Lady Moira lay on the ground, half-propped on one elbow. A tall man loomed above her, his hands red, a dirk glinting in his grip. He turned toward Sorcha with a snarl.

She didn’t think. She just moved, blade flashing as she lunged. The man laughed until the steel sank into his side.

He stumbled, gasped, and fell.

Silence settled over the hall, broken only by her breathing. She stood over him, shaking, her small hands stained, knuckles white around the hilt. She feared her mother would be angry with her for what she had done—but when their eyes met, there was no anger there. Her mother only watched her, eyes bright, as though she were truly seeing her. Then she whispered Sorcha’s name, soft and fading, before her head dropped back.

Footsteps thundered down the hall. Shouts. Tavish. More voices. Her father.