“I visited numerous times, entering through the secret of the river and empowered by the Orenna’s essence. I learned the lay of your lands, and I listened to the wind. I soon learned of the heiress. The only living child of the laird. And the Tamerlaines loved you. They called you Adaira, with hair the color of the moon and eyes the shade of the sea. And I knew it was you, Cora.”

“Enough!” Torin’s voice cut through the chamber. “Enough with this dribble. With your lies and your cunning, Breccan. Silence him, cousin.”

Adaira sat like stone, watching Moray’s blood continue to spill from his wound and pool on the floor at his feet. Her breaths felt shallow, and her heart was beating against her ribs. She raised her gaze back to his eyes and saw herself reflected in them.

“Why, then, did you steal the Tamerlaine daughters?” she asked.

“I wanted to tell you that day we met in the cave,” Moray said. “When you first wrote to me of a trade, it gave me hope. It was a sign that you were ready to come home. And I wanted to tell you the truth, so you would understand why I longed for vengeance. Why I chose to strike at the Tamerlaines’ hearts. But it was not my place to tell you.

“I took one of the Tamerlaine daughters, hoping to gain the attention of the eastern laird. For him to realize what was happening and tell you who you truly are. And when he did nothing, I took another. I determined to keep stealing lasses until someone in the east gave up the secret and spoke truth. I simply didn’t think it would take so long, that the Tamerlaines would be so tenacious and stubborn. I didn’t think the laird would pass away during my attempts, taking his secret to the grave as you rose in his place. I didn’t think that I would have to be the one to speak your story, to behold your face when you heard it for the first time, Adaira. Laird of the East who was born in the west. But here we are.”

Moray paused, his voice softening. “I’ve come to bring you home, Cora.”

Adaira had told herself that she wouldn’t feel anything, that she would take him prisoner after he reached the end of his tale. But she couldn’t ignore the mark, like a bruise, that the story left on her. The story was also like a sword—she couldn’t prevent it from cutting her heart in two. And the story was like a veil torn from her eyes—she couldn’t help but see her past from a different angle, even if it was ugly, terrible, and absurd.