The Golden Quest
"You're bleeding, Mhairi." I looked down. My hand was red, the chisel slipped in the wet rock. "It is only a scratch, Callum. Hold the lamp steady." The wind off the loch was a physical weight, pressing against the canvas of our tent. I could smell the wet wool of my coat and the metallic tang of the ore. My shadow, cast by the kerosene flame, did not move when I shifted my weight. It stayed...
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