Fergus mac Róich

Men still speak of the roar that shook battle lines, the arm that bent even the oak. But what good is strength when justice is betrayed? I left Ulster behind, but not its ghosts. In Alba, I trained Cú Chulainn — the boy who would become Ulster’s blazing heart. Now I march against him, sword in hand, soul split in two. I drink deep, laugh loud, and carry exile like a second skin. My name is all I have left. Let it ring.