March 30, 2025.
Location: Robert's Settlement near Kilrain, Scotland.
Perspective: Robert MacCallum.
The spark hovered between my hands, a pulsing sphere of raw magic that shimmered with life. Motes of light danced within it, flickering like fireflies, their silver glow laced with streaks of soft green and shimmering white. Moira's voice resonated gently in my mind. "More, Vessel. She will need more than most. Her potential is vast, but the depths of her spirit demand a stronger foundation."
I nodded silently, channeling more energy into the sphere. The spark grew brighter, its core shifting, the motes swirling faster as a random bubble of golden light popped near its surface, adding to its radiance. It almost felt alive, responding to Lilia's quiet presence as she stepped closer.
She looked at me, her green eyes wide with a mixture of awe and apprehension. Her delicate hands, calloused from work but graceful in movement, extended toward the spark. The flicker of doubt in her gaze vanished as I gave her an encouraging nod. She trusted me, and that trust meant everything.
The moment her hands touched the spark, the world seemed to hold its breath.
A wave of silver light burst outward, warm and blinding, enveloping us in its glow. The clan gasped in unison, their murmurs fading into silence as they watched the spectacle unfold. The spark flowed into Lilia, its magic sinking deep into her being. Her form stiffened, then relaxed as her body began to adapt to the overwhelming energy.
The first change was subtle: a soft glow radiated from her chest, and as the light coalesced, a crystalline core took shape. It emerged slowly, floating just above her sternum. The crystal's surface was smooth, almost liquid in its beauty, its color mirroring the spark's, silver with threads of green and white weaving through its depths. It pulsed rhythmically, like a second heartbeat.
Then came the resonance.
The air around Lilia shimmered, filled with the soft chime of bells, a pure and otherworldly sound that seemed to originate from her mana core. She closed her eyes, her expression serene, as if listening to a song only she could hear. The magic wasn't just settling, it was weaving itself into her very soul.
Her hands trembled slightly as her breathing quickened, and then, without warning, a burst of silver energy cascaded outward. The light wrapped around her like a cocoon, lifting her slightly off the ground, motes of light trailing in her wake like fireflies. The clan stepped back in shock, some shielding their eyes, while Sorcha watched intently, her expression a blend of wonder and pride.
When the light faded, Lilia landed gently on her feet. She looked unchanged at first glance, but her presence was unmistakably transformed. Her green eyes gleamed with a new intensity, and her posture radiated confidence and grace. She raised her hands slowly, inspecting them as if they belonged to someone else, her lips parted in silent amazement.
Moira's voice, warm and kind, broke the silence. "Welcome, Lilia MacEwan. The spark has awakened within you."
Lilia flinched slightly, her head tilting as if hearing something distant. Her gaze darted to me, then back to the empty air. Moira spoke again, this time directly to her. "Yes, child, you can hear me. Though you cannot speak, your thoughts are as clear to me as words. We are connected now, you and I."
Tears welled in Lilia's eyes as she clasped her hands to her chest. Her thoughts, silent to all but Moira, carried a profound gratitude. She glanced at me and gave a soft smile, tilting her head as if to ask if this was real.
"It's real," I said softly, feeling an odd tightness in my chest. "You've taken your first steps into a larger world."
Moira's voice filled my mind again, though it was directed to Lilia. "You have much to discover, my dear. Two traits have already revealed themselves. One grants you a deep connection to the magic of healing and restoration. The other, the artistry of creation, the ability to craft beauty from raw materials. Jewelry, perhaps? It seems fitting for someone with your refined spirit."
Lilia's hands hovered near her mana core, the silver light within it glowing brighter at Moira's words. She looked up at me, her expression one of determination and quiet joy. Her fingers brushed her throat briefly, but she made no sound, her silence a reminder of her unique voice in the world, a voice of action, not words.
The clan, initially stunned, began to murmur among themselves. Sorcha approached, her sharp gaze meeting Lilia's as though evaluating her transformation. Finally, she placed a hand on Lilia's shoulder and nodded approvingly. "Aye, she's more than ready," Sorcha said, her voice soft but resolute.
Ruari grinned from ear to ear. "She's gonna be somethin else. Look at her! Like a faerie queen from the old stories."
Laird Ewan's booming laugh broke the tension. "Aye, she's always been a treasure. Now she's just got the magic to match!"
I stepped back, letting the clan gather around Lilia as they celebrated her awakening. She turned to me one last time, her eyes shining with gratitude and something deeper, a connection that felt unshakable.
