The Dark Element

Robert stirred awake, fingers trembling as they brushed Lillia's cheek. Her warmth grounded him, pulling him from the dream's depths like a lifeline from a stormy loch. His senses flickered back, each breath heavy with the weight of what he'd endured.

Lillia flinched at the touch, her green eyes widening before softening with relief. Her hand covered his, a silent vow of joy that he'd returned. Her lips parted in a shaky smile, like she'd been holding her breath for days.

He blinked hard, body aching like he'd wrestled a Highland bull. The dream, no, the encounter, burned vivid in his mind, sharp as a clan blade. It felt too real to be just his head spinning tales. Was the teacher a god-sent guide or a desperate trick of his own mind? The man's words about Faith, Magic, and Science clung to him, heavy as wet tartan.

"It felt so real, but was it?" he whispered, voice raw as gravel.

Snow gasped, her cool facade cracking into a grin, icy blue eyes sparkling like frost in sunlight. Sorcha rushed forward, misty-eyed, and yanked Robert into a hug, murmuring thanks to the gods. Her grip was fierce, like she feared he'd slip away again.

Lillia stayed quiet, leaning closer, her gentle smile a beacon of calm. Her fingers squeezed his, a wordless promise to stand by him, always. Their reactions wove a tapestry of love and relief, each thread unique. They fussed over him as he sat up, stretching slow, wincing at the stiffness.

He spilled a choppy tale of the dream: teacher, corruption, that damn tower. His words stumbled, but his eyes blazed with the weight of it. Lillia's gaze never left him, drinking in every word.

Sorcha's eyes locked on the nine-pointed star glowing soft on Robert's chest, its light dancing across the healer's hut. Her face turned reverent, like she'd seen Dagda himself. "This is no ordinary mark," she said, voice thick with awe. "The nine-pointed star is sacred in our lore. It's balance, unity, a divine call. Each point, fire, water, earth, air, light, dark, life, death, spirit, holds the world's bones together. For you to wear it, Robert, you're marked for something big."

Robert frowned, doubt flickering. "A gift? I'm not so sure," he muttered. "Feels more like a target on my back."

Sorcha's words sank in, nudging him to see the tripod of Faith, Magic, Science: three legs holding reality steady. A stool with two would topple, but three stood firm. He rubbed his chest, the star's warmth pulsing like a second heart, urging him to trust it.

A commotion outside broke his thoughts: footsteps pounding, voices shouting like a clan rally gone wild. Robert straightened, eyes narrowing. "What's going on out there?" he asked, voice sharper now.

Snow glanced at the window, her face clouding. "Hordes of corrupted beasts hitting the walls," she said, tense. "Hamish, Chaucer, Rauri, Ewan, and the kobrutes are holding them off. Archers and mages are backing them, but it's a bloody mess."

Robert swung his legs off the bed, pain stabbing his ribs. Stubborn as a Highland ram, he ignored it, fueled by the star's faint hum. "I need to see it," he said, iron in his tone.

Sorcha and Snow swapped worried looks but didn't stop him. Lillia's hand grazed his arm, a spark of life magic easing his steps as he climbed the rampart stairs, slow but dead-set.

He emerged onto the walls, shirtless from the healers' work, scars and star gleaming under the sun. His torn healer's robes hung loose, barely clinging to his shoulders. A roar of cheers erupted from the defenders, their voices lifting like a war chant. Robert raised a hand, his presence lifting their spirits, after all, their leader had risen.

The battlefield sprawled below, a churn of smoke, blood, and magic's sharp tang. Hamish was a beast, fresh bandages on his leg doing nothing to slow him. His bastard sword, glowing with light magic, seared through corrupted boars, each swing leaving radiant gashes that burned away corruption. "Move your arses, lads!" he bellowed, voice cutting through the chaos like a bagpipe's wail, rallying clansmen with a grin. He spun, blade arcing like a comet, and cleaved a wolf's skull, muttering, "That's for my bloody leg, ya mangy git."

Rauri was a storm, his slim katana trailing dark wisps with every slash. The blade danced, carving foes into ashen heaps, clearing paths for kobrutes like a reaper at a clan feud. Robert smirked, half-expecting Rauri to roar a battle hymn to Dagda.

Ewan MacEwan was a one-man quake, his fists and kicks shaking the earth. His tartan kilt swirled as he slammed a boar into the mud, laughing like a thunderclap. His magic made the ground buck, tossing beasts like ragdolls.

Magi-knight fairies buzzed overhead, their glowing wings raining fire and light. "DAVE's been cooking up some nasty wee sprites," Robert thought, a spark of pride for his Sanctum Core's craft. The sight of fallen kobrute mounts hit hard, their hulking bodies surrounded by piles of Warlock-tainted corpses. A grim trade, but it held the line.

The tide was turning, corrupted packs thinning as defenders stood fierce. Chaucer darted through the fray, daggers spinning like a juggler's act. "Oi, beasties! My gran's haggis has more fight!" he taunted, slicing a serpent's throat with a bow, then winking at a stunned clansman. "Keep up, mate, or I'll steal your saga!"

Robert's left eye flared with Insightful Vision, painting the warzone in swirling mana currents. Vibrant strands danced wild, but a dark miasma gathered in the distance, tendrils writhing with intent. It pulsed like a heart, hungry to birth something vile.

