Duncan removed the stopper from the decanter and poured himself and his father, Gawain MacKinnon, each a dram of the decades-old whiskey. He watched as his father swirled the amber liquid, and then tossed back the contents of the glass. Setting the glass in front of Duncan, Gawain motioned for him to pour another. When his father had downed his second drink, he faced his son.

Duncan sat down in one of the oversized leather chairs opposite his father and watched as the older man ran a wrinkled hand through his thick, gray hair. A handsome man, Gawain MacKinnon was not Duncan’s biological father, nor was he Scottish. The older man had earned the title of Laird when he had first defeated the New World Order nearly 50 years ago. As a Knight in the Templar army, Gawain had dedicated his life to freeing the Dwellers—those forced to live underground to avoid persecution from the Order’s rule. For that, he earned the trust and adoration of not only the Dwellers, but the Templars as well. He quickly rose in power and took over the castle when the rightful heir, Ian MacKinnon, had died protecting his three-year-old nephew, Duncan, from a rogue New World Order soldier. Gawain had taken Duncan under his wing, as well as the other occupants of the castle, and had raised Duncan as his own, ensuring the young lad had a keen appreciation and love for all life. Gawain had eventually brought other children to the castle to foster and adopted a young girl, Fiona, as well. The two were raised as brother and sister—brought up with a clear understanding of what it meant to be Genetic born, yet part of the resistance.

Gawain cleared his throat and settled back in the chair, effectively bringing Duncan out of his reminiscing. Duncan settled into the leather chair, setting his drink on the handcrafted table next to him. A leather sofa was placed on the opposite side of the two chairs, with the entire ensemble facing a massive fireplace. Plush tapestries and area rugs added warmth to a room that very seldom saw anything but military planning and strategic commands.

Castle Dunrobin was Duncan’s ancestral home. The centuries old castle, situated north of Inverness, Scotland, was originally built sometime in the late 14^th century, although the earliest written records mentioned 1401. The castle had an outer curtain wall—popular at that time—stretching around the castle on either side of the heavily fortified outer gate-house. The castle provided a distinct military advantage with its crenellated parapet and allure, the small walkway that allowed access between the parapets. The castle boasted several underground tunnels and passages that allowed for a safe retreat—should circumstances call for it—and its location along the bluffs meant the Order’s army would be easily seen.

“Have you talked to the Seer about her vision?” Gawain said, interrupting Duncan’s thoughts.

“Not since the night of the celebration,” Duncan replied, staring into his whiskey as if it alone held the answers to the universe. Nearly a week ago, they had hosted a party to celebrate the defeat of Hawkins and the collapse of his army. But before they had a chance to raise their glasses, the Seer had collapsed. A vision of Hawkins, very much alive, dispensed with their celebration and sent Gawain and his son into conference with their military leaders. Hours later, their fears were confirmed: Hawkins was still alive and had regrouped his northern armies in Germany. And while this came as a blow to the Templars, the other part of Caitriona’s vision was even more troubling. She had repeatedly noted the blood moon and that three would be needed to defeat the Order’s army.

“She has no idea what it means, other than what she’s shared with us,” Duncan added.

“Have you contacted Martinez?”

“Aye. They have the girl, but they dinna think she is the one the Seer prophesies.” Duncan swirled the whiskey in his glass. This time he took his time with the smooth liquid, letting it sit on his tongue before he swallowed it.

His father nodded, lost in his own thoughts.

“I can bring them both together, but if her prophesy is correct, there is still one more who is needed. It might be Nicolas, but I dinna believe he has enough genetic DNA tae wield any type of magic outside of what he’s already shown a propensity for.”

“I agree, son. And as far as I know, we’re the only ones who have used time travel to bring a gifted forward.” A comfortable silence settled between them, both lost to their own thoughts. “Have you said anything to Caitriona?” Gawain asked, interrupting the silence.

Duncan looked up and met his father’s eyes. “Nay.” His answer was clipped. He didn’t want to think about what that would mean. He was already on precarious ground with her, having proven, on more than one occasion, that he was unable to protect her. And, on top of his failings, the only thing he had to offer was the target that would be forever painted on her back.

He ran his hand through his thick black hair that fell nearly to his shoulders. Tiny lines framed his eyes and a deeper line ran between his brows, evidence of the responsibility and burdens he shouldered. There was a light peppering of grey around his temples, but otherwise, it was nearly impossible to tell he was just a few years south of 40.

“It would be better to tell her before you leave, son. She needs to prepare herself.”

“Aye, and Nicolas needs tae know as well.” He didn’t think he could bear to look into Caitriona’s liquid eyes, not with the knowledge of what he must do. “I’d best be gettin’ on wi it then,” he said, standing. “Will ye notify Martinez?” he asked his father.

The older man nodded. “He isn’t going to like it either. But it can’t be helped. We need to know if she is the one from Caitriona’s vision.”

“And if she is?” Their eyes met and neither acknowledged what they both knew to be true.

“One bridge at a time, son. One bridge at a time.”