The mist-shrouded hills of Ireland rolled before them, their emerald slopes scarred by ancient standing stones. Rowan clutched the Blood Vessel of Lir, its silver surface warm against her palm—a relic now infused with the serpent's power. "Newgrange is ahead," Lachlan said, voice taut. "But the Druids… they've set wards."
Moira frowned. "The Cauldron of the Dagda isn't meant to be found."
Ethan stepped forward, his scales flickering. Since Cahokia, his eyes had taken on a faint vertical slit, and his touch turned water to ice. "I'll clear the path," he said, raising a hand. The nearby river surged upward, forming a bridge of frosted waves.
Grampa grunted, shotgun slung over his shoulder. "Show-off."
They crossed into the heart of Newgrange—a passage tomb older than the pyramids, its walls etched with spirals and lunar symbols. Inside the burial chamber, a stone altar glowed with amber light—on it rested the Cauldron of the Dagda, its iron surface pockmarked with runes.
Rowan reached for it, but Moira grabbed her wrist. "The Cauldron demands a sacrifice," she warned. "A life for a life."
MacLeod's voice echoed from the shadows: *"She knows, Druid."*
Ethan spun, claws erupting. MacLeod stood at the chamber's edge, his body a grotesque mix of antlers and scales—but his eyes were silver, not green. *"The serpent's host has returned."*
Rowan staggered. "You're dead."
MacLeod laughed. *"The serpent keeps me alive… for now."* He lunged, but Ethan intercepted him, their claws tearing at each other. Black ichor sprayed the walls—MacLeod's wounds healed instantly. *"Your dragon's power is nothing compared to the stag's immortality!"*
Lachlan unrolled a scroll. *"By the power of the Oak and the Thorn—"*
MacLeod backhanded him. *"Your magic is obsolete!"*
Rowan raised the Blood Vessel. Its runes flared, but the serpent's voice hissed in her mind: *"Not yet, bridge."*
Moira surged upward, vines erupting from the earth to bind MacLeod. *"Rowan—now!"*
Rowan plunged her hand into the Cauldron. Its waters seethed, burning her skin. A vision flooded her mind: the Dagda, the Celtic god of plenty, using the Cauldron to resurrect the dead. "Balance demands sacrifice," his voice rumbled.
MacLeod broke free, antlers glowing. *"The stag will rise!"*
Ethan tackled him, but MacLeod tossed him aside. *"Die, dragon!"*
Rowan screamed. The Cauldron's energy surged through her, merging with the serpent's power. *"Take my life… but spare them."*
The Cauldron hummed. A green flame erupted, consuming Rowan's body. When it faded, she stood transformed—antlers sprouting from her skull, scales rippling down her arms. *"I am the bridge."*
MacLeod hesitated. *"You're not human anymore."*
Rowan smiled, her voice a mix of her own and the serpent's. *"No. I'm the balance."* She raised a hand—the Cauldron's waters froze, encasing MacLeod in ice. *"Sleep, stag. The world doesn't need your chaos."*
MacLeod roared, but the ice cracked, revealing his form melting into mist. *"This isn't over!"*
Ethan grabbed Rowan's arm. *"You did it."*
Rowan shook her head. *"I've become a god… and condemned myself."* The serpent's voice echoed: *"The bridge must die to save the world."*
Moira approached, her hands glowing green. *"There's another way. The Cauldron—"*
"Is mine now," the serpent hissed. It coiled around Rowan, dissolving into her skin.
Lachlan paled. *"The Cauldron… it's gone."*
Rowan staggered outside. The Irish Sea surged, its waters glowing with the serpent's power. The world tree's roots retracted, their corruption cleansed—but Rowan's body felt hollow. "I'm losing the connection," she said.
Moira touched her forehead. *"The Awen mark… it's fading."*
Ethan's hand tightened on hers. *"You're human again."*
Rowan laughed bitterly. *"And the serpent is free. We traded one god for another."*
Grampa spat. *"At least MacLeod's dead."*
But Rowan wasn't so sure. She glanced at the tomb—MacLeod's bloodstain had vanished. "He's not gone," she said. *"The serpent… she kept him."*