The man who'd raised her, who'd controlled every aspect of her life for twenty-four years, who'd haunted her dreams and shaped her fears—gone. Just like that.
Ada's breath came shallow and rapid. Her hands trembled at her sides. She should feel something, shouldn't she? Grief. Horror. Some kind of daughterly sorrow.
But all she felt was... empty. Hollow. Like someone had scooped out her insides and left nothing but a shell.
"Ada."
Magnus's voice seemed to come from very far away. She blinked, tried to focus, but her gaze kept returning to that still form on the ground.
He'd really been going to kill her. His own daughter. The child he'd brought into this world.
She'd seen it in his eyes in those final moments—not regret or hesitation, but cold calculation. She was a problem to be solved, a liability to be eliminated. Nothing more.
How long had he felt that way? Years? Since she was born? Had there ever been a moment when he'd looked at her and seen a person rather than a tool?
"Ada, look at me." Magnus's hands were on her shoulders now, warm and solid. Real. She forced herself to lift her gaze from her father's body to his face.
Magnus looked terrible. Blood spattered his face and hair, his armor was dented and torn, and exhaustion lined every feature. But his eyes, his hazel eyes were clear and steady and full of concern for her.
"It's over," he said quietly. "He cannae hurt ye anymore."
Ada's lips moved but no sound came out at first. When her voice finally worked, it was barely a whisper. "He was really goin' tae dae it."
"Aye."
Ada's voice cracked. "He looked at me and all he saw was—was something that needed to be destroyed. Like I was nothing. Like I never mattered at all."
Magnus's hands tightened on her shoulders. "Ye matter. Tae me. Tae everyone on Barra who's come tae care about ye. His blindness daesnae change yer worth."
"But he was me faither." The words came out broken now, tears spilling over despite Ada's best efforts to hold them back. "He was supposed tae…faithers are supposed tae…"
She couldn't finish. Couldn't articulate the fundamental wrongness of it all. That the man who should have protected her had threatened her life. That the person who should have loved her most had seen her as nothing more than property.
The first sob caught her by surprise, tearing from her throat before she could stop it. Then another. And another. Until she was crying in earnest, her whole body shaking with it.
Magnus pulled her close, wrapped his arms around her despite the blood and smoke and chaos still surrounding them. "I ken," he murmured into her hair. "I ken it hurts."
"It shouldnae," Ada gasped between sobs. "He was terrible. Cruel. He tried tae kill me. I should be relieved he's dead but I just—I just?—"
"Ye're mournin' the faither ye should have had. The one ye deserved but never got." Magnus's hand moved soothingly up and down her back. "That's nae the same as mournin' him."
The words hit something deep inside Ada, unlocked something she hadn't known was locked.
He was right. She wasn't grieving for Conall MacTavish, the man who lay dead at her feet. She was grieving the phantom father she'd invented as a child—the one who would someday love her if she was just good enough, obedient enough, useful enough.
That father who had never existed. Had never been real.
The one she'd spent her whole life chasing anyway.
"Some men are too lost tae save," Magnus said quietly. "Too twisted by their own ambition and cruelty tae ever be what they should be. Yer faither was one of them. And I'm sorry fer that, Ada. Sorry that ye didnae get the faither ye deserved."
"I thought—" Ada's voice was muffled against his chest. "I thought maybe if I tried hard enough, he might love me."
"Nay. Naething ye could have done would have changed him. This wasnae yer failure. It was his." Magnus pulled back enoughto tilt her face up, his thumb brushing away tears. "Dae ye understand that? Ye did nothing wrong. The fault was always his."
Ada nodded, though part of her still struggled to believe it. Years of conditioning didn't vanish in a moment, no matter how much she wished it would.
Around them, the camp was growing quieter. The last of the fighting had ended, the surviving enemy soldiers either captured or fled.
