Staring up at the stars that pierced through the velvet black of night, Cara ran her fingertips along the edge of the scar on her hip.

She had many scars, and all meant something. A Mord'Sith's scars mapped their life; their victories and defeats.

Marks of honor.

And shame.

Sometimes both.

Sometimes neither.

The scar she felt now, the raised ridge on her side, was a mark she did not have a name for.

It was the place where the Seeker had plunged a knife, back in those days when she still wore a braid, that strange averted future where a new Lord Rahl ruled.

There had been a moment of hope when he told her of Darken's demise.

And a pang of sadness.

The father of her child was dead, but now her son ruled. She would take the Seeker to him and serve at his side, she would see his face, the man he had becomeā€¦

And then Richard had told her that Master Rahl was a Confessor. That Darken Rahl had taken Kahlan as his wife and sired an heir.

And disinherited Cara's unseen, secretly loved son.

She had tried to seduce Richard that night. The Mother Confessor had taken Cara's rightful place in the House of Rahl.

That was a sword that cut both ways.

But no, Richard Cypher was disgustingly good.

In the present, Cara glanced at Richard's sleeping face, firmly denying the frustrated fondness that rose in her chest.

"Cara, are you alright?" Kahlan asked from her position by the fire.

"Fine," Cara said, rolling over.

She wondered if her son had any scars.