StormborneLore

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  • Living with Psychotic Depression: Personal Stories and Insights

    Living with Psychotic Depression: Personal Stories and Insights

    Abstract artwork featuring concentric circles in various shades of blue, red, and purple, with a central intricate design in gold and brown.
    Abstract artwork depicting swirling colors and intricate patterns, representing the complexity of mental health.

    Understanding Psychotic Depression

    There are many types of mental illness some considered minor others major. But personally seen the devastating effects of mental illness.

    For years I was told I had BPD with associated psychosis, agoraphobia, anxiety. But then the psychiatrist diagnosed me with a condition called Psychotic Depression.

    Psychotic depression is not a term many people hear until it touches their life. For some, it’s a diagnosis; for others, a hidden truth they never had words for.

    It is a severe form of major depressive disorder (MDD). That includes psychosis a break from reality through hallucinations or delusions.

    What Is Psychotic Depression?

    Psychotic depression blends the hopelessness of clinical depression with the unreality of psychosis. The result is a state where:

    • Delusions (false beliefs) often focus on guilt, punishment, illness, or worthlessness.
    • Hallucinations (often auditory or visual) align with negative internal narratives.
    • The person lose touch with reality, unable to distinguish fact from fear.

    It can be terrifying, isolating, and life-threatening.

    Core Symptoms:

    • Deep, prolonged sadness
    • Loss of interest in life
    • Fatigue or inability to move
    • Feelings of worthlessness or guilt
    • Thoughts of death or suicide
    • Psychotic symptoms:
    • Hearing voices
    • Believing you’ve committed unforgivable sins
    • Feeling watched or judged by unseen forces

    These aren’t “dramatic” feelings they are real experiences for those living through psychotic depression.

    What Causes It?

    Psychotic depression is often triggered by a combination of:

    • Genetics (family history of mood or psychotic disorders)
    • Trauma or extreme stress
    • Chronic illness or disability
    • Imbalance in brain chemicals like serotonin, dopamine, cortisol

    It’s not your fault. And it’s more common than most think.

    Treatment Options

    Psychotic depression is serious but it is treatable.

    • Medication: Usually a combination of antidepressants and antipsychotics
    • Electroconvulsive Therapy (ECT): Effective in severe or treatment-resistant cases
    • Therapy: Often after stabilization, to handle trauma and build tools for recovery
    • Support systems: Family, friends, and community matter

    If you or someone you love is experiencing this, seek professional help right away.

    A Personal Note:

    “I believed I’d infected the world just by being alive. A voice in my mind confirmed it, over and over. I couldn’t tell what was real only that I was dangerous. I wanted to disappear.”

    You are not alone. You are not broken beyond repair.


    StormborneLore is a space where fire still burns even in the dark.

    If you are in the UK:

    • Call Samaritans on 116 123 (24/7)
    • Text SHOUT to 8528 (crisis text line)

    If you are in the USA:

    • Call or text 988 (Suicide & Crisis Lifeline)
  • Training Day at Ignis

    Training Day at Ignis

    A tale from the halls of Emberhelm

    The morning mist clung to the valley like a second skin. Emberhelm’s courtyard steamed with breath and sweat, the scent of stone, ash, and boiled roots heavy in the air. Around the inner circle, newly chosen warriors waited nervous, eager, some barely out of boyhood. Others bore scars older than Taranis himself.

    At the centre stood the High Warlord of Caernath. His cloak cast aside, sleeves rolled, storm-grey eyes fixed on the line before him.

    “No blades today,” he said. “Not until your hands know what weight feels like.”

    He tossed a staff to the first in line. Then another. And another. Each warrior caught their weapon or fumbled it those who dropped theirs were told, simply, “Again.” And made to run.

    On the other side of the training ground, beneath the shadow of the stone wolf banner, Boldolph paced in silence.

    His pack half-men, half-beasts, with eyes like old moons watched him without blinking. He spoke low, but his voice carried like thunder over ice.

    “You are not pets. Not soldiers. You are guardians.”
    A pause.
    “You see a child in harm’s way, you do not wait for orders. You act. That is the law of the wolf.”

    One of the younger wolves whimpered. Boldolph turned sharply.
    “Fear is not failure. Freezing is. Move even if it hurts.”

    Across the field, Taranis raised his voice again.

