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Sheona’s breath caught in her throat. Her hand flew to her mouth, her knees trembling beneath her skirts.

“Andrew…” she whispered, her voice fracturing into the quiet morning air.

The brother she had lost. The young heir, whose body had been buried beneath the sea, left without a grave, without a marker, without a prayer.

She felt Brodie step up behind her, his looming presence a warm, solid weight against the cold shock washing over her.

“When the body of a loved one cannae be returned to the earth,” Brodie explained softly, his gravelly voice devoid of any laird’s steel, “I believe the soul still deserves a place where it can be remembered. A place where the wind carries their name.” He paused, looking down at the crest he had ordered carved in secret. “It is nae a burial, Sheona. It is a farewell. A promise that he willnae be forgotten.”

The words shattered her.

All the grief she had carried in secret—all the silent, suffocating agony of having nowhere to lay her tears, nowhere to mourn the boy who had grown up beside her—erupted like a dam breaking.

With trembling fingers, Sheona reached down, plucking a single, bright sprig of yellow charlock from the earth. She stepped up to the dark stone, pressing her forehead against the cool, carved granite for a brief, shattering moment before laying the blossom gently atop her brother’s crest.

Her legs could no longer hold her weight. Slowly, she sank to her knees among the flowers, her dark skirts pooling around her in the gold blossom field. She buried her face in her hands, her shoulders shaking violently as deep, gasping sobs finally tore from her chest.

Brodie did not walk away. He did not leave her to weep alone in the silent meadow. He dropped to one knee beside her in the damp grass, his massive frame shielding her from the mountain breeze. Without a word, he reached out, drawing her against his broad chest, letting her rest her forehead against the thick wool of his plaid as she wept for the dead.

The cold damp of the earth seeped through the wool of Sheona’s skirts, but she hardly felt it. Her fingers remained pressed against the rough, newly carved grooves of the MacFaris crest, tracing the curve of the boar’s tusks until her skin grew numb.

Beside her, Brodie sat back on his heels, his heavy knee resting in the golden charlocks, his presence a silent wall against the mountain wind. He stayed, letting the silence hold the weight of her tears until her breath slowed from ragged gasps into long, trembling exhalations.

When Sheona spoke, her voice was barely more than a whisper, rough with the grief she had carried alone for so many months.

“He was older than me by three winters,” she murmured, her gaze fixed on the bright yellow blossom resting atop the granite. “Whenever me father’s temper turned dark—whenever the roar of his voice echoed down the hall—Andrew would see it first. He had this way of steppin’ between us. He would catch me by the wrist, whisper a silly joke, and send me runnin’ off to the stables before me father could turn his eyes on me.”

A faint, sad curve touched her lips at the memory, though a single fresh tear slipped down her cheek. “Andrew stayed behind every time. He bore the blows. He took the isolation in the high tower, the dark, the missed meals. He bore the punishment himself, just so I would nae have to.”

She reached out, her thumb smoothing a fleck of dried mud from the edge of the stone.

“The last time I saw him,” she continued, her chest aching with a hollow, physical pain, “was when he was goin’ to battle. He grabbed me shoulders, looked right into me eyes, and promised me that one day, when he became Laird, no one would ever frighten me again. He said he would build a life where I could be safe. He said he would come find me.” Her voice cracked, a quiet sob catching in her throat. “Now he is gone. And with him… the only person who ever loved me without askin’ for anythin’ in return.”

She bowed her head, her forehead resting against her knuckles. The wind whistled through the high pine canopy above, rustling the golden field around them.

“I ken what me father was, Brodie,” she whispered, the honesty tearing at her throat. “I ken how the glen suffered under his hand. I ken why everyone hated him… and I cannae blame them. He was a cruel, bitter man who cared for nothin’ but power and blood.”

Slowly, Sheona turned her head, her tear-stained face lifting to look directly at the man kneeling beside her. Her vivid blue eyes searched his dark, unreadable face, desperate for the truth she had feared since the day he had dragged her from the ruins of her home.

“I still wonder…” she began, her voice steadying with a quiet, desperate courage. “When ye look at me, do ye see anythin’ more than the daughter of the greatest enemy of the Highlands?”

Brodie did not flinch. He did not reach out to touch her, keeping a deliberate, respectful distance between them. Yet he remained steadfastly beside her, refusing to steal her grief or pretend he could erase it. He met her gaze with a dark, steady intensity that felt heavier than any oath.

Brodie held her gaze for a long moment. His jaw worked once, as if the words had to be hauled up from somewhere deep.

"Nay," he said at last. "I daenae."

He shifted, his dark eyes turning away from her face to settle upon the carved granite stone. The golden light of the morning sun caught the sharp angles of his jaw, highlighting the deep, brooding lines etched into his brow.

“When me father looked at me…” Brodie said softly, his voice echoing in the vast, quiet meadow, “he never saw a son. Only the man who would one day replace him.” He paused, a bitter, sarcastic smile briefly touching the corner of his lips before vanishing like a shadow. “Me mother was like that too. Every victory was expected. Every failure proved I was unworthy.”

Sheona held her breath, her own tears forgotten as she watched the formidable Laird bear a scar he kept buried deeper than his keep’s lowest vaults.

Brodie let out a slow, heavy breath that turned to white steam in the crisp mountain air. “When he died… people feared me. They looked at me and saw only his blood, his iron, his cruelty made anew.”

He fell silent for a long beat, his large hands resting loosely over his knees, his knuckles white against his dark leathers.

“Me sister was the only good thing left in me life,” he continued, his voice dropping an octave, raw and thick with a grief he rarely gave words to. “Then she died too. Took by the winter cough before she turned twenty.” His chest expanded in a deep, painful rise as he stared at the MacFaris crest. “Me wife followed a year later. She died givin’ Angus life.”