The Golden Crossing
The dream does not begin with waking, but with the weight of the water. It is a river that should not exist, flowing through the hollows of the Shetland hills, carrying the silt of centuries in its dark, slow current. You are standing on the bank, your boots sinking into the mud, and the air tastes of iron and old blood. This is not the Scotland you knew, where the rain was a grey curtain over...
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