    “This is Ignis. This is fire. You’re not here to impress me. You’re here to withstand the storm, and stand through it.”

    He glanced at Boldolph.

    “Or do you want to spar with his lot instead?”

    A low growl rippled from the wolf-warriors.

    The chosen laughed nervously until Boldolph nodded. One of his warriors, a massive figure with a half-healed burn across his chest. stepped ahead, gripping a staff as thick as a child’s leg.

    Taranis smiled. “Right then. Let’s see who learned to dance.”

    The wolf-warrior advanced, silent but for the low crunch of earth beneath padded feet. His height matched any war-chief. His eyes amber, slit like a blade of dusk fixed on the line of young recruits now stepping back.

    Taranis caught Boldolph’s eye.

    The old wolf-man crossed his arms, his growl half amusement, half challenge.

    “Too much for them?” Taranis asked.

    “They need to know pain has teeth. And that not all enemies snarl first.”

    The recruits shifted nervously. One tried to step ahead, but Taranis raised a hand.

    “No,” he said. “Not yet.”

    Then, slowly, he removed the silver cuff from his wrist. The one shaped like twisted flame and dropped it into the dust.

    The courtyard hushed.

    Boldolph straightened, his expression unreadable.

    “You mean to fight me?” he said, stepping ahead, voice low.

    Taranis rolled his shoulder and took a training staff from the rack.
    “Not to wound,” he replied. “To remind.”

    Boldolph took his own heavier, gnarled like a branch torn from an ancient tree.

    They circled.

    The recruits, wolf-men, and even dragons above watched in stillness.

    Then Boldolph struck fast, low, aiming to knock out Taranis’s legs. But the warlord leapt, twisting mid-air, landing in a crouch with a grin. He swept his staff up, tapping Boldolph’s ribs before stepping back.

    “Sloppy,” he said. “You’re slower in your old age.”

    Boldolph snarled, but it wasn’t anger. It was the old dance.
    The rhythm of claw and command.

    He lunged again this time a full force blow. Their staffs cracked like thunder as they met. Sparks flew from the impact. Recruits flinched. One dragon above rumbled softly, folding its wings to watch closer.

    They moved like storm and shadow:

    Taranis fluid, forged in battlefields and flame.

    Boldolph grounded, brutal, unshakable like the old hills.

    Neither aimed to kill.
    But neither held back.

    A final clash and both stopped, locked staff to staff, breathing heavy, eyes locked.

    “You’ve grown,” Boldolph said, finally. “Not just in size.”

    “And you’ve not changed,” Taranis replied, sweat on his brow. “Still the rock I lean on.”

    He broke the hold, stepped back, and offered a hand.

    Boldolph took it without hesitation. The courtyard erupted in cheers both from humans and wolves alike.

    Taranis turned to the watching recruits.
    “This,” he said, gesturing between them, “is how you lead. Not with fear. But with fire, with honour, and with those who would bite your enemies long before they betray your trust.”

    Boldolph gave a rare smile.

    “And don’t forget,” he growled to the recruits, “the wolves are watching.”

    Further Reading

    The Prophecies and Tales of Taranis Unfolded

  • Emberhelm: A Night of Brotherhood and Secrets

    Emberhelm: A Night of Brotherhood and Secrets


    By the fire at Emberhelm, the night before the ley lines awakened

    We drank not for glory,
    but for breath.
    For blood that still ran,
    and brothers not yet turned to ash.

    No crown weighed our heads that night.
    No blade hung between us.
    Only silence,
    and the crackle of wood older than war.

    Lore sat still
    eyes on the shadow that never left his side.
    Drax, hands calloused,
    held the storm like a sleeping child.
    Draven, scar-bound, leaned on root and stone.
    Rayne, half-light, watched the stars as if to ask
    if they would wait for him to rise.

    And I,
    I ….
    who had been all things and nothing
    looked at them not as soldiers,
    but as home.

    We did not speak of battles.
    We did not weep for lost years.
    We passed the bread.
    We tore the fish.
    We shared warmth not made of fire.

    And before the parting,
    we carved no words.
    For there are some truths
    that can’t be spoken
    without breaking.