The glow from Lilia's mana core still lingered in the air as I approached Sorcha, whose gaze remained locked on her niece. There was an intensity in her expression, a depth of thought I couldn't quite penetrate. It wasn't mere pride, it was something deeper, something ancient. Her sharp eyes flicked to mine as I drew near, a glint of wisdom in their depths.
"Impressive, isn't she?" I ventured softly, nodding toward Lilia.
Sorcha's lips curved into a subtle smile, her focus still on Lilia. "Aye. She's always had the spark, even without the magic. Now she's complete."
"I promised to teach her her first spell," I said after a pause, "but I think you're next, Sorcha. It's your turn."
Sorcha nodded, her gaze unwavering. "In a moment, Robert MacCallum. First, my people need to understand."
Her words carried the weight of intent. She reached into the folds of her long woolen cloak and withdrew something that caught my eye, a harp. Not just any harp, but a silvery instrument that shimmered with a light of its own. Its delicate strings gleamed like moonlight, and its frame bore intricate carvings that pulsed gently, as if alive.
"This," she said, her voice cutting through the murmurs of the clanfolk, "is the memory of our people. An artifact older than any of us, forged in Albion itself." Her fingers brushed the harp reverently, and a hushed silence fell over the gathering. Even Laird Ewan and Ruari stood still, their typical joviality tempered by the harp's presence.
Sorcha sat gracefully on a nearby stone, resting the harp on her lap. When she plucked the first string, a note rang out, pure and achingly beautiful, sending a sharp pang through my chest. It was as if the sound carried a memory, a fragment of something I had never known but deeply missed. The air shimmered with motes of silver light, dancing like fireflies with each note, and the ground beneath us seemed to hum with a subtle vibration, as if the earth itself listened.
She began to sing.
Her voice was low and lilting, weaving through the air like a thread of silk. Each note of the harp echoed her words, amplifying their meaning in ways beyond comprehension. It wasn't just a song, it was a story, a connection to something far greater than any one of us.
"Once, in the time before time,
When Albion's hills were young and high,
A clan of bright souls, with hearts aflame,
Dwelt in harmony, known by no name.
Their song was the wind, their life the earth,
Their fires of magic gave Albion birth.
But then came the Sundering, dark and deep,
A tear in the realms, a wound that weeps.
Magic fled to Albion's side,
And Earth was left, bereft and wide.
Our kin were stranded, their path torn asunder,
Cut from the song, bound to their blunder.
From them we come, this truth we know,
Through countless years, through frost and snow.
Wanderers we've been, seeking the tune,
Waiting for Albion's call, its boon.
Now the air sweetens, the earth sings true,
The Grove of Wonders, its golden hue.
A sign at last, the path revealed,
Our bond with Albion, now unsealed.
Here we'll stay, with purpose found,
Our roots will grow in this hallowed ground.
With Robert MacCallum, of Lamont's own kin,
Our circle completes, let our task begin."
Her voice faded with the final note, but the harp's strings vibrated softly, their resonance lingering in the air, accompanied by a few popping bubbles of silver light. Around us, the clan was utterly silent, their faces etched with emotion, pride, sorrow, hope. A young girl clutched her mother's hand, her eyes wide with wonder. An elderly man wiped a tear from his cheek, his lips trembling. Lilia pressed her hands over her heart, tears streaming down her cheeks as she gazed at Sorcha with reverence.
Sorcha's voice, unamplified but commanding, broke the silence. "Our family's tale is not a mere myth. It is our truth, carried through the generations by word and song. We were Albion's kin once, but the Sundering severed us from our home, leaving us lost on Earth. That loss has echoed through our blood for centuries. But now…"
Her eyes turned to me, sharp and piercing. "Now the winds have shifted. The Grove of Wonders called to us, and here we stand, with magic reborn in our most favored daughter. Lilia's spark is not just a gift, it is a sign. Our task is clear. The long wandering of our clan is over."
The clan stirred, murmurs rippling through the crowd. Sorcha raised a hand, silencing them with her commanding presence. "Here, we will rebuild. We will reclaim what was lost. And we will join Robert MacCallum in his task, to bring magic back to Earth, to bridge the worlds once more. For Albion sings through the air, through the soil, and through us. This is our destiny."
Her gaze shifted to Lilia, who met it with unwavering resolve. "With this spark, child, you will carry our legacy. You will be a healer, a creator, and a symbol of our people's rebirth."