Moira's voice slid into his mind, warm as a hearth fire. "Robert, you're back! I was gutted, stuck outside your dreams by some blasted white wall." Her tone softened, like a sister checking a scraped knee. "What's that mess?"

He shared his vision of the miasma cloud. "Oh, hells," Moira said, all business. "That's corrupted mana knitting into something nasty, maybe a void beast bigger than Kernal. You need to unravel it, fast."

Robert's chest tightened, but an idea sparked. He'd pick it apart, strand by strand, like untying a Celtic knot. His Aetherite Mana Core hummed, vast and mostly untapped, even after the Warlock's hit. A system prompt flickered: System: Aetheric Weaver activated. Task: Unweave corrupted mana to prevent void entity formation. Success grants enhanced unweaving abilities and access to dark mana infusions.

He dove into his core, testing unweaving. Where weaving built, unweaving could dismantle. A wild, dicey move. Light felt wrong, too pure to break chaos. He needed something raw, something that could swallow form itself.

"Moira," he said, voice steady, "teach me the dark element. How do I wield it?"

Her presence hummed, cautious but clear. "Dark's the void where light fades, Robert. It unravels, hides, pulls things apart. Risky, but it's what you need for balance. Reach for the shadows in your mana, let them flow formless, like smoke on a loch. Give it intent, your will as its guide."

Robert closed his eyes, breathing deep. He ignored fire's heat, water's flow, earth's weight, and light's glow. In his core's shadowed corners, he found darkness. Soft. Slippery. Elusive like mist over a glen. He let it spread, a veil of shadow born of his will, refusing to let it harden into form.

He opened his palms, and black smoke poured out, soaking up the battlefield's light. It slithered like a living thing, guided by his grit, a silent reaper of chaos. The dark mist swallowed the miasma, smothering its wild energy, breaking its urge to condense.

The miasma's chaos faltered, its power fraying under the shadow's weight. Robert gritted his teeth, sweat dripping, holding the darkness steady. "Come on, you bastard," he muttered, urging it to choke the miasma's life.

He willed the darkness back, peeling it away slow, revealing the miasma's elements: red fire, blue water, green life. One by one, he wove them into balance, a system prompt flashing: Elemental Mastery advanced: Darkness proficiency unlocked. The sky erupted in a clash of mana, tendrils of shadow and light dueling like serpents, splitting into ribbons of raw power.

To the defenders, it was a cosmic show, a black rainbow of shadow and color. Chaucer whooped from below, "Bloody hell, Robert's painting the sky!" The mana surged to Robert's star, each point flaring. Fire to fire. Water to water. And all the rest, diving into each respective point of the crystal. Each point acted as a lightning rod, drawing each element to where it belonged. Until the entirety of the corrupted energy was his.

The beasts' savagery dimmed, some bolting only to be roasted by magi-knights' firebolts. A lone wolf howled, only to get a fairy's lightning to the face, collapsing in a charred heap. "Shat yer hole, beastie!" the squeaky knight shouted. Robert felt the darkness surge within, a heady rush whispering, "Use me. No other magic can empower you like I can. I'll crush your foes."

He pressed his hands to his eyes, breath shaky. "I'll use you," he growled, "but my will calls the shots. Try me, and I'll burn you out with light." The urge faded, but a faint echo lingered, "You'll lean on me yet, mate."

Defenders nearby backed off, murmuring at Robert muttering to himself. Hamish shot him a look, half-worried, half "what's this numpty on about?" Unseen, Robert had wrestled temptation and won, his will a shield against darkness's pull.

The battlefield lay scarred, Doras Dagda's enchanted lands marred by dead grass and cracked earth. Splotches of diseased magic pulsed like festering wounds, a grim mirror of the clan's own hurts. Robert knew he couldn't fix it alone. He was still unsteady from his ordeal. Druids were better for land-healing. He decided to take the lesson in letting others shine.

His core throbbed, swollen with power, threatening to drown him. He staggered, vision blurring. Lillia was there, her arm slipping around him, her strength a quiet anchor. Her eyes shone with pride, like he'd hung the moon over the Highlands. She guided him from the walls, steps careful, with a vow to carry him if she had to.

Behind them, the last beasts fell, their cries lost to the wind. STEVE's voice droned, tallying resources: enchanted bone for blades, organs for potions, and so much else. A war's grim bounty. "Resources secured," STEVE boomed, "but the real reward is most you lot still standing." Quite out of character for STEVE. But STEVE, despite never being impressed, was impressed. Aside from necessary and urgent matters, STEVE was noticeably relaxed the rest of the day. He knew that the clansfolk of Doras Dagda, and their allies, had earned the night off.

The first battle for Doras Dagda was won, a saga for Clan MacEwan's firesides. Bagpipes wailed in the distance, a mournful tune for the fallen, but a fierce one for the living. DAVE watched his kobrutes and magi-knights, his mind crunching tactical data. The fae were vicious wee bastards, wings glinting like daggers, loyal to him, and him to Robert.

"They'll follow me," DAVE thought, "and I'll follow him. Always." His core hummed, a smug nod to his killer fairies.