    Thank you for reading

    Futher Reading

    The Prophecies and Tales of Taranis Unfolded

    The Chronicles of Drax

    Chronicles of Draven

    Join the Adventure in Tales of Rayne’s Universe

    Ancient Magic and Myth of the Stormborne

  • The Houses of Caernath Part 7

    The Houses of Caernath Part 7

    The Fifth Flame

    The stone circle of Emberhelm stood silent under the pale light of morning., five cairnstones glowing faintly in their ancient places. The air shimmered with a stillness that only came before something eternal was spoken.

    Taranis Stormborne, cloaked in black and silver. stepped ahead to the first cairn the one carved with roots and mountains, circled in white ochre. He turned to face the gathered warriors, wolves, and wanderers.

    “Before the dragons flew,” he said, “before the wolves howled, there were five lines of fire. We knew only three. But today, we remember them all.”

    He turned to Draven, who stepped ahead slowly, still favouring his side.

    “Brother you bled for us. You survived what none should have. You guarded the line even when no one knew it was there.”

    Taranis drew a shard of stone from the cairn itself. Then handed it to Draven, and placed a firm hand on his shoulder.

    “By the weight of the earth and the strength of the mountain, I name you Lord of Terra.”

    A cheer rose from the crowd, led by the wolves, then echoed by the dragons above. Draven bowed not to Taranis, but to the people.

    Taranis turned then, slowly, toward the fifth cairn the one none had touched in generations. It bore a sunmark, and a spiral, and a cut across its base. where an old flame once split the stone.

    Beside it stood Rayne, straight-backed now, though his eyes still bore the shadow of the collar. And beside him stood Tirena, a woman of stone and flame, silent and radiant. With one hand resting lightly on the hilt of her sun-marked blade.

    Taranis paused before speaking not as a warlord, but as a brother.

    “Rayne. We lost you once. You were chained, beaten, turned into a whisper. But you came back. And with you came fire not born of wrath, but of forgiveness.”

    “Yet even flame must have form. And no one guards the flame better than the one who sees in silence.”

    He turned to Tirena.

    “Knight of Lumen, daughter of the dawn do you stand beside him of your own will?”

    Tirena gave a single nod, her voice soft and fierce.

    “I do. Not for crown. For cause.”

    Taranis placed his hand on Rayne’s shoulder, and raised his other toward the sun.

    “Then by the fire that remembers and the light that does not burn. I name you Rayne of Lumen, Lord of the Fifth House.”

    The crowd was still for a heartbeat.

    Then a pulse rolled through the cairns. A faint hum, like the deep breath of the land itself, stirred the hair of every person there.

    The ley lines had awakened.

    Five fires, once lost, now stood again.

    Taranis looked out across the gathered faces his brothers. His people, the wolves, the dragons, the flame keepers and shadow walkers who had followed him through storm and silence.

    His voice dropped low, just above a whisper, but the wind carried it to every ear.

    “I know I wasn’t there for you. I’ll always regret that. Father exiled me… and maybe I would’ve run anyway. But that exile taught me many things.”

    He looked to each brother in turn Lore, cloaked in dusk and silence. Drax, ever the storm, hands calloused from war. Draven, grounded like stone. And Rayne, flame rekindled beside the steel gaze of Tirena.

    Taranis smiled, but it was not the smile of a warlord. It was that of a boy who had once been cast out. Now stood at the heart of everything he loved.

    Just then, Draven stepped ahead again, his voice steady.

    “Brother… you were exiled at eight,” he said. “We not protect you then. But we can stand with you now.”

    Taranis’s gaze faltered for the briefest moment not from shame, but from the sudden weight of grace.

    “And I will never walk alone again,” he answered, his voice thick with feeling.

    Around them, the wind stirred the banners of each House. The cairns pulsed faintly, glowing at their roots. Overhead, the wings of dragons cast long shadows across the circle. And for the first time in generations, all five ley lines were whole.

    Thank you for reading

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

    💬 If this spoke to you, please like, share, and subscribe to support our mythic journey.

    Further Reading

    The Prophecies and Tales of Taranis Unfolded

    The Chronicles of Drax

    Join the Adventure in Tales of Rayne’s Universe

    Ancient Magic and Myth of the Stormborne

  • Good Afternoon, God eftermiddag, Prynhawn Da, Buenas tardes, Guten Tag, Добрый день (Author note)

    Good Afternoon, God eftermiddag, Prynhawn Da, Buenas tardes, Guten Tag, Добрый день (Author note)




    Thank you to everyone who took the time to read yesterday’s Authors Note.

    just a warning : This is NOT EDITED in anyway so there will be spelling mistakes and grammar issues., structure issues.

