The Dark Mage Strikes Back - Part I

The Battle of the Frozen Lakes

The lakes had frozen solid—an omen, some whispered, that the old stories were waking.

Snow blanketed the hills around Glendalough, muffling the hammers and chatter of villagers building their wooden homes beside the monks' stone chapel. They worked atop the ruins of something older. Charred stones poked through the earth like buried teeth. No one spoke of it aloud, but the ground remembered.

At the center of the activity stood Sister Lira—a figure in a pale wool cloak, sleeves rolled, hair tied back, boots muddy. She directed the workers and the monks with calm authority, helping raise beams and bless stones. Though not a mage, she held weight among the villagers. Her presence brought order. Her voice gave the hesitant courage.

Their protectors—idealistic squires, not yet knights—kept watch, pledged to shield the hermits and settlers from brigands, wolves, and worse.

Among them, two close friends: Squire Lucan and Brother Hanric, a young novice of the monks, halfway between cloister and mage. Their friendship had grown in shared firelight, in stories told beneath stars, and in patrols along the icy ridges.

“This land has long memory,” Brother Hanric had told Lucan once, as they rode beside the lower lake. “The tower that once stood here was no less real than the chapel they’re building now. The difference is who tells the tale.”

“And the one who built that tower?” Lucan had asked.

Hanric’s face had darkened. “He hasn’t forgotten either.”

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The Ice Cave

On one such patrol, Lucan spotted a black raven circling overhead—too focused, too deliberate. Ravens meant watchers. Spies. Trouble.

Brother Hanric urged caution. Lucan ignored him.

“I’ll just track it for a bit,” he said, already wheeling his horse toward the trees.

The woods grew darker as snowfall thickened. Lucan's mount shivered and snorted at something unseen. Before he could speak, a blur of motion slammed him from the saddle.

He awoke in darkness, strung up in a cave. His limbs ached. Below him, snow glowed faintly blue, and beside it—his sword hilt.

He reached for it. Too far.

Lucan calmed his breath. Remembered Brother Hanric’s quiet lessons. Story magic begins with belief, the novice had said. Shape the tale, and it shapes the world.

Lucan closed his eyes. In his mind, he wove a tale of a young squire calling his blade through wind and will.

The sword leapt into his hand.

Steel flashed as he cut himself loose. The creature returned—a hulking, fur-clad thing with human eyes twisted by spellcraft. Lucan spun and severed its arm. The creature roared—a sound like cracked stone and stormwind—and fled into the blizzard.

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A Ghost in the Snow

At dawn, Lucan stumbled from the cave. Blood dried on his temple. Cold in his bones.

And then—fog stirred. A figure appeared, more mist than man.

Brother Bennán?

The hermit from the western valleys. A friend of Lucan’s long-dead father.

Bennán had vanished seasons ago—last seen on the eve of the tower’s fall. His bones were never found.

And yet, here he stood. Pale. Speaking.

“You must go to Clonmacnoise,” the apparition whispered. “There, your true path begins. The story needs you, Lucan.”

The vision faded. Moments later, Brother Hanric appeared, out of breath and panicked.

Lucan nearly collapsed into his arms.

---

The Purple Mist

Celebration was short-lived. Drums echoed over the mountains.

Squires sent to scout returned wide-eyed and gasping.

“Monsters,” one breathed. “Shadows in the fog. As tall as towers.”

The air turned heavy with dark story magic—a purple mist that clung to skin and whispered lies. From it emerged beasts of legend: horned giants, ash-skinned trolls, creatures Saint Patrick himself had once banished.

But the monks were ready.

Hanric and the elder brothers cast a mighty counterspell, whispering into the ears of lake-swans, imbuing them with tales of courage and flame. The birds shimmered, transformed—becoming elegant white drakes with fire in their breath and gold-thread wings.

Squires mounted them and soared into the sky.

Above the frozen lakes, silver and gold wove between the storming dark. Threads of story magic wrapped the monsters in binding light, hurling them into the ice below.

But some made it through.

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Flight and Fury

The villagers fled, guided by monks and squires, vanishing into the narrow forest trails. Sister Lira, reluctant to leave the construction she had overseen, hesitated only briefly before Brother Hanric grabbed her arm.

"Come," he said, breathless. “You’re not staying here.”

They climbed into a waiting cart—an old farm wagon, hastily hitched to two snorting horses—and disappeared down a side trail. Behind them, the sky pulsed with golden arcs and smoky shadow. The white drakes circled above as the first of the beasts reached the settlement. Roof beams snapped. Stones cracked.

And then—a figure stepped from the mist.

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The Return

The dark mage—cloaked, cold-eyed—emerged at the heart of the ruined sanctuary.

He stepped forward and knelt, brushing aside the frost with one gloved hand—revealing black stone beneath.

His fingers tightened.

This place was once his. Before the monks came. Before the scribes sang over the foundation stones. Before their sacred stories repainted his past with light.

Before she dared lay timbers atop the bones of his fortress.

“They defile everything,” he whispered.

Behind him, two mounted riders appeared.

“Follow them,” he said, not turning. “Bring her back.”

He stood, voice rising.

“I will reclaim what was mine. The tale has only paused,” he said to no one. “But I know how it ends.”

And the snow, hearing him, began to fall faster.

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