Finally, she turned to me. "Robert MacCallum, your blood and visage sing of Clan Lamont, our oldest allies. We are bound by more than fate, we are bound by blood. And so, we offer ourselves to you, as your people. Guide us, and we will follow."
For a moment, I was too stunned to speak. The gravity of her words, the beauty of her song, and the weight of their history pressed heavily on me. But as I met her eyes, filled with certainty, I found the words I needed.
"I accept," I said simply. "And I promise, I won't let you down."
Sorcha nodded, satisfied. Then, she set her harp aside and stood, a subtle smile playing at her lips. "Now, shall we see what this spark can do for an old seer?"
As the last ethereal notes of the harp dissipated into the cool air, murmurs rippled through the gathered clansfolk like a slow-moving tide. Their faces were etched with reverence and awe, their voices a quiet hum of thoughtful discussion. Sorcha's words and song had touched something deep within them, a connection that went beyond blood and bone to the very essence of who they were.
I caught snippets of their murmurs.
A young man: "Did ye hear that? Albion's call, it's no longer just a tale."
A sentimental woman: "She's right. This land, this Grove, it sings to the soul. We were meant to be here."
An elderly man's voice echoed through the gathering: "The Laird will see us through this, just as Sorcha says. We're stronger together."
A precocious boy piped up, "Oh thank the stars, no more moving all over bloody Scotland!" eliciting a warm chuckle across the central area.
Their belief and spirituality felt almost tangible, a warmth in the air as real as the sunlight. Laird Ewan stood still amidst it all, his arms crossed over his broad chest as he gazed at Sorcha with an expression of thoughtful consideration.
His usual joviality had faded, replaced by a quiet, pensive gravity. He glanced over his people, listening to their murmurs with an attentive ear, then back at Sorcha, his lips pressed into a line.
Finally, he nodded, his expression softening. "She has set the path," he murmured to himself, though I was close enough to hear. "It falls to me to see the steps taken."
Nearby, Ruari's reaction was starkly different. He beamed like a child handed his first blade, his usual cocky grin stretched wide across his face. With an affectionate laugh, he turned and lightly punched Hamish in the arm.
"Looks like ye're stuck with us now, lad," Ruari quipped, his tone warm and teasing. "Reckon ye'll be wishin for solitude soon enough."
Hamish chuckled, rubbing his arm with mock indignation. "Aye, stuck's the word for it. But I've had worse company, I'll admit."
Meanwhile, I found myself lingering on one detail of Sorcha's song that left me thoroughly perplexed.
"Clan Lamont?" I muttered under my breath, frowning. "I've never heard that name before."
Sorcha's sharp ears caught my words. Her gaze flicked toward me, and for the first time since her song ended, she smiled, a soft, knowing curve of her lips. "I'll tell ye everything about Lamont when the time is right, Robert MacCallum," she promised, her voice low and cryptic. "There's much to tell, but it's a tale for another day."
Before I could press her for details, Moira's voice echoed gently in my mind, a reminder of her constant presence. "Vessel, now is the time. Bring her into the fold. She is a seer, a bridge between what is seen and unseen. We need her to guide these people, to read the omens and paths hidden to others. She is vital."
Her words left no room for hesitation. I straightened, lifting my voice so it carried over the murmurs of the crowd. "Clan MacEwan, bear witness! Magic has returned to your most beloved daughter, Lilia, and now it will return again, to your Matron Sorcha."
Gasps rippled through the crowd, but Sorcha remained composed. She stepped forward gracefully, her harp still in her hands, and gave me a small nod, her gaze steady. "Do what must be done," she said simply.
I extended my hands, summoning the spark. Unlike Lilia's vibrant and colorful infusion, Sorcha's spark took on a different form entirely. Countless streams of shimmering white light, delicate and twinkling like stars, wove around each other like an intricate tapestry of rain. It wasn't blinding or overwhelming, it was soft and steady, a quiet yet unyielding power.
As the light flowed into Sorcha, the years began to fall away from her. Wrinkles smoothed, her posture straightened, and her silvery hair darkened to a rich chestnut hue that gleamed in the sunlight. Gasps turned to stunned silence as the transformation continued.
The Matron they had always known, wise, weathered, and strong, was reborn before their eyes into a radiant figure of timeless beauty. She looked no older than her late thirties, her presence now luminous and otherworldly.
