Mairead's POV
Domnall finds me in the library three days after the dinner incident with Lord Garrett. I haven't seen him alone since then—we've been careful to maintain distance, to avoid giving anyone more ammunition.
"I have the first findings." He closes the door behind him, locks it. "About House Carraig."
My stomach drops. I've been both dreading and desperately wanting this information. "What did you find?"
He crosses to where I'm sitting, pulls up a chair close to mine. Sets a folder on the table between us.
‘"House Carraig was one of the most powerful families in Aeldmoor twenty-seven years ago. Direct descent from the old royal bloodline going back eight generations."
I open the folder with trembling hands. Documents, copied records, witness statements.
"Your mother, Lady Orlaith, was the family's heir." His voice is gentle, like he's breaking terrible news slowly. "Beautiful, intelligent, politically connected. She was genuinely considered as a bride for the late King before he married someone else."
I stare at a portrait sketch included in the documents. A woman with dark hair and hazel eyes that look disturbingly familiar. My eyes, my face, but older, more refined.
"What happened to her?" My voice barely works.
"The records show House Carraig fell suddenly during a political purge. Accusations of treason—never proven, never brought to trial, but enough to justify seizure of lands and execution of the main family line."
He pauses. "Your mother disappeared during this time. Presumed dead with the others."
"Presumed?"
"There's a gap in the records." He pulls out another document. "No body was ever found. The official records list her as deceased, but there's no grave, no burial documentation, no witness statements about her death."
My chest tightens. "So she might have survived?"
"She did survive. At least for a while." He pulls out a yellowed page, carefully preserved. "This is from a midwife's journal in a small northern village. The entry is dated twenty-seven years ago, nine months after Orlaith's disappearance."
I lean closer, squinting at the faded handwriting. The entry describes attending a difficult birth—a single child, daughter, mother in poor health. Then the name: Orlaith Carraig.
But the entry has been crossed out. Someone took ink and deliberately obscured it, tried to make it illegible. You can only read it by holding the page to the light.
"She gave birth." The realization hits me like a physical blow. "My mother survived the purge long enough to give birth to me, and then…"
"Then she was found." Domnall's voice is grim. "The midwife's journal stops abruptly after this entry. No more records from that village. My investigator found evidence that the midwife died within a week of attending the birth. Officially from illness, but the timing..."
"Catriona had her killed." I say it flatly. "To erase the evidence."
"That's what I believe." He pulls out more documents. "And look at this. A financial record from Lord Ewan Dunmore's accounts, dated two months after the midwife's entry. A large payment from an anonymous source. The amount matches what my mother typically pays for... delicate services."
My hands are shaking. "She paid my father to take me. To raise me as his bastard."
"To hide you in plain sight."
Domnall leans back, running a hand through his hair.
"It's actually brilliant in a horrifying way. A dead infant becomes a cause people rally around. A living heir in hiding becomes a threat people search for. But a bastard child, acknowledged only by surname, raised on the margins of a minor noble house…"
"Nobody." The word tastes bitter. "I was nobody, just another bastard daughter. Invisible."
We sit in silence for a long moment. I'm trying to process the weight of it—my mother running, hiding, pregnant and alone. Giving birth in a village she probably chose because it was remote, forgettable. Hoping somehow to keep me safe.
And then being found anyway. Killed anyway. While I was given to a man who took money to pretend I was his mistake instead of his cousin's murdered daughter.
"There's more."
Domnall's voice pulls me back.
"I found records of the political purge that destroyed House Carraig. The accusations of treason came from a single source, backed by testimonies that appeared overnight. No prior investigation, no warning. Just sudden accusations and immediate action."
"Your mother orchestrated it."
"She orchestrated it. She identified House Carraig as a threat to my eventual claim, manufactured evidence of treason."
He meets my eyes.
"She used her influence with the King to authorize the purge, and when your mother escaped and went into hiding—pregnant, vulnerable—my mother hunted her down and had her killed."
The rage building in my chest is so intense I can barely breathe. "She murdered my mother. She murdered an entire noble house. She erased my heritage, my identity, my right to exist as anything other than—" My voice breaks.
Domnall reaches for my hand. I let him take it.
"If she'd just killed me too," I say quietly, "it would have been cleaner. Kinder, even. Why let me live?"
"I've thought about that." His thumb strokes across my knuckles. "I think I know why."
"Tell me."
"Because a dead heir becomes a martyr." His voice is careful. "If you'd died with your mother, if people knew Orlaith's daughter was murdered, it would have created sympathy, questions. Some might have wondered if the treason charges were real or manufactured."
He pauses. "But a living bastard is just... nobody. You're not a threat, not a martyr. You're just another forgotten child, raised on the edges where no one looks twice. My mother could watch you, control your circumstances, ensure you never learned the truth. And if you ever did become a threat..."
"She could eliminate me quietly." I finish the thought. "Just another bastard dying of illness or accident. No one would question it."
"Exactly." His grip on my hand tightens. "Keeping you alive and ignorant was safer than killing you and risking the questions that might follow."
I pull my hand away, stand up, walk to the window. The garden outside is bright with afternoon sun, flowers blooming in careful rows. Everything ordered and controlled and perfect.
"So I have a stronger claim to the throne than you do." I say it to the window, to my own reflection. "My mother was considered as a bride for the late King. House Carraig had direct royal descent. If anyone knew who I really am…"
"The entire succession becomes complicated." Domnall stands, moves to join me at the window. "My mother's careful positioning, her strategic marriages, all the political alliances she's built—they'd all be questioned. Because the woman she murdered had a daughter with a stronger claim than the son she's trying to install."
I turn to face him. "Does it bother you? That I might have more right to the throne than you do?"
He's quiet for a moment, studying my face. Then he smiles—a real smile, not the careful political one. "Honestly? It's a relief."
"A relief?"
"I never wanted the throne. I never asked for any of this." He gestures vaguely at the estate, at everything his position represents. "My mother wants it, she's built her entire identity around securing my succession. But me? I'd be perfectly happy never being king."
"Your mother would never accept that."
"No." His expression hardens. "She wouldn't. Which is why we need to decide what we're going to do with this information."
"What can we do?" The question feels hopeless. "Your mother controls everything. She has allies, resources, political power. She's been building this for decades. What can we possibly do against that?"
He takes my hand again, pulls me away from the window. "We can tell the truth. We can find more evidence, can build a case strong enough that even my mother can't suppress it."
"And then what? I claim the throne?" I laugh, and it sounds bitter even to my own ears. "I'm a bastard tutor with three illegitimate children. Who would support my claim?"
"You're not a bastard." His voice is firm. "You're Lady Orlaith's legitimate daughter. Your mother was unmarried when you were born, yes, but she was nobility. You have royal blood. And with the right evidence, the right allies…"
"The right allies." I pull my hand back. "You mean you."
"I mean me. And others. There are people who would support a legitimate heir over my mother's political maneuvering." He pauses. "Mairead, I'm not saying this will be easy. I'm saying it's possible."
I sink back into my chair, exhausted. "I need time to think about this. To process what it means."
"Of course." He gathers the documents carefully, closes the folder. "Take all the time you need. But Mairead."
He waits until I look at him. "Whatever you decide, I'm with you. Not because of thrones or politics or succession. Because you deserve to know the truth about who you are."
He leaves, taking the folder with him. I sit alone in the library, staring at nothing, trying to reconcile the woman I thought I was with the woman these documents say I am.
The question is: what do I do with that knowledge now that I have it?