The Dawn Watchman
## Chapter I: The Signal The wind on Eilean Mor did not blow so much as it carved—scooping out channels through stone and peat and the salt-crusted bones of gulls, leaving behind only the shapes that could withstand it. Ewan MacAskill had spent seventeen years learning the difference between shapes that withstood and shapes that merely pretended to. The lighthouse stood at the northernmost...
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