“But you are of the blood of the arsehole druids who bound me to this place,” Fionn growled. “To free me, we need to have your blood and the blood of my hound and the warrior.”
Fionn’s gaze shifted back to the SEALs. “A druid warrior is not born from a spell or a scroll. He is tempered by trial, purpose, and bloodshed in the name of something greater. You are not a Fenian by birth or by title. You are Fenian in your soul.”
Behind them, Kaze let out a soft, disbelieving whistle and scraped a hand back through sweat-soaked hair. “Guess that makes us all accidental holy men.”
“No,” Fionn said, a slow pride blooming behind his voice. “It makes you worthy.”
“Then let’s do this shit.” Viper pulled a wicked-looking blade from its sheath on his belt. “Tell us what we need to do.”
“Blood on the stone,” Juice said, “and say the chant.”
“Hold that notebook out for me, Sutherland,” Viper ordered. “Unless you want me to bleed all over it.” He pulled the blade across his palm in a clean, practiced slice. Blood welled immediately in his hand.
He didn’t even flinch or blink.
I’d be in tears if someone cut me like that.
Viper’s boots echoed as he crossed to the glyph carved beside the crack in the wall and pressed his palm flat to the stone. The blood smeared instantly, the glyph drinking it like its thirst was quenched at last. Heat surged through the floor, and the basalt vibrated underfoot. With his other hand, Viper waved him forward, and Ward flipped his journal to the current page.
Viper spoke the words he had translated, the ancient chant now etched into his memory.
“Behold, son of Cumhaill, true king.
Under starlight blood, beneath the heart of the sun.
We bind your power to the bones of the earth.
With the wind’s voice and the tears of stone.
Let your breath be silenced by root and flame.
Let your name be forgotten beneath shadowed time.
Let no song find your ears nor light your path.
There is no path home.
Unless you turn back upon your own heels.
Let no breath stir within the bones of kings.
Let no door open ‘til oaths are sung in blood.
From the hand of hound and brother born of war and the druid with the blood of Tuatha Dé Danann.”
The glyph flared beneath Viper’s hand, then pulsed, casting golden light across the wall. A slow, spiraling swirl lit up around it, reaching for the glyphs Bran had triggered. One. Then two. Then the full sequence began to glow, power circling through them in lines carved deeper than memory.
“Ward,” Viper said without turning. “You’re up.” He didn’t need to say it louder. The weight of it cut through every man in the chamber.
Ward hesitated. His heart stuttered against his ribs like it didn’t want to go.
I don’t belong here. I’m not one of them. I’m not a warrior. I’m a goddamn linguist. A nerd with a notebook and a freaky bloodline I never asked for.
But he stepped forward anyway, because some part of him—a quiet, raw thing he hadn’t dared name—whispered that hehadalways belonged here. That maybe every lecture, every dig, and every ancient line of script was a breadcrumb to this very moment. He paused in front of the glyph. They needed his blood. He pulled a small folding blade from his belt—one he used for fieldwork—and stared at his palm.
Shit, I can’t do this.
I can’t.
