December 23rd, 2029

Snow was falling over the castle as if trying to bury it. It was probably the last snowfall in years. A shame, Noah thought. He liked winter—though he could always go to Canada if he wanted to see a bit more.

The sun hadn’t even risen yet, and he hated waking up early, but his ring was glowing annoyingly—the old man was calling him.

He got up quietly so as not to wake Olivia. He paused for a moment, watching her as she slept. Her brown hair covered her face as she breathed peacefully.

He stepped into the dressing room—a whole chamber filled with extravagant, expensive clothes. He grabbed the first things he saw: a sky-blue shirt and dark pants. The ring was still glowing on his hand, blinking urgently.

He didn’t even bother showering. He ran his hand through his hair and trimmed his beard roughly. He thought about shaving, but the ring flashed again impatiently.

“Yes, yes, I’m going,” he muttered.

As he stepped into the hallway, the maids were startled to see him up so early. They offered him food. He declined with a simple gesture.

The castle was beginning to awaken around him. Servants passed by carrying baskets and utensils, horses were being led out. Everything ran like a Swiss clock—precise, harmonious, flawless.

He sometimes forgot that, technically, he was a king. One of the last with royal blood in the world. Privilege? Definitely. Of all the cages, he had the best view.

As he passed by a room, he glanced sideways. His children were asleep, tangled in blankets. But it was the calmest figure that took his breath away—his daughter. Unshaken, so distant. He remembered what his father had said, and a shadowy image seemed to rise over her—like claws about to seize a piece, accompanied by an ancient, feminine laugh. His chest ached, as if the air inside him had frozen. He closed the door gently. This wasn’t the time.

He reached the end of the hallway. The fireplace was there—useless, decorative. Above it hung the family crest: a Western dragon pierced by a sword.

His parents used to say the best place to hide something was in plain sight. He thought that was stupid. But it worked. No one ever questioned why there was a fireplace in the middle of the hallway—most would just think “medieval nonsense.”

Between the crest and the fireplace was a small, oddly shaped indentation. He fitted the ring into it. The stones shifted with a mechanical grind, and a dark passageway opened before him. He clapped twice. The torches came to life.

“Of course,” he muttered. “Torches. Because being a thousand years old is a perfect excuse for never discovering electricity.”

He stepped forward. His footsteps echoed against the damp walls. That tunnel wasn’t on any blueprint, but anyone paying close attention would’ve noticed something off.

He reached the door at the far end. Old wood. As worn out as the man behind it.

He took a deep breath and pushed.

The moment he stepped inside, heat slammed into him and the light blinded him for a second. He stumbled forward, and as his eyes adjusted, he had to dodge the jaws of a carnivorous plant the size of a horse.

“Great,” he muttered, backing away as much as he could.

Amid the vegetal chaos, the old man moved between jars and devices as if nothing were out of the ordinary. There were shapeless plants and creatures that looked like something out of Darwin’s nightmares.

Some mandrakes—plants shaped like tiny humans, for some reason—were running across the tables, tossing a crystal orb back and forth like a ball. Near the ceiling, glowing mistletoe buds opened and closed like cocoons.

The old man spotted him and motioned for him to follow. They walked to the center of the room, where a massive tree stretched up to touch the glass dome. At its base, a narrow stream nourished the lab's strange creatures.

Noah let out a grunt as he felt a sharp sting. A tiny creature with a pointed hat grinned up at him, baring a mouth full of fangs. It wielded a needle like a sword and flew off on translucent wings.

“Great, more pests,” he grumbled, wiping the blood from his ankle. “I thought we agreed: no more annoying creatures.”

“They’re piskies,” the old man said without turning around. He stomped his foot, and a desk rose from the ground. “Like fairies, but uglier. Harmless… as long as you don’t insult them. Or something like that.”

“Right…” Noah sighed, looking at the drop of blood on his hand. “And calling them ugly doesn’t count as hurting their feelings?”

“Of course not. An ugly thing knows it’s ugly. It doesn’t mind being told the truth. Now, if you compare them to certain types of waste, 

that

 they find offensive.”

Noah no longer knew when he was joking or not. It didn’t matter. With Merlin, it was practically the same thing.

