The banners dipped low, and the warriors dropped to one knee again. Behind them, the rest of the stronghold’s residents echoed the movement like a single body.
Ward and Viper glanced at each other. He’d never seen power like this, and if Ward had to guess, he didn’t think Viper had either. Fionn didn’t wave or grandstand. He lifted one hand, laid it on his chest, and whispered something Ward couldn’t hear—but whatever it was, it made every man and woman in Dún Fianna rise in unison like a tide on command. The king had come home, and their world was already beginning to shift around him.
The moment felt too big to breathe through his excitement at being a part of this magical reunion. They stood on the ancient stone of a place that shouldn’t exist, surrounded by warriors out of legend, while their king—very much a flesh and blood man—moved through them like the sun returning after a centuries-long eclipse. There was no pomp, and it wasn’t a show for a theater stage. It was reverence born of history carried in the marrow of these people’s souls.
Fionn passed between the kneeling warriors without touching them, but they still bowed their heads as he went by. Ward didn’t think the reverence he was witnessing was out of fear, or even duty. It was love. That was the only word he could find for it. Pure, absolute, bone-deep love for a leader who had bled with them, fought beside them, and returned from a prison none had known existed.
As Fionn walked, hands reached out to touch his cloak, to graze his arm, to feel for themselves that their king was truly here. One woman burst into tears the second Fionn laid a hand on her shoulder. A boy of no more than ten sprinted forward from the crowd, barefoot and wild-eyed, and launched himself into the man’s arms. Fionn caught him with ease, hoisting him high with a roar of laughter that cracked open the grief still clinging to the air.
“My king!” someone shouted.
“Welcome home!” another called.
A ripple of voices joined them, echoing against the curved walls, building until the chant shook the ground itself.
“Fionn. Fionn. Fionn.”
Bran stopped just behind Ward. The shine in the wolf’s eyes gave away his excitement to be back with his people. Juice stood beside him, the fingers of one hand buried in the fur at the back of his neck, as if reminding Bran where he belonged now. Bran’s tail waved softly, his ears pricked forward, and he tilted his head as if watching or waiting for something to happen.
Ward didn’t know where to stand or even how to hold his body in the presence of all this… everything. His pack felt absurd on his back, but it was the only anchor he had, so he kept holding it. The leather strap had started to dig into his shoulder, but he refused to put it down. He wasn’t ready to let go of the only possessions he’d brought through the portal with him. He sucked in a breath as panic of what would or could happen next started to overwhelm him.
A soft thump sounded beside him, and he looked up to see the corners of Viper’s eyes crinkle as the man smiled at him. “We’ll figure it out.”
Ward forced himself to exhale slowly. He refused to become overwhelmed. He snorted to himself as a thought occurred to him.
If this turns out to be a dream, maybe I’ll write an epic bestseller and can retire to Ireland and be happy as a clam turning over stones looking for hints of Tír na nÓg in the Comeraghs.
The wave of celebration rolled on. Oisín emerged from the crowd to meet his father again, clasping his wrist and drawing him into another fierce embrace. “You look younger than me now, Da,” he muttered, half-teasing, half-emotional.
“That’s because I’ve had a long nap and no responsibilities.” Fionn grinned, and the warriors around them laughed, the sound rich, warm, and full of homecoming.
Someone began to play a bodhrán at the far side of the courtyard. The rhythm of the handheld drum was simple but ancient, echoing in the hollows of the stone. Another joined on flute, weaving the first notes of what could only be a song ofreturn. The sound of a legend rising from the dead turned into a song. Ward blinked against the sting in his eyes. How the hell had his life turned into this? The music shifted, and the thrum of the bodhrán deepened, layered with a low chant from the warriors closest to the center of the keep. He turned toward the sound as the crowd parted in a ripple of motion, every member of the Fianna falling into step with an invisible rhythm that pulsed through the stone beneath their feet.
Fionn raised a single hand, and silence snapped through the courtyard. “My sons of the blood,” he called out, voice carrying with the weight of storm and mountain. “Brothers who have stood with me, bled with me, and waited for me. We are not alone.”
The warriors’ heads lifted as one. Eyes filled with curiosity turned toward the SEALs and him. Fionn’s gaze cut through the stillness and landed on Viper.
“These men,” his voice was lower but no less powerful, “crossed the boundaries of the world. They fought and bled beside my hound, Cú Cullinan. They opened the gates that kept me imprisoned with their own blood. They stood in battle at my shoulder, and did not waver before death. These men are not cowards like the mortals we have known in the past. These men are warriors.”
Viper shifted beside Ward. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the other man’s jaw tighten and recognized the tension thrumming through every line of his body like a bowstring pulled taut.
Fionn stepped forward, beckoning to the SEALs. “You may not wear our colors, but you carry our mark. By oath of fire and blood, you are Fianna now.”
Viper didn’t move.
Behind him, Reaper muttered, “You gonna insult the mythic king to his face, Boss?”
Viper exhaled, then strode forward with the controlled grace of a man walking into his own execution. He stopped before Fionn, chin high and eyes wary. “I don’t bow.”
“I would break your spine if you did,” Fionn said, then grinned, slow and sharp. “We leaders kneel to no man. But we recognize our own.”
He reached for a ceremonial dagger with a triskele etched into the hilt. He flipped it in his hand and offered it hilt-first. “When your blood falls upon the rose, you become my brother in blood as well as in war.”
Viper didn’t hesitate. He accepted it, turned it over once, and then pricked his palm in a quick, practiced motion. Blood welled instantly. He stepped forward and pressed his hand to the rose engraved in the stone at Fionn’s feet. The rock glowed gold beneath his touch, and a cheer full of fierce approval rose from the warriors. One by one, the rest of the SEALs followed. Reaper, grim but respectful. Kaze, grinning like he’d found his place. Zero, slow to move, but eyes sharp, studying everything. And finally, Juice, with Bran proudly watching on. All accepted the offer of kinship from the High King of the Fianna.
When it was Ward’s turn, he hesitated. He wasn’t a soldier. He wasn’t built for war. He was a man of knowledge and buried truths.
As if sensing his hesitation and the reasons behind it, Fionn looked at him and said, “You unlocked what others feared. You saw the truth in stone. You belong.”