    Why am I doing this?

    The reason I’m saying hello in English. German, Russian, Spanish, Swedish and Welsh (I do apologise if I’ve spelt or wrote anything wrong)

    The reason for it is those are the top countries in my stats for viewing my site.

    THANK YOU

    Thank you and USA youre number one. Thank you, and last night’s authors note had more likes than any other piece.

    AI and Me

    Well I’ve tried AI and still think even with all the errors. My writings probably better, than ai even though I use it to Polish my work it feels wrong.

    Less human! Less capable of putting in what it takes to make the reader feel. SO after talking to my child who is a one of the biggest book nerds I’ve know. Someone who states don’t use AI they steal from other writers.

    They are right but my stories are mine and double checked even triple checked not just through grammarly. But I also paste anything that I’m suspicious of direct into search engines manually check. If something worth doing it’s worth doing right !

    The Plan Today

    What’s on the plan today is easy 4 pieces.

    This authors note

    1 story – Three houses of Caernath part 7

    1 poem – based on the eternal lords

    1 article

    1 recipe. Inspired by the bronze age

    Where is my world based?

    Someone asked me where are my stories / world based?

    Worcestershire.

    The House of Flame – Ignis.

    Infact Emberhelm is based on the Malvern Hills and surrounding areas. Where I walked every weekend as a child and teen. An area stepped in history and folklore from Roman Britain to today.

    Shropshire, Welsh marches and Staffordshire

    The houses of Lore and Drax

    Tempestas (house of storm) and Umbria (the house of shadow)

    While Drax guards the marches with his armies of tempestas. Lore works his charms throughout his lands of Umbra. Taranis sits in the main house of Ignis. Soon to be joined by two others.

    Again I spent hours walking not just around my village. But Cannock chase and Tettenhall woods, Walsall woods, cannock woods. I listened to historians, folklorists, read books on mythology, folklore, hauntings of the areas.

    Other areas

    I’ve walked Glastonbury Tor. (The hard way even ended up crawling at the top. But worth it and I proved to myself I can achieve the impossible. )

    I’ve walked the long mynd (shropshire)where a village is said to have disappeared. The walks beautiful but not for those with mobility issues.

    I’ve visited Wales (let’s face the truth at one point most of England was welsh). so when I include Welsh it more of a nod to ancestral heritage. My favourite place in Wales is Pembrokeshire.

    Everywhere I go I’m learning not just the history but any folklore people are willing to share.

    Growing up in Staffordshire gave me an opening to learn the Lore. Of not just my village but cannock chase and many other areas.

    I was told “never put rough articles on your blog”. but when you don’t have funds for an editor for your articles where do you go?

    Many indie writers told me once Grammarly but that’s ai isnt it? If anyone has any suggestions please let me know.

    I’m learning and slowly starting to use my own raw writing on this site.

    Have a good day, and to those in war torn areas or going through tough times. blessing and positive thoughts go out to you.

    Please try to stay safe.

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

     If this spoke to you, please like, share, and subscribe to support our mythic journey.

    I wrote this directly into wordpress so absolutely no editing.

  • 100 Tales from the Halls of Emberhelm 🐉

    100 Tales from the Halls of Emberhelm 🐉


    100 posts. 19 days. 6 tales a day.

    From the first howl on the wind to the firelit feasts of Caernath, StormborneLore now stands tall a living archive of myth, memory, and meaning.

    In these past 19 days, you’ve journeyed through:

    ✨ Poems of Spirit and reflections from wolves, dragons, outcasts, and gods
    🔥 Tales of Hardship and Hope, stories born in darkness, rising toward the light
    🍖 Feasts of the Ancients, recipes inspired by the meals of warriors, crones, and storm-born kings.
    ⚖️ Truths of Our Time articles echoing modern struggles: disability, injustice, survival, and healing

    Each post is more than just a page — it’s a voice from the halls of Emberhelm.

    “When all the world forgets us, we will still sing around the fire.” Taranis Stormborne

    To every reader who’s wandered these halls, thank you. To every warrior, wolf, and flamekeeper yet to come welcome home.

    StormborneLore
    Fiction forged in myth. Truth written in fire.