Though the wizard had accompanied his family for centuries, he looked nothing like the image most people had in mind. He wore silk robes with strange patterns, sharp shoulder pads like blades, and a face that didn’t look a day over thirty. His beard was chestnut, not too long, and the only signs of age were the silver strands at his temples.

A sound made him turn. A small dragon descended gracefully from the tree and hissed in his direction. Its bat-like wings folded tightly against its body, and its sharp eyes locked onto Noah.

“Hello, Koh,” Noah greeted, without much enthusiasm. The little dragon seemed to smile at him—which wasn’t exactly reassuring.

“He gets bigger every day,” the wizard said, looking at the dragon with a proud expression. “In a couple of months, I’ll be able to ride him and—”

“Merlin!” Noah snapped, his patience already gone. “It’s six in the morning.”

“Really?” Merlin looked up toward the dome, where the sky was just beginning to brighten. “Is it still Tuesday?”

“It’s Sunday,” Noah replied, pulling his phone from his pocket and showing him the screen. “And it’s two days until Christmas Eve. So tell me—do you actually have something important to say, or can I go back to bed?”

Merlin sighed and began absentmindedly cleaning his makeshift desk. He picked a fruit from the tree and wiped it on his robe. Then he ran his hand along the trunk, and a white smoke began to seep from the bark.

“They want to see you,” he said, with a tone full of reluctance.

Noah blinked.

“Dagda again? What’s with him lately—so... clingy?” He stopped abruptly, processing the words. “Wait. 

They

?”

Merlin nodded. The smoke was already filling the entire room.

Then came the whirlwind. Noah couldn’t see a thing—only shifting shadows in the mist. And in the middle of it all, the change became undeniable. A wave of calm ran through his body, making him shiver. His lungs filled with air so pure it felt like he had never known pollution. A cold breeze brushed his face. And he felt something—or someone—watching him.

It was happening again. And even though it wasn’t the first time, Noah never got tired of the feeling.

He was in the Otherworld. 

Tír na nÓg.

When he opened his eyes, he found himself standing in the middle of a silent meadow, surrounded by trees so tall they seemed to reach the sky. The grass beneath his feet was such a vibrant shade of green that the artificial turf back at his castle looked like manure by comparison.

He was tempted to lie down and stay there for a while… but he remembered the unbearable itch it always gave him when he did. So, he remained standing.

In front of him, at the heart of the forest, lay a perfectly circular clearing. There stood a colossal tree, so immense it could easily have been mistaken for a mountain. And at its base, like a natural extension of the trunk itself, was the throne.

And there he was—sitting, waiting for him.

Noah knelt and bowed his head with respect before the supreme being of nature and life itself. Beside him, Merlin emerged from the mist, casually biting into the fruit he had taken earlier. What better moment for a snack than in front of a god?

The figure raised a hand in greeting. As always, Noah watched him, trying to fix his features in his mind. It was always hard to hold on to the details—maybe a side effect of looking directly at a god.

He was a massive man, over three meters tall and nearly one wide. He had the appearance of Santa Claus on steroids. Red-haired, with skin dark as mud, and braids in his hair and beard that reached the ground. Beside him, an enormous hammer rested against the throne.

The only thing that broke the majesty of the moment was the strong smell of wet earth emanating from the god. But Noah, wisely and without fail, always avoided mentioning it.

The giant’s brown eyes locked onto him.

“You requested an audience with me, my lord,” said Noah, choosing each word as if treading on thin ice. “What is the reason?”

The giant smiled—a kind smile, but so heavy with power it dried Noah’s throat.

“Noah Pendragon, descendant of Uther, son of Harry,” he began to recite, and with each word the air seemed to bend and shudder. “I regret to say that today we gather over… complicated matters.”

A strange sound echoed through the sky. Noah looked up and saw a flock of crows swirling above like a living stain, darkening the sun. The light grew blinding, almost painful, and the heat began to rise—oppressive.

Behind him, he heard a rumble. Turning, he saw the animals of the forest emerging in a stampede. But they weren’t fleeing in panic—no. They ran in perfect synchrony, as if guided by something else. A giant bear and a pair of massive goats appeared at the edge of the clearing.

Noah glanced sideways at Merlin.

