his place, and someday heal what had been broken.
StormborneLore 