Viper didn’t have time to register what was happening, not with another wave of warriors closing in. Not with Trace barely holding the line to his left, teeth bared and body gleaming with blood—none of it looked to be his own. Not with Zero down to his last mag and Kaze bleeding from a gash across his ribs, but still firing like death owed him money.
“Hold the fucking line!” Viper roared. He spun and brought a charging spearman down with a precise double tap. Another vaulted toward him—Viper ducked low, twisted under the swing of a pike, and jammed his blade between ribs withruthless efficiency. But there were too many. Even with superior weaponry, they were being overrun by sheer numbers.
Fionn had turned, cloak torn and arm braced tight to his side from an arrow he’d pulled free moments earlier. He stood shoulder to shoulder with Juice on one side and Trace, now back to his human form, on the other, the three of them a wall of myth and fury. Trace was laughing—god help them, he was laughing like this was the best damn day of his life.
Then the horn blew again. This one was deeper and wilder than the last. It rolled through the battlefield like a wave from a sonic blast. The enemy froze mid-charge, heads turning, expressions twisting from bloodlust to sudden, gut-deep dread.
Viper lifted his eyes to the northern ridge and saw them. Another tidal wave of warriors on horseback, banners streaming in the wind that hadn’t been there a heartbeat before. The chariot wheels scarred the earth as they raced forward. The war cry was a chorus of righteous fury as they crested the rise. At their front—tall and proud—rode a golden-haired warrior.
“Oisín, my son.” Fionn threw his fist in the air and screamed a battle cry that was echoed by Trace.
That’s Fionn’s son?
Holy shit.
His son means reinforcements.
Maybe we don’t die after all.
The momentthe portal had torn open, the Fianna across the veil had felt it. The bond that tied them to their king had blazed back to life with a fury that had dragged them from their refuge like a lodestone.
Diarmuid’s chariot split the flank with thunder, a pike raised high in one hand, bloodlust in his howl. Caílte mac Rónáin leapt from horseback before it even stopped moving, his twin blades singing as he landed in the midst of the enemy with the fury of a god.
The SEALs and Ward could only stare as the battlefield shifted. What they had been certain was death moments before now cracked apart under the momentum of old gods returning to war. The enemy faltered, panic taking root in their formation, and their ranks shattered.
“Trace,” Juice shouted. “Is it them? The Fianna?”
Bran, in his wolf form again, let loose a howl that shook the marrow of every man present. It rose in answer to the cavalry charge like an ancient drumbeat of belonging. The High King of Fianna and his Hound, Cú Chulainn, were home with their brothers, and the invaders retreated in terror. What they faced now wasn’t mortal. It was legends reborn.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Ward wasn’tsure when the screaming had become background noise; he only knew that it did. He stood in the middle of chaos so visceral it felt like he’d cracked open the lid on a forgotten nightmare. Battle raged on every side—gunfire, swords, blades crashing against metal, and bodies slamming into the dirt with bone-breaking force. Horses screamed. Men roared. The smell of blood, sweat, and scorched air churned in his lungs until he couldn’t tell if he was breathing or choking.
This isn’t real.
It couldn’t be. Portals weren’t real, Tír na nÓg was a myth, and Fionn Mac Cumhaill was a bedtime story. But the ground beneath him was wet with blood. The cries of the dying were not echoes in his head. And that was a chariot—an actual chariot—that had just raced past them in a screech of leather and bronze. He flinched as another warrior charged by, a blade swinging wildly, eyes manic with fury. His legs refused to move. His brain screamed to run, to hide, to do something—but he was frozen. His hands, so familiar with delicate tools and careful notes,shook around the strap of his satchel like it was a life raft in a hurricane.
This is a hallucination. It has to be.
But the bullet that whizzed past his ear was very real. The scream that tore itself from a throat too young to die—real. The splash of something warm against his cheek—real.
“Down,” someone bellowed.
He dropped too late. A spear arced through the air, whistling past his face so close he felt the rush of wind it carried. Time slowed to a breath.
I’m going to die.
A massive shadow hit him from the side, tackling him hard enough to knock the wind from his lungs. They rolled through blood-streaked mud. Ward gasped, clawing for purchase.
“Stay the fuck down,” Reaper barked, yanking him behind the remnants of a boulder.
The irony hit like a punch to the gut. A man called Reaper had saved him from having his soul fucking reaped by a goddamn barbarian with a spear. His laugh came out half-hysterical. “This is a dream. This is a fever dream. I hit my head. There’s no other explanation.”
Reaper gave him a grim look, raising his rifle. “If it is, you’re bleeding in it.”
Ward looked down at the gash on his arm, fresh and raw. Real. He was grateful that they surrounded him, because without them, even if this were a dream, he’d be the first to die. He wasn’tlike these men. He was without a doubt the weakest link. He wasn’t and would never be a fighter.
Then a horn blew, and shattered the sounds of battle. More warriors thundered over the ridge, painted and screaming, led by gods who didn’t belong in this world. The Fianna, at least he thought they were the Fianna, and his heart stuttered.