“Them?”

“Them,” the wizard confirmed, with that infuriating calm he always carried.

Suddenly, a column of fire exploded beside them. Noah barely had time to throw himself backward before a wave of searing heat singed his eyebrows. The flames twisted and, within seconds, took shape: the slender figure of a tall woman, clad in elegant robes trimmed with gold, her hair red as blood. Her eyes—glowing embers—fixed on Noah, sending a chill through his skin.

With a gesture, a massive flint rose from the earth, and the goddess sat upon it, smiling at him with a tenderness that was anything but reassuring.

“Greetings, King of Camelot,” she said in a voice that was sweet, almost motherly—but with a blade hidden under every word.

Noah opened his mouth to reply, but didn’t get the chance. A blinding light exploded in front of him, and he instinctively raised an arm to shield his eyes. When he could see again, there he was: a bronzed man with hair so blond it was nearly white, staring at him intently. His eyes… were gold.

He wore light, silver armor that seemed to glow with its own inner light.

Noah scowled, irritated.

“Brilliant. Like starin’ straight into the bloody sun,” he thought, clenching his jaw.

“I thought the Pendragons would be taller,” Lugh said, glancing sidelong at Dagda.

Noah swallowed hard, held back a sharp retort, and looked up at the deities surrounding him.

“How tall are ye, mortal?” Lugh asked, his tone edged with amusement.

“Five foot ten,” Noah replied with a slight bow, controlling every muscle in his face so as not to show the slightest hint of anger or annoyance before a god. “Pleasure to meet you, Lord Lugh, warrior of the Tuatha.”

Lugh gave a mocking whistle.

“Likewise, lad. Don’t fret… maybe ye’ve still got a growth spurt in ya.”

Merlin let out a stifled chuckle, and Lugh grinned, pleased with his own terrible joke.

“Don’t be childish, Lugh,” a deep, seductive female voice cut in.

Suddenly, the caws of crows rose into a deafening chorus, and a storm of black feathers fell on Noah like a whirlwind. Before he could react, he felt the warm body of a woman pressed against his back, and a delicate hand—pale as snow—brushed gently along his cheek.

He turned his head and found himself face to face with a stunning, sharp-featured woman. Full lips, coal-black eyes, and hair as dark as midnight cascaded around her face like a living waterfall.

“I find him quite lovely,” the woman whispered, bringing her lips close to his as her hand slid slowly down Noah’s abdomen. “Those blue eyes, so full of resolve… I think I’d like to keep him.”

Noah felt her warm breath on his neck. The hand slid further, reaching his waist. The goddess tilted her head, grazing her lips against the skin of his throat, and he could feel his entire body tense.

“Lady Morrigan,” he said, mustering every ounce of firmness in his voice, “you know I’m a married man.”

The goddess froze in place. Noah gently took her hand and moved it away from his waist.

Morrigan let out a dramatic sigh and shrugged, as her skirt dissolved into a whirlwind of feathers. She wore only a top that barely covered her chest, standing there, eyes locked on him with a predatory gaze.

Behind him, two bursts of laughter echoed through the clearing. When Noah turned, the first thing he saw was a massive bear, baring its fangs as it laughed in the high, melodic voice of a maiden. The other came from a pair of goats—each the size of a horse—laughing in perfect unison.

Before his eyes, the bear began to change. It shrank, fur receding, snout pulling back, forelegs rising like arms. When Noah blinked, there was no beast left—only a tall, broad-shouldered woman with reddish hair and amber eyes. Her frame was powerful, with muscular arms and strong hands. She wore furs that smelled of aged leather and wine.

Meanwhile, the goats swirled around one another, merging into a single shape. With a dull thud, it hit the earth—and from it rose an imposing figure: humanoid, covered in chestnut fur, with a face caught between beast and man. Its glowing green eyes locked onto Noah, and with a sharp crack, two massive stag antlers erupted from its brow.

Noah felt his blood freeze. Instinct kicked in—he dropped to his knees at once. Even Merlin, who never seemed fazed by anything, lowered his head.

It couldn’t be. He was witnessing the impossible. The most powerful of the Celtic gods, gathered before him.

For centuries, no more than two had ever been seen together. And now… six.