  • The Houses of Caernath Part 6

    The Houses of Caernath Part 6

    The Path They Choose


    StormborneLore Original Story

    Draven watched his younger brother with the quiet reverence of a man who had walked through fire. To find a home on the other side. Though the aches in his ribs still tugged at his breath, he laughed a genuine, full-throated laugh. as he caught Rayne peeking from behind a weathered oak near the feast.

    Rayne’s cloak hung awkwardly over one shoulder, and though his hands were free. He held them stiffly as if still expecting chains.

    Draven looked back to Taranis, who stood tall and proud. The firelight glinting off the rings etched into his forearms marks of every clan he’d freed, every vow he’d kept.

    “You’re not the only one who can’t die, Taranis. The bards will call us the Eternal Lords. The Man of the Woods, the Warrior of the March… But what about you, brother? What will they say?”

    Taranis grinned, but his eyes stayed on Rayne.

    “The Lord with a Heart. The Flame that Walks. The Warlord who Wept.”

    He turned to Draven. “What ails him, truly?”

    Draven’s smile dimmed.

    “He survived,” he said softly. “And survival… isn’t as easy to wear as a legend.”

    Taranis nodded, the smile gone. “Then I’ll not offer him a title. Or a command. I’ll offer him what was once denied us all.”

    He walked from the firelight and toward the shadows where Rayne stood alone, arms folded and eyes like flint.

    “You Came Back.”
    Rayne didn’t speak as Taranis approached. His jaw twitched. He stepped backward out of habit until his heel hit a root and stopped him.

    Taranis said nothing at first. He simply sat on the fallen log nearby, stretching his legs and sighing into the evening air.

    “When I was your age,” he said, “I thought silence made me strong. That if I didn’t speak of the beatings, or the exile, or the hunger… then I had won.”

    He picked up a small stone and turned it over in his hand.

    “But silence doesn’t win. It buries. And buried things don’t stay buried, brother. Not forever.”

    Rayne looked down, fists clenched.

    “They said you were dead.”

    “So did I,” Taranis replied. “And then I woke up… and realized I wasn’t done.”

    Rayne’s voice cracked.

    “Why didn’t you come for me?”

    Taranis flinched not visibly, but somewhere behind the eyes.

    He finally looked up, tears bright in his eyes. “And I believed them.”

    Taranis didn’t speak. He rose slowly, walked the short distance, and pulled Rayne into his arms.

    Rayne stood stiff as iron pthen broke. His head fell against Taranis’s shoulder, and the boy who had been a slave sobbed like the child he never got to be.

    The Wolves Watched
    From the trees, Boldolph watched, crouched low, Morrigan beside him.

    “He’s not ready,” the black wolf growled.

    “He’s more ready than you were,” Morrigan said softly.

    Boldolph grunted. “He’s not like Taranis. Or Draven. The fire isn’t in him.”

    Morrigan smiled. “No. But the river is.”

    Boldolph glanced at her, confused.

    “Some of us are made for flame and rage. Others for healing and flow. Rayne… is the river that remembers every stone.”

    Morning Comes to Emberhelm
    By dawn, the fires had burned low and the children were asleep in bundles of wool and bracken.

    The warriors sat nursing sore heads and full bellies, and the dragons Pendragon and Tairneanach lay curled in silence, watching the horizon like guardians of an old dream.

    Taranis stood before the gathering. His cloak flapped in the morning wind, and behind him the stone cairns of Caernath glowed faintly as if the ancestors were listening.

    “Brothers. Sisters. Flamekeepers. Healers. Shadowwalkers and Stormborn alike. You have all walked through fire, through blood, through the turning of the old ways. Now it is time to choose.”

    “Today we name the Three Houses of Caernath not for power, but for purpose. No longer shall bloodlines dictate loyalty. From now on, you choose where you belong.”

    “Those who fight whose strength lies in blade and storm come to the House of the Storm.”

    “Those who heal, protect, and serve who hold flame and lore come to the House of the Flame.”

    “And those who walk between who guard the forgotten places, who speak to shadows, or carry wounds that cannot be seen come to the House of the Shadow.”

    Rayne Steps Ahead
    The crowd murmured. Solaris stood tall near the Flame. Draven took his place beneath the storm banner. Morrigan stood beneath the flame, Boldolph beside her though his stance was still more wolf than man.

    And then slowly, silently Rayne stepped forward.

