The Faded Frontier
The dream was wet. Miles had always dreamed of water. Not the clean, silver water of the mountain springs he had left behind in the highlands of Scotland, but the black, churning slurry of the new world’s rivers. In the dream, he held the jar. It was small, no larger than a child’s fist, made of thick, dark glass that had turned cloudy with age. Inside, a single drop of blood hung suspended in...
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