Stromborn

They say the storm broke early that morning, thundering over the Highland peaks as if the gods themselves were at war.

The air reeked of smoke and iron, the fields soaked in the blood of clansmen and foreign scouts. Among shattered shields and the slain, a single cry rose-not of death, but of birth.

A woman, barely breathing, lay beneath the torn banner of Clan McGregor. Her hair was matted with rain and ash, her body broken from labor. And in her arms, wrapped in a piece of tartan soaked with both sweat and blood, was the child.

A boy.

Blonde as wheat in the sun, his eyes the clear, cold blue of Highland skies.

The old women who found them whispered he was touched by the old gods. Born on the battlefield, baptized in storm and sorrow, destined for both crown and curse.

The child's father, Chieftain McGregor, had survived the battle-tough as the land that raised him. He carried his bloodied son and broken wife back to the castle nestled outside Inverness, where stone met fire and the future waited with clenched fists.

They named the boy James.

But in whispers, in prayers, and in stories shared by firelight...

They called him Stormborn.