    All eyes turned.

    He walked past the flame. Past the storm. And stood alone beneath the third banner, woven with deep purples and grey threads: the House of the Shadow.

    Gasps rippled.

    Rayne turned, voice calm but steady.

    “I am not whole. But I am not broken.”

    “I have walked in chains. I have worn silence like a second skin. I am no warlord, no healer, no dragon-slayer.”

    “But I remember. And I will not let the forgotten be lost again.”

    After the Choosing
    Later that night, Taranis found him by the cairnstones.

    “The House of the Shadow,” he said. “I never thought someone would choose it first.”

    Rayne smiled faintly. “Someone had to.”

    “You know… I think it might be the strongest house of all.”

    Rayne nodded. “We carry the weight.”

    [TO BE CONTINUED]

    Further Reading

  • The Warlord’s Lullaby by Stormborne

    The Warlord’s Lullaby by Stormborne

    Rest your weary head, sweet child,
    For our lord and his men stand guard.
    Fear not the shadows, hush your mind
    They hold the dark ones far behind.

    Sleep now, my boy, for dawn draws near,
    The Day of Selection is almost here.
    When the High Lord walks among the brave,
    To choose the ones with hearts unshaved.

    Rise, my child, today you train,
    Chosen by the Warlord through ash and rain.
    He sees in you a warrior’s light
    So heed no fear, for he brings no fright.

    He is kind, though forged in fire,
    A stormborne soul who lifts you higher.
    Stand tall, young one, your time is come—
    To walk the path, to beat the drum.

  • The high warlord of Caernath 

    The high warlord of Caernath 


    A man of honour a man who cares 
    A man who shared the darkness
    yet brought the light.

    His tables long but round

    with a star of five points
    So his warriors can all hear his point 
    From near and far.

    While the dragons fly over head 
    The wolf-man warrior by his side
     tall, protective like a father figure 
    Our leader raised by cursed wolves
     but with his grace freed his friends 
    No slaves exist in Caernath he made it so

    The high war lord of Caernath rules equal with charm and grace.
    but fury like the darkest of storms
    His group of 12 warriors, seers, healer.
    around the table making laws, deciding wars and peace.

    Come one, come all,

    to hear the tales of.
    The High Warlord of Caernath.
    A giant in spirit, a friend in kin,
    Whose heart burns brighter than the wrath of wind.

    He lets no soul go hungry nor cold.
    For in his eyes, all people hold
    The spark of flame, the worth of kin.
    No exile too lost, no outcast too thin.

    The fire burns bright at Emberhelm’s gate,
    For weary travellers and those burdened by fate.
    Hungry, tired, or wounded deep,
    He offers food, a place to sleep.

    So if you wander, far or near,
    Know this truth and hold it dear.
    The High Warlord of Caernath stands,
    With open heart and open hands.

    Copyright Note

    © 2025 E. L. Hewitt / Stormborne Arts. All rights reserved.
    Unauthorized copying or reproduction of this artwork and text is prohibited.

    further Reading

    A Journey Through My Poetic Collection

  • The Houses of Caernath. Part 4

    The Houses of Caernath. Part 4

    The Wolf and His Warlord

    The scent of blood still hung on the morning mist. Mingling with the smoke from the still-burning ridge beyond Emberhelm’s eastern watch.

    The gates had only just been sealed behind the last returning scouts. The courtyard was filled with low murmurs and the clang of steel being resharpened.

    Taranis Stormborne stood alone beneath the stone arch, his shoulders squared but his body streaked in ash and dried blood. The battle had ended. Victory had been claimed.

    And yet, the courtyard was quiet. Too quiet.

    Then came the growl.

    It rumbled low at first, barely more than a whisper on the wind. Before shaping itself into something unmistakable the warning bark of a wolf that knew disappointment far more intimately than fear.

    Boldolph emerged from the shadow of the stables, his half-wolf form towering, claws still sheathed in crusted gore. His red eyes burned with something deeper than rage. Not fury. Not even grief.

    It was wrath tempered by love.

    “You damned fool,” Boldolph snarled, stalking toward the warlord. “You should’ve waited.”

    Taranis didn’t flinch. He met the wolf-man’s gaze with that same infuriating storm-steeled calm. “I had to act.”

    “You had to die?” Boldolph’s snarl cut through the air. “That’s what you wanted? To fall alone so the bards sing about it later?”

