Viper was still staring at Ward—at the way his eyes glowed silver-blue, at the trails of magic still dancing along his skin, and at the ancient script that hadn’t existed an hour ago now etched into the lines of his arm on the opposite side to his mating mark. “You’re a miracle,” he murmured.
Ward smiled faintly. “No. I’m yours.”
The light faded slowly, drawn back into the standing stones as if something sucked it in. The ground steadied beneath them and no longer trembled with raw power, but the connection lingered as a low thrum in Viper’s chest. It sang of magic and blood, of oaths made and kept. It urged him to bring his mate home.
Ward still knelt beside him, eyes closed and face tilted toward the sky like he could still feel the whisper of magic beneath his skin.
Viper reached over, sliding his hand against the back of his neck, grounding them both. “You back with me?”
Ward opened his eyes slowly, and the look he gave him was something wild and wonderstruck. “I think I heard it speak,” he said quietly. “The magic of this place remembers everything. Every promise. Every betrayal. Every sacrifice.”
“Did it say anything about letting us go?” Viper asked, half-joking, half-hopeful.
Ward smiled, tired and full of some deep truth Viper couldn’t name. “It didn’t want to let go. Not at first. But I think it saw what we gave, what we built, and now it wants us to carry that home. As a bridge between two warrior clans born of the sea, the air, and the land.”
Trace approached them with his hand still curled around Juice’s. “It worked,” he confirmed. “The anchor’s holding. The door’s real now.”
“A path between worlds,” Juice added. “Ours to close or open as we need.”
Kaze let out a low whistle from the sidelines. “So… we made a magic backdoor between Earth and Narnia. Anyone else think that’s insane as hell?”
“For us,” Zero didn’t look up from his carving, “I think it’s par for the course.”
Reaper crossed his arms, staring at the center of the stones. “What happens now?”
Viper stood slowly, drawing Ward up with him. “Now? We prepare. We decide who goes home. Who stays?” He looked at Trace. “You and Juice—this was always part of your path. Bran’s path.”
Trace nodded. “Yeah. But with the door, I don’t have to choose between brotherhoods. I can cross and serve both.”
Thank fuck.
He was more than a little relieved not to be losing his second in command. Because with whatever hope he had of persuading the US Navy that they’d survived that volcano, there wasn’t a hope in hell that he was telling them Juice hadn’t.
“Tonight,” Fionn decreed, “we feast. We celebrate. Tomorrow is time enough for goodbyes to be heard on the breeze.”
“Perfect.” He was more than a little relieved that they weren’t being thrown out of Tír na nÓg immediately. “A feast sounds awesome. I’m starving.”
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
The sun dippedlow behind the western ridge, gilding the treetops with fire as Dun Fianna erupted into life. Gone were the wary glances and tense patrols. Tonight, the warriors of legend did what they had done for generations before the world forgot their names. They feasted.
Long tables made from carved stone and rough-hewn wood stretched across the wide central clearing. Flames crackled in towering bonfires, and the smoke curled up to mingle with the evening sky. The scent of roasted boar and fresh herbs wafted in the air, mingling with the sharper tang of mead and baking. Laughter rolled from every direction—low and raucous, loud and joyous.
Viper stood near the edge of the chaos with Ward at his side, watching as the Fianna shed their war skins and slipped into something older and more primal. Warriors beat a steady rhythm on stretched leather drums, the pulse building into something that thrummed in his chest like a second heartbeat. Pipes joined in, keening wild and sweet, while the low drone of a bullhorn carried beneath it all like a song echoing through time.
“You ever seen anything like this?” Ward asked, voice low, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “It’s even more epic than the first night we came here and they celebrated the return of their king.”
“Not unless you count that one insane St. Paddy’s Day party in Djibouti.” Viper slid his hand down Ward’s back. “But this? This is fucking insane.”
Fianna men and women danced barefoot in the grass, kicking up dust and light with every stomp. They moved in long spirals and tight circles, bodies twining together in patterns passed down from fire to fire and clan to clan. There was no choreography that he could make out, yet there also was no hesitation from the dancers. Just a wild abandon that welcomed anyone willing to lose themselves to the music.
Kaze and Reaper were already shirtless and wrestling near one of the bonfires, egged on by Zero and a handful of Fianna who roared with approval every time one of them slammed into the dirt. Neither man seemed to care who won, but then Viper mused it wasn’t about winning or losing as such. Tonight was about belonging, blood, bruises, and brotherhood.
“Come eat,” Oisín called out as he passed, his face flushed from drink and laughter. He had his arm around one of the warriors Viper hadn’t learned the name of yet. “The salmon’s done, the bread’s still warm, and the best Uisce Beath has yet to be claimed.”
Viper grinned and snagged Ward’s hand. “Let’s go before Zero drinks it all and starts throwing his knives at the wrong people.”
Ward laughed and let himself be dragged to the food tables. Trays of roasted root vegetables sat beside loaves of dark breadcrusted with salt. Wild salmon wrapped in oak leaves sizzled beside honeyed lamb so tender it nearly fell apart. There were clay jugs of cider, skins of something stronger, and tankards that never seemed to stay empty for long. “The Irish sure know how to throw a party, don’t they?”