“Well then,” said Dagda, unable to hide the excitement in his voice at the sight of his divine kin, “there is a matter of great importance we must discuss with our mortal friend.”

Noah looked up, confused.

“Friend?” he muttered under his breath, feeling an odd twinge—but no one seemed to hear him.

“As ye well know,” Dagda continued, his voice booming like a drum through the glade, “for millennia, thy family—the Pendragons—hath held our highest regard.”

Noah nodded, a flicker of pride rising in his chest. After all, the blood of Camelot still ran in his veins.

“Ye may not be aware,” Dagda went on, “but aside from us Celts, there be other pantheons of gods.”

“You mean… like the Greeks? And the Norse?” Noah asked, frowning slightly. He often forgot just how complicated the Afterlife was.

“Aye, precisely like them,” Dagda confirmed.

“But few have reached the divinity we embody,” Lugh added, with that inborn arrogance etched deep into his divine nature.

“Nor are they as bound to the wild world as we,” said Cernunnos, the horned god, his voice like deep roots in stone.

Dagda raised a hand, commanding silence.

“Now then. Among all the pantheons, a sacred duty was entrusted to us: to protect and guide humankind. And after long deliberation... we have agreed that the right path is to appoint a human as our emissary. A messiah, if you will. Someone to lead the sons and daughters of man toward a new dawn.”

A tingle ran across Noah’s skin. For a heartbeat, his eyes flickered with something bright… but deep down, his instincts screamed that something was off. The way they spoke… it stirred a memory, one he didn’t quite like.

“Exactly like them,” Dagda confirmed.

“But few have reached the divinity we embody,” Lugh added, with that inborn arrogance etched deep into his divine nature.

“Nor are they as bound to the wild world as we,” said Cernunnos, the horned god, his voice like deep roots in stone.

Dagda raised a hand, commanding silence.

“Now then. Among all the pantheons, a sacred duty was entrusted to us: to protect and guide humankind. And after long deliberation... we have agreed that the right path is to appoint a human as our emissary. A messiah, if you will. Someone to lead the sons and daughters of man toward a new dawn.”

A tingle ran across Noah’s skin. For a heartbeat, his eyes flickered with something bright… but deep down, his instincts screamed that something was off. The way they spoke… it stirred an old memory, one he didn’t quite like.

“And who better to save the human race…” Dagda paused with theatrical weight, “than the king of kings. Ruler of what was once the greatest nation of men. The King of Camelot. You, Noah.”

Noah blanked. His mind stopped. His thoughts stammered, unsure whether to respond… or pretend he hadn’t heard a bloody thing.

“Are you… sure you’ve got the right bloke?” he stuttered, knowing exactly how foolish it sounded.

But something in his gut twisted—cold and sharp. Save humanity? From what, exactly?

He looked to Merlin. The old wizard said nothing. But his face… it was like carved oak—rigid, unmoving. Watching Noah, waiting on his every word. Noah had never seen him wear that look before.

“Who else would be so fitting?” Dagda replied, as though it were the most obvious answer in the world.

“And what… what exactly am I supposed to do?” Noah asked, swallowing hard.

Dagda straightened his back.

“In February of 2030, Camelot shall be the place where you must…”

Here it comes, thought Noah, fists tightening. He knew that tone. Had heard it in too many politicians—the syrupy voice used to sweeten the shit before serving it on a silver tray.

“…shelter what remains of humankind.”

Noah blinked. Silence. The phrase just hovered there in his head, echoing like it didn’t want to leave. Every word. Every syllable. Every bloody letter.

“Sorry… what?” he asked, his voice caught between disbelief and rising dread.

Morrigan let out a soft, amused laugh.

Artio, the bear goddess, crossed her arms and gave him a look of such blunt severity it felt like being punched in the chest.

“What d’you mean by what remains of humanity?” Noah pushed, his voice sharp now.

Dagda met his gaze with calm, ancient eyes—not sad for what he was about to say, but for the expression on Noah’s face as he heard it.

Like someone staring at a puppy… right before putting it down.

“What remains,” Dagda said gently—gently like a knife slipping under the ribs—“after the gods descend from the heavens… and claim the world of men.”