The portal's mist faded, and Kael stepped onto a windswept hill, the Gáe Bolg humming faintly in his grip. The air was alive with the scent of grass and woodsmoke, a stark contrast to the Shadowlands' stillness. Below stretched a bustling settlement—thatch-roofed houses encircled by wooden palisades, and at its heart, a grand hall with carved beams glinting in the sun. People moved about in vibrant tunics, their voices carrying on the breeze.
"Welcome to Emain Macha," Morrígan said, her voice softening with a rare hint of nostalgia. "The heart of Ulster, and the seat of King Conchobar mac Nessa."
Kael scanned the scene, trying to mask his awe. "Not bad. Like a Renaissance fair, but with more swords and less turkey legs."
Morrígan's crimson eyes glinted with amusement. "I don't know what that means, but I'll take it as a compliment."
"Close enough," Kael said, glancing at his torn hoodie and muddy track pants. "Any chance there's a tailor here? I look like I lost a fight with a swamp."
"Later," Morrígan replied, smirking. "First, we meet the king."
They descended the hill, drawing stares from the locals. A group of children paused their game, gawking at Kael's strange clothes and the legendary spear. One girl, braver than the rest, stepped forward. "Are you a god?"
Kael knelt, grinning. "Nah, just a guy with a fancy stick. Don't tell anyone—it's our secret."
She giggled, and Morrígan shook her head, though her expression softened. "Come, spear-bearer. We've work to do."
At the grand hall's entrance, two guards in bronze armor crossed their spears, only to part and bow at Morrígan's approach. Inside, the hall thrummed with life—warriors sharpened blades, nobles murmured, and servants bustled with trays. At the far end, on a raised dais, sat King Conchobar, a man in his prime with a golden torc and a sword at his side. His sharp eyes fixed on Kael as they neared.
"Morrígan," Conchobar said, his tone warm but guarded. "You've returned. And this is… the spear-bearer?"
"I am," Morrígan said, stepping aside. "Kael Lughson, wielder of the Gáe Bolg and heir to Lugh's power."
Conchobar's gaze lingered on the spear. "So, the prophecy holds true. A new champion rises in Ériu's hour of need."
Kael shifted under the scrutiny. "Uh, yeah, that's me. Nice to meet you, Your Majesty."
Conchobar chuckled. "No need for titles here, Kael. We're warriors, not courtiers. Join us for the feast—we've much to discuss."
They settled at a long table piled with roasted meats, bread, and odd fruits Kael couldn't name. He sat beside Morrígan, feeling out of place among the rugged Ulster warriors. As the feast began, he noticed a woman across the table—dark hair in a warrior's braid, piercing blue eyes, and armor etched with intricate designs. She watched him with a mix of curiosity and suspicion.
"Who's that?" Kael whispered to Morrígan.
"Aífe," Morrígan replied, her voice tinged with amusement. "Scáthach's sister and rival. One of Ulster's fiercest—and not easily won over."
"Perfect," Kael muttered. "Another test."
Before he could dwell on it, Conchobar stood, raising his cup. "To Kael Lughson, our new ally! May his spear bring victory to Ulster!"
Cheers filled the hall, and Kael raised his cup, choking down the fiery mead without coughing. Stronger than energy drinks, he thought, grimacing.
Conchobar turned to him. "We've heard of your feats in the Shadowlands, but tales prove little. Would you honor us with a demonstration?"
Kael blinked. "Like a spar?"
"Precisely," Conchobar said, nodding to a cleared space. "A friendly match, to test the spear-bearer's mettle."
Morrígan leaned in, her breath warm against his ear. "Don't embarrass me."
"No pressure," Kael said, grinning despite the nerves.
He stood, Gáe Bolg in hand, as a burly warrior with a braided beard and a gleaming axe stepped forward. "I'll test the boy," he boomed. "Let's see if he's worthy."
The crowd hushed, and Kael's pulse quickened. This was his chance to prove he belonged.
"Alright," he said, twirling the spear. "Let's dance."
The warrior charged, axe swinging. Kael sidestepped, Scáthach's training kicking in, and parried with the spear's shaft. He countered with a thrust, halting inches from the warrior's chest. Gasps rippled through the hall.
"Fast," the warrior grunted, retreating. "But try this!"
He swung overhead, and Kael dodged—only for the warrior to kick low, aiming to trip him. Kael stumbled, the crowd tensing, but he spun with the fall, striking the warrior's side with precision, stopping short again.
The warrior laughed, lowering his axe. "Well fought, lad! You've got skill."
Applause erupted, and Conchobar nodded. "Fine control, Kael. You're no mere brute—you're a warrior."
Kael bowed, adrenaline fading to pride. As he sat, Aífe's gaze met his, unreadable but intrigued, sending a thrill through him.
Later, as the feast quieted, an old druid approached, his milky eyes unsettling. "Spear-bearer," he rasped, "beware Balor's eye. It sees all and seeks to unravel your path."
Kael frowned. "What's that mean?"
The druid smiled faintly. "Fate's threads are tangled, but your allies—and your spear—will guide you." He shuffled off, leaving Kael uneasy.
Morrígan's hand rested on his arm. "Prophecies are vague, but Balor's no idle threat."
Kael nodded, the weight of destiny pressing down. Yet, with Morrígan and Ulster's warriors beside him, he felt ready. That night, on his pallet, the hall's sounds faded, but his mind raced. He wasn't just a student anymore—he was a hero in a mythic world. And it felt right.