Oh God. It’s real. All of it’s real.
And I’m not ready.
Ward crouched behind the boulder, heart jackhammering against his ribs as the battlefield erupted around him like the climax of every war epic he’d ever studied. The Fianna had come—real flesh and blood warriors who were supposed to exist only in myth. But there they were, crashing into the enemy lines like a tidal wave of bronze, muscle, and death.
He couldn’t look away as chariots barreled through the enemy flank, wheels rimmed in bronze catching the failing light as they spun, slicing through flesh like it was paper. Horses screamed, their hooves kicking up blood-soaked earth as they trampled through bodies without mercy. Ward watched one rider—Oisín, someone had shouted—vault from his chariot mid-charge, landing in the middle of the enemy like a god of war. His sword moved too fast to track, cutting a path through half a dozen men before his feet even touched the ground.
Steel screamed against steel. Arrows snapped through the air like angry wasps. The enemy faltered. Some turned to flee—but the Fianna didn’t let them. A warrior leapt from horseback with a roar that shook Ward to the marrow. Twin blades flashed in his hands, cutting arcs of blood through the thick of the enemy. Beside him, Trace—still half-naked, blood-streaked, andlaughing like a lunatic—fought barehanded, a broken spear haft in one hand, using it to crack ribs and shatter knees. Bran was gone, but his fury remained in the way Trace moved—like he’d tasted blood and decided the world owed him more.
Viper moved like a shadow through fire, laying down rounds with methodical precision. His guns barked with the wrath of a dying god, each shot sending another body to the mud. The tattoos on his skin shimmered faintly as if fire kissed his veins with every heartbeat. Ward wasn’t sure if he was seeing things or if the magic that had carved open the world was still clinging to them, reshaping them in its image.
Blood splattered across his face again, hot and thick. He flinched again as it fully sank in that this wasn’t a dream. This wasn’t a story in a book. This was history, raw and real, screaming and unfolding in front of his eyes.
I don’t know if I should be enthralled, trying to write everything down, or pissing myself in fear.
To his left, Reaper dropped a charging warrior with a vicious burst to the chest, then turned to nod once at Ward, eyes wild but focused. Behind them, Juice and Kaze stood back-to-back, swords salvaged from fallen warriors in hand now that their ammo was spent, fighting like they’d been born for this world.
Maybe they were.
Maybe this is where we are meant to be.
What had started as a bloodthirsty charge devolved into chaos as the enemy finally broke. Warriors dropped their weapons, fleeing into the trees with the Fianna hot on their heels. The earth trembled under the weight of hooves and feet. Screams turned to silence. Victory fell hard and fast. Ward rose, shakingto his feet. The battle was over. He wasn’t sure if he would ever be the same. He wasn’t sure any of them ever would be… or if it mattered.
He barely remembered moving. One moment he was staring at the carnage—the field slick with blood, steam rising from the bodies, the scent of copper and fire choking his lungs—and the next, he was stumbling forward through it all. Like his legs had decided for him that if this was history being made, he wasn’t going to miss a second.
The Fianna were rallying and forming ranks with a precision that was both military and tribal. The air was thick with battle cries, which had turned to whoops of victory. Warriors clashed forearms, clasped shoulders, and shouted oaths in a language that sounded like thunder rolling through valleys. It was chaos, it was batshit, and it was surreal.
From opposite sides of the bloodied hilltop, two titans strode through the mist. Fionn, High King of the Fianna—shoulders squared, body rimmed with battle-glow, and eyes fierce as the storm he’d walked through. And the man the myths and legends said was his son, Oisín.
Ward’s breath hitched. He didn’t need someone to point him out. He knew. The warrior bore the same weight of power as his father. He had the same carved-from-mountain presence. His golden hair was matted with blood, streaked with ash, and war paint. His blade still dripped red. But his face—his face was thunderstruck as if he were staring into the sun for the first time after lifetimes in the dark.
Neither man spoke that Ward could hear. Fionn dropped his weapon and crossed the last few feet with a gait that swallowed the ground whole. Oisín moved the same way, reckless andunguarded, until they slammed together like warring gods. Arms wrapped tight around shoulders thick with muscle, fists pounding backs with the force of celebration and sorrow all at once.
“Mo mhac,” Fionn bellowed, voice ragged, unashamed at the tears rolling down his cheeks. “My son!”
“Da!”
The sound tore from Oisín like a war cry dragged from the bottom of his soul, and Ward felt something wrench loose in his chest. They didn’t speak like men reunited after millennia. They spoke like a torment had ended in their souls. Like every moment of grief had collapsed under the weight of that single embrace. Warriors lined the ridge around them, shouting, thumping weapons to shield rims, and raising fists to the sky as their King and Prince reunited in the middle of a battlefield. It was primal and unapologetically epic—the likes of which Ward had never witnessed before.
Trace stood just off to the side, eyes rimmed red, but his chin lifted high. Bran was visible in his stance—proud, still, protective. His gaze locked on the two warriors and didn’t waver from the reunion playing out before their eyes. Behind him, Juice reached out, threading their fingers together.
Ward recognized a silent vow when he saw one, and he swallowed hard against the emotions rioting through him. The rational part of his brain still insisted this couldn’t be real. But the part of him that had seen the legends, heard the roars of gods reborn, and witnessed that raw, bloody battle? That part whispered,It’s real—every gods-damned second of it.
He was pretty sure he was the only one on the battlefield who hadn’t fought. Still, he stood and bore witness to it all, clutching his Indy-pack like a damn security blanket because he couldn’t seem to let it go. He needed something, anything, to tether him to some sort of reality as The Fianna had assembled in a wide crescent around them, a sea of blood-streaked warriors, many still dripping blood from battle. Blades were slung over their shoulders, and shields strapped to their backs. Their eyes were bright with something feral and eternal. The SEALs, bruised and scorched but standing tall, had naturally dropped into formation, flanking Viper without needing a single command. It was instinctual. Tribal in its own way. Then there was him, a dust-covered academic with no weapons and no training. His heart was still trying to slam its way out of his ribcage like a panicked bird who found the caged door slammed shut before he could escape. He didn’t belong in either group. He knew it, and by the way some of the Fianna were eyeing him, he figured they knew it too.
Fionn stepped forward from the Fianna line, his massive presence impossible to ignore. “You have seen my son fight,” he rumbled, gesturing to the warrior beside him. “This is Oisín mac Fhionn, heir to the Fianna and fiercest of our warriors.” Pride in his offspring dripped off every word.
Oisín nodded once. His gaze slid over the SEALs—calculated and curious—but lingered a moment longer on Zero. Ward noticed something unreadable flicker in his eyes before he looked away.
Great. Another mystery to unpack.
Trace—now wearing pants, thank God, because he’d seen more of the man’s body than he wanted to multiple times today—cleared his throat and gestured toward their own. “Fionn, Oisín, these are my warrior brothers. I have brought someoneimportant to meet you—my Grá Croí,” he tugged Juice forward, then waved toward the others, “and his brothers.”
Juice raised a hand in a mock wave. “Hi, yeah, still mildly concussed, slightly deaf, and definitely questioning my life choices.”
That earned a chuckle from one of the Fianna—Caílte, if Ward remembered correctly from the myths, who stood with twin blades crossed over his back and an amused gleam in his eye.
“Reaper,” Trace continued, nodding to the man who stood with a hand on his hip and blood still drying on his neck. “Kaze, Zero, and our chieftain—Viper.”