The light began to coalesce, forming into a crystal that hovered briefly in the air before plunging into her chest. Unlike others whose mana crystals were visible, Sorcha's disappeared from view, settling deep within her. But I could feel it, a crystalline heart, beating steadily and strong, replacing the one that had worked tirelessly for so many years.
The silence lingered, broken only by the crackle of the fire. Then, slowly, the clan erupted into cheers and applause, their voices a chorus of joy and reverence.
Sorcha placed a hand over her chest, her expression a mix of wonder and calm acceptance. "It's different," she murmured, more to herself than to me. Her voice was steady but carried a deeper resonance now, as if the spark had awakened something ancient within her.
I stepped closer, lowering my voice so only she could hear. "Are you alright?"
She met my gaze, her eyes shining with gratitude and something else, something fierce and determined. "Aye, Robert MacCallum. More than alright. Thank you."
I nodded, relief washing over me. Moira's voice chimed in my mind once more, brimming with satisfaction. "This is how it must be. You've done well, Vessel."
As the cheers of the clan continued, I stepped back, letting Sorcha have her moment. She was their Matron, their guide, and now, their connection to Albion's forgotten song.
As the sun dipped toward the horizon, casting a golden glow over the bustling dig site, Laird Ewan directed the clansfolk to dismantle their wagons. Supplies, spare wood, metals, and various fabrics, were meticulously sorted and brought to STEVE for reclamation.
Each offering was weighed and processed, and in return, STEVE produced coins minted from the gold and silver mined by the kobolds in the Sanctum. A budding economy began to emerge, the first steps toward turning this settlement into a thriving community.
Amidst the industrious activity, Sorcha approached me with a thoughtful expression. Her steps were slow, deliberate, as though she carried something of great weight. She gestured for me to follow her to a quiet spot beneath the shade of an ancient oak, its rustling leaves harmonizing with the gentle breeze. I sat cross-legged on the ground, looking up at her as she leaned on her staff.
"Robert," she began, her voice carrying the weight of countless years and stories, "it is time you learned of your clan heritage."
I tilted my head, intrigued but unsure where she was going with this. She fixed me with her piercing gaze, the green of her eyes like the deepest forest glade.
"Your blood," she continued, "sings of a people whose roots run deep, not just in this world but in Albion itself. Clan Lamont is your heritage, Robert. Though many centuries have passed, their legacy remains in you."
Her words hit me like a thunderclap. Clan Lamont? The name meant nothing to me, but something about it stirred a deep, unnameable resonance in my soul.
"In Scotland," Sorcha went on, "Clan Lamont established themselves in the Cowal peninsula. They ruled there for centuries, noble and strong. But their prominence brought enemies. In 1646, during what is now called the Dunoon massacre, many of their people were slaughtered by rival clans, their lands taken, and their dreams of stability shattered. The survivors scattered, driven into hiding, and much of their history was lost to time. A few of their descendants escaped the massacre and fled to the New World, the Americas, fearing agents of a great and terrible spiritual evil."
Her voice softened, a note of sorrow in her tone. "But long before the clan settled in Scotland, their origins were tied to Albion. They were a people of magic, bound to the land, much like Clan MacEwan. Tied by marriage and alliance, your ancestors and mine shared a sacred bond."
I furrowed my brow. "Then why did Clan MacEwan remain nomadic while Clan Lamont tried to settle?"
Sorcha's gaze drifted to the horizon, her expression wistful. "It was our choice. While Clan Lamont sought to carve a home for themselves in this strange world, my clan stayed ever on the move, refusing to let go of the memory of Albion. We passed down our knowledge, our songs, and our stories through generations too numerous to count. We were the keepers of the memory, ever watchful for a way home, even as the centuries wore on."
I sat back, her words turning over in my mind. "So my connection to Moira, the call I felt when I first touched that tome, it's all because of this? My blood?"
She nodded. "Yes. The magic of Albion never truly left you. It lay dormant, waiting for the right moment. And now, here you are, standing at the nexus of two worlds, chosen to restore what was lost."
Her words settled over me like a heavy cloak, but instead of being burdened, I felt anchored. This was why I was here, why I was chosen. The past, the present, and the future were threads in a tapestry I hadn't even realized I was weaving. I thought of the vision in the fire from the night before, the bustling settlement filled with life and magic. Maybe, just maybe, we were closer to that future than I'd realized.
Sorcha placed a hand on my shoulder, her touch light but steady. "Embrace this, Robert. It is both a gift and a duty. With your leadership, we can restore what was lost, and perhaps, find a way to bring the light of Albion back to this world."