Three years ago, Alastair had named Torin the Captain of the East Guard. After the ceremony, Torin had held out his hand, and the laird had cut his palm with his sword—steel enchanted with awareness. The pain had run deep, deeper than any other blade Torin had ever felt. It sank into his bones and relentlessly ached, as if his hand had been cleft in two. He had carried that pain and walked the edges of Eastern Cadence—her rugged coastline, her border between west and east—letting his blood drip on the earth and the water. Just as the Captain of the East Guard had done before him. No one could step foot on Eastern Cadence without him feeling it.

His blood was bound to the land.

He could have told Jack that the last scout he had intercepted had been on the southern shore of Cadence, near the place where Roban had confronted Jack the other night. But Torin didn’t.

He didn’t tell Jack it had been a Breccan warrior who had attempted to swim his way over, who foolishly believed that Torin couldn’t feel a trespasser in the eastern tides. He didn’t tell Jack that the Breccan had been armed and viciously fought Torin in the sand, or that Torin had interrogated the scout in the same cave where he had given his plaid and heather ale to Jack in welcome. He didn’t tell Jack that when the Breccan had remained silent, giving none of his plans away, Torin had killed him and dumped his body in the ocean.

No, he hadn’t told anyone of that night. Not even Sidra.

He parted ways with Jack, following the trail his guards had forged up the hill. And Torin had to finally ask himself . . . What? What was he was searching for? A ribbon, a shoe, a shred of clothing? A physical trace that would lead him somewhere? A door that opened to another realm? A manifested spirit who would be helpful and guide him to the girls? A body? His initial search for Eliza and Annabel had been unsuccessful, but perhaps that was because he was relying on his physical limitations.

When he reached his guards on the road, Torin sent them ahead to Mirin’s with orders to search her land. He trailed behind, his eyes sweeping the thick grass and the deer trails, and he was almost to Mirin’s croft when he came across a glen he had never encountered before. A narrow, deep valley with a river flowing along its floor, trickling over rocks.

He paused, wondering if this river would lead to a portal. Ever since he was a lad, Torin had longed to uncover one, to pass through a doorway that would usher him into the spirits’ domain.