    “I had to protect them,” Taranis snapped. “The Black Claw”

    “Were expecting you.” Boldolph’s voice was thunder now, claws clenched at his sides. “They wanted you to come alone. You gave them exactly what they needed — the head of the storm without the wind behind him.”

    Taranis looked away. The silence between them thickened.

    Boldolph stepped closer. “You are the High Warlord now. You bear the storm in your veins and ride the dragon in the sky. But to me, you’re still that cub who couldn’t see the trap until he stepped into it.”

    Taranis said nothing. He couldn’t. Not when he knew Boldolph was right.

    Taranis moved to speak, but Boldolph raised a clawed hand.

    “No,” the wolf-man growled. “You don’t get to explain it away with honor or duty or some poetic rot about sacrifice. You’ve earned your scars, Taranis but so have we. And we didn’t survive hell just to watch you walk back into it alone.”

    The warlord took a breath. His face, still smeared with ash and dried ichor, softened. “I thought”

    “That’s the problem,” Boldolph snapped, “you thought. You didn’t ask. Not me, not Lore, not Drax, not Solaris. You didn’t trust any of us to stand beside you.”

    Taranis’s jaw clenched. “I trust you all with my life.”

    “Then why won’t you trust us with your death?”

    The words struck like a hammer.

    Taranis staggered a step back not from force, but from the weight of truth. Boldolph’s eyes didn’t waver.

    He looked less like a beast and more like a grieving elder. Wearied by a child who couldn’t yet see his own worth beyond the blade.

    “You think being the High Warlord means dying on your feet,” Boldolph said, voice roughening. “But what it really means is living long enough to carry others. That’s what the storm is for. Not just to burn. To shield.”

    The fire pits crackled in the stillness. From the northern walkway, Lore stood quietly, arms folded, having heard the last of it. He said nothing only nodded to Boldolph, and then vanished back into the shadows.

    “You’re not alone anymore,” Boldolph continued, softer now. “You have brothers again. You have warriors, wolves, dragons. And you have people who’d bleed for you, not because you command them but because they love you.”

    Taranis sat slowly on the stone steps beside the training pit. For once, the weight of his own armor seemed too much to bear. “I’ve spent so long fighting to survive,” he said, staring at the sky. “It’s hard to let go of that.”

    “I know,” Boldolph murmured. “But surviving isn’t living. And we didn’t break our curses just to watch you chain yourself to a ghost.”

    The wolf-man crouched beside him, joints creaking.

    “I made a vow to your father when you were exiled. I swore to watch over you even when you didn’t know I was near. I failed once. I won’t again.”

    Taranis turned to him. “You were there… even then?”

    Boldolph nodded. “Always.”

    They sat in silence, the roar of the battlefield replaced by the quiet whistle of wind between towers. In the distance, children’s laughter echoed from the lower courtyard. where Morrigan was teaching younglings to bind wounds with willow bark and song.

    Boldolph sighed. “You need to speak to them. To all of them. Tell them what you’re fighting for. What we’re building.”

    “I don’t know what to say.”

    “Then let your silence be honest. But show them, Taranis. Not the warlord the man. The brother. The one who came back from the brink and built something no storm can wash away.”

    Taranis stood slowly, shoulders still tense, but eyes clearer.

    “You’re right,” he said. “I’ve been leading from the front but I’ve been doing it like I’m still alone. Like that eight-year-old boy who was cast out into the wilds.”

    Boldolph rose beside him, towering and fierce. “Then stop being that boy. And become the storm the world remembers.”

    Taranis gave a faint smile. “You’re more of a father than ours ever was.”

    “I know,” Boldolph grunted. “You lot are exhausting.”

    “Drax I’m sorry please forgive me’ tanaris told his oldest brother “just. ‘ 

    “No I’m not hearing excuses young brother. You know boldolph asked morigan if he eat either you or your dragons ” Drax smirked 

    “that…that is definitely something Boldolph would say. I trust my mother wolf said no” Tanaris grinned. AS he folded his arms with a grin as morigan gave him a cautionary look.

    Further Reading

    The Prophecies and Tales of Taranis Unfolded

    The Chronicles of Drax

    A Journey Through My Poetic Collection

    Join the Adventure in Tales of Rayne’s Universe

    Ancient Magic and Myth of the Stormborne