Lucas Harrington slumped into his office chair, the blue glow of his laptop the only beacon in the midnight hush of his Brooklyn apartment.
Stacks of dog-eared books on medieval Irish history teetered around him, while scribbled sketches of ringforts and motte-and-bailey designs covered the desk.
As both architect and unapologetic history obsessive, he lived for nights like this... diving into the twelfth century, where the Kingdom of Munster still lingered with the ghost of Brian Boru's triumphs. "If only they'd known about proper load-bearing arches," he muttered, zooming in on a faded illustration of Cashel's rocky fortress.
"Or better drainage to keep the troops from dying of flux before the battle even started."
His pulse quickened with that familiar thrill. Yet the deeper he read about clan rivalries, the O'Brien kings, and the storm clouds gathering from Leinster, the tighter his chest grew.
A sudden lance of pain sliced through him. Books tumbled as he clutched the edge of the desk. The room spun, his vision narrowing to a pinpoint.
In that final heartbeat, Lucas thought only of the grand walls he would never build.
Thus, Lucas Harrington, twenty-eight years old and utterly alone, died on a rainy Tuesday in 2025.
Yet death, it turned out, was merely a doorway.
When sensation returned, it arrived in layers. Lucas's eyelids fluttered open. He lay in a massive canopied bed. Narrow slit windows admitted pale dawn light, and rushes crunched underfoot as a young serving girl hurried forward, eyes wide with relief.
"My prince!" she cried, dropping into a clumsy curtsy while clutching a wooden bowl. "The fever has broken at last. Praise the saints! We feared the worst after you took ill three days past."
Prince? Lucas sat up slowly, the motion sending a wave of dizziness through a body that felt both familiar and alien... fifteen years old, marked by the lingering weakness of long sickness.
Memories that were not his own surged in: riding across green hills on a skittish pony, listening to tutors drone on about Latin and lineage, watching three elder brothers spar in the training yard while he sketched fortifications in the dust.
He was Cian Ó Briain now, fourth son of King Turlough Ó Briain of Munster, the overlooked scholar-prince whose frail health had kept him from the brutal games of power that consumed his kin.
"Water, my lord?" the girl asked, offering the bowl with trembling hands. "And shall I fetch the physician? Or perhaps your brothers? They've been asking after you hourly."
Lucas accepted the bowl, sipping the cool liquid while studying her. "No physician. Yet tell me true, lass… how fare my father and brothers at the moment? Any new tidings from the borders?"
She hesitated, glancing toward the door as if the very tapestries might eavesdrop. "The king grows weary with the burden of rule, my prince. Prince Donal speaks openly of leading a host against Connacht to prove himself worthy of the high seat one day. Prince Aedh counters that cunning alliances serve better than blades. And Prince Murtagh…" She lowered her voice.
"He rides the marches daily, sharpening steel and whispering that strength alone decides succession. They argue fiercely in the great hall, as always. After all, with your health so poor, some whisper the fourth prince might never—"
"Never what?" Cian interrupted gently, setting the bowl aside and swinging his legs over the bed's edge.
He stood on unsteady limbs, yet the weakness felt temporary. "Never matter? Perhaps they're right in one sense. Nevertheless, fetch my brothers and the king. Tell them the fourth prince wishes to speak before the council gathers at noon."
The girl bobbed another curtsy and fled, leaving him alone with the crackle of the fire.
Cian crossed to the window, merging his steps with a careful grip on the stone sill. Below sprawled the Rock of Cashel. Beyond lay the emerald fields of Munster.
*No more scrolling through Wikipedia,* he mused, the thought bubbling with dark humor. *No coffee, no Wi-Fi, but I can design a keep that would make those future Normans weep.*
Footsteps echoed in the corridor soon after. The door swung open, admitting first King Turlough himself, broad-shouldered and silver-bearded.
Behind him came the three princes: Donal, tall and battle-scarred, already gripping the hilt of his sword; Aedh, lean and watchful, eyes calculating; and Murtagh, grinning with the easy confidence of a man who trusted steel above all.
"By the bones of Boru!" Turlough boomed, striding forward to clasp Cian's shoulder. "You rise from death's door looking sharper than I've seen in months. The saints smile on you, lad."
Donal clapped him on the back... harder than necessary. "Thought we'd be burying you beside Mother before summer's end, little brother. Glad you proved me wrong. Now, what's this summons? We've real matters to discuss... Connacht raiders probing our northern marches again."
Aedh's smile was thin. "Perhaps our scholar-prince has read some dusty scroll that will solve all our woes with ink and parchment."
Murtagh laughed, though the sound carried an edge. "Or maybe he'll suggest we build taller walls and hide behind them like frightened monks. After all, that's what the weak do best."
Cian met each gaze in turn. He drew himself up. "Brothers. Father. Hear me, for I have lain between life and death and seen clearer than ever before."
His voice, still cracking with youth, nevertheless rang steady through the chamber. "I know the whispers. I know the rivalries that simmer like a pot left too long on the fire. Donal would claim the throne by the sword. Aedh by clever treaties. Murtagh by sheer force of will. And I? The fourth son, the sickly one who prefers parchment to spear... many would say I have no place in such games."
He paused, letting the words settle, then continued while pacing slowly before them. "Yet why must we spill Ó Briain blood to decide who wears the crown? After all, Munster is greater than any single man. We face wolves from Connacht, jealous eyes from Leinster, and... though none yet speak it aloud shadows gathering across the eastern sea. I have… visions. Gifts granted in my fever, perhaps. Knowledge of stone and siege, of walls that do not merely stand but endure, of fields that yield twice what they do now, of harbors that could welcome trade instead of raiders."
Turlough's bushy brows rose, but he said nothing, listening.
"Thus I swear before you all," Cian pressed on, voice rising with genuine passion, "I claim no throne. I seek no rivalry. Let Donal prove himself the warrior king our people need. Let Aedh forge the alliances that bind us. Let Murtagh guard our borders with his unmatched strength.
As for me? I will serve. I will build. Give me masons, carpenters, and the king's leave, and I shall raise fortifications at Cashel and Limerick that no Norman will ever breach. I shall design roads that carry grain instead of corpses. Together, we make Munster a realm that future bards will sing of not for its feuds, but for its glory."
Silence fell. Donal's hand had slipped from his sword. Aedh tilted his head, intrigued despite himself. Murtagh scratched his beard.
King Turlough studied his youngest son for a long moment, then let out a booming laugh that shook the tapestries. "By God's teeth, the fever has forged steel in you! Very well, Cian. You shall have your masons. And if your 'visions' prove half as useful as your words, Munster may yet stand when others fall."
Aedh followed, clapping Cian's shoulder more gently. "Clever. Very clever. We shall speak more of these harbors."
Only Murtagh lingered, eyes narrowed but not unkind. "Prove it, brother. Words are wind. Stone is truth."
As the family filed out, already arguing over the noon council, Cian remained by the window.
Alone at last, he allowed the grin to break free.
Yet even as the lines took shape, a distant horn sounded from the outer bailey. Hooves thundered. A messenger, mud-splattered and urgent, burst into the courtyard below, shouting for the king.