The helicopter's blades sliced through the mist-shrouded Irish Sea, its lights piercing the predawn darkness. Rowan pressed her forehead against the cold window, watching as Skellig Michael's jagged cliffs emerged from the waves—ancient, forbidding, and alive with the hum of ley lines.
"Welcome to the Cradle of Balance," Lachlan said, his voice tight over the rotor noise. The Druid's silver hair whipped in the wind as he pointed to the island's peak, where the ruins of a 7th-century monastery clung to the rock like a crown. "The third Well lies beneath the Heart Stone."
Grampa snorted, checking his shotgun. "If MacLeod's already here—"
"He is," Ethan interrupted. His eyes glowed faintly serpentine, the scales on his wrists shimmering in the dashboard lights. "I feel the dragon… and the stag."
Rowan reached for his hand. Since Scotland, their bond had deepened—she could sense his struggle against Níðhöggr's whispers, like a second heartbeat laced with frost. "Stay with me," she murmured.
The helicopter touched down on the island's helipad. As they disembarked, a figure stepped from the shadows—tall, silver-haired, with antler-like scars tracing her temples. Rowan froze. "Mother?"
The woman inclined her head. "Hello, Rowan." Her voice was a mix of warmth and steel, identical to the recordings Rowan had found in her grandmother's journals. "I'm sorry it took so long to reveal myself."
Grampa's shotgun clattered to the ground. "Moira… you're alive."
Moira turned to him, her gaze softening. "A Druid's greatest illusion is death." She raised a hand, and the air rippled—a memory surged through Rowan: a younger Moira, laughing as she taught her to read the stars, before disappearing in a flash of green fire. "It was you," Rowan breathed. "You faked your death to protect me from MI6."
Moira nodded. "And to prepare you for this moment." She gestured to the monastery. "The Well of Segais here isn't a prison—it's the world tree's pulse. If MacLeod merges it with the Thames and Scottish Wells, the stag and serpent will be reborn as gods."
Ethan stiffened. "Níðhöggr… he wants that."
"Then we destroy the Well," Grampa growled.
Moira shook her head. "The Well isn't the problem—it's the seed." She led them into the monastery's nave, where a spiral staircase descended into darkness. At its base, a cavern glowed with bioluminescent moss—at its center, a pool of water so clear it mirrored the stars.
"The Well of Segais," Lachlan whispered. "But… it's empty."
Moira knelt by the pool. "The seed lies beneath. When the world tree was shattered, its heart fell here. Cernunnos and Níðhöggr were bound to guard it, but their hatred corrupted the Well." She pressed her palm to the stone, and runes flared—Awen symbols merging with Celtic knotwork. "Rowan, you must plant the seed in the Well and become the root."
Rowan's hand tightened on the Blood Vessel of Lir. "What does that mean?"
"The Awen binds the three realms," Moira said. "To heal the world tree, you must merge your essence with it… and sacrifice your humanity."
Ethan grabbed Rowan's arm. "No. There has to be another way."
Moira's gaze flickered to him. "The dragon's host has no say here."
Before Rowan could respond, the cavern shook. A roar echoed from above—feral and triumphant. MacLeod's voice boomed through the stones: "You're too late, daughter of Lir!"
They raced back up the stairs. The monastery's courtyard had transformed into a battlefield. MI6 agents fought shadowy figures—hybrids with antlers and scales, their bodies distort by Cernunnos and Níðhöggr's energies. MacLeod stood atop the Heart Stone, a vial of glowing green liquid in one hand and a black dagger in the other.
"Behold the dawn of the gods!" he shouted, plunging both weapons into the stone. The ground split, and a column of black and green energy erupted, forming a colossal figure—half-stag, half-serpent, with eyes of molten amber.
"The World Tree Avatar," Moira breathed. "Cernunnos and Níðhöggr… merged."
Rowan raised the Blood Vessel of Lir. Its runes dimmed, drained by previous battles. "How do we stop it?"
Moira handed her a silver acorn, etched with Awen symbols. "Plant this in the Well. It's the last fragment of the original world tree."
Rowan hesitated. "But the sacrifice—"
"Balance demands it," Moira said. "Or the avatar will consume the world."
Ethan stepped forward. "I'll distract it. You plant the seed."
Before Rowan could protest, he shifted—black scales erupting from his skin, wings tearing through his jacket. Níðhöggr's roar filled the air, but his eyes remained human. "Go," he mouthed.
Rowan nodded, sprinting toward the Well. Grampa and Lachlan covered her, firing at the hybrids. Moira joined them, her hands glowing green as she summoned vines to entangle the soldiers.
In the cavern, Rowan pressed the acorn into the Well's empty pool. Light erupted, and the seed sprouted—a sapling with leaves of silver and bark of obsidian. The world tree's energy surged through her, images flooding her mind: the stag and serpent locked in eternal combat, the Well of Segais as a bridge, her grandmother's final moments.
"Join us, daughter," the avatar's voice echoed. "Rule as a god."
Rowan gritted her teeth, channeling the Awen into the sapling. It grew rapidly, its roots intertwining with the Well's stones. The avatar shrieked, its form flickering as the world tree reasserted its dominance.
Aboveground, Ethan clashed with the avatar, his claws raking its scales. MacLeod laughed, injecting himself with another vial of Cernunnos' blood. His body regenerated instantly, antlers sprouting from his skull. "You cannot win!"
Grampa tackled him, but MacLeod tossed the old man aside like a ragdoll. Moira stepped between them, her hands glowing. "By the power of the Oak and the Thorn—"
MacLeod backhanded her, sending her crashing into the Heart Stone. Rowan screamed, her concentration faltering. The avatar seized the opening, its antlers stabbing toward Ethan.
"No!" Rowan channeled the last of her energy into the world tree. Its roots surged upward, impaling the avatar. The creature dissolved into mist, and the Well sealed with a thunderclap.
MacLeod staggered, his body reverting to human. "You… destroyed it."
"No," Rowan said, emerging from the cavern. "I bound it."
The world tree sapling stood tall, its branches humming with Awen energy. Ethan approached, his scales fading. "Rowan… your hair."
She touched her silver-streaked locks. The Awen mark on her forehead glowed faintly, but her skin had begun to crack, revealing glimpses of bark beneath. "The sacrifice has begun," Moira said, rising shakily.
Rowan turned to her. "What happens now?"
"The world tree will grow," Moira said. "But it needs a guardian… a bridge between realms."
Rowan closed her eyes. "I choose to be the bridge."
Light erupted from her body, merging with the sapling. Her consciousness expanded—she could feel the Thames Well, the Scottish Well, and now this one, all connected through her. The avatar's mist coalesced into two figures: Cernunnos and Níðhöggr, bound by Awen chains.
"You've imprisoned us again," Níðhöggr hissed.
"But you've also freed us," Cernunnos said, bowing his antlered head. "The balance is restored… for now."
They vanished into the tree. Rowan collapsed, her body human once more—save for a single silver leaf growing from her temple.
Ethan caught her. "Rowan?"
She smiled weakly. "I'm here. But… I'm also everywhere."
Grampa helped Moira to her feet. "What do we do now?"
Moira looked at the world tree. "We protect it. The Druids will rebuild their order, and MI6 will regroup. But for now…" She turned to Rowan. "The bridge must rest."
As dawn broke, the helicopter lifted off. Rowan watched Skellig Michael shrink in the distance, the world tree's sapling glowing like a beacon. Ethan squeezed her hand, his scales gone—for now.
"Thank you," he said.
Rowan leaned into him. "We're not done yet. The Well in Ireland… it's only the beginning."