Danielle shivered as she trudged through the misty ruins of Dunscaith Castle, her boots crunching against the damp ground. The brooding Scottish sky hung heavy above her, the promise of rain thick in the air. She had read about the castle’s mythical past, about the warrior-witch Scáthach and the legends of her mystical fortress.
But standing here, surrounded by crumbling stone and the whisper of history, she felt something more—something unexplainable. The air buzzed as if it carried a charge. The ground itself felt different beneath her feet.
The rest of her tour group had wandered ahead, leaving her alone.
She should have hurried after them.
Instead, her fingers traced the rough, moss-covered wall, her mind slipping into the past. What had this place been like before time wore it down? Were warriors really trained here? Did battles rage on these very grounds? She sighed. If only she could see it as it was.
The thought sent a strange tingle through her fingertips.
Small, half-hidden, wedged between two broken stone pillars. It was impossible—she had walked this area twice already, and there had been nothing but ruined walls.
A gust of wind curled around her, pushing strands of her dark hair into her face. A whispering sound—or was it just the wind?—seemed to beckon her closer.
Her lawyer’s brain screamed this is ridiculous, but her gut? Her gut urged her to open the door.
She hesitated only a moment before gripping the heavy iron latch and pulling.
The door swung open without a creak.
No longer cold, no longer damp.
It smelled different—smoky, like wood-burning fires and damp earth. And the light… it wasn’t the dull gray of a Scottish afternoon. It flickered with the warm, golden glow of torchlight.
Danielle took a step forward.
Her heart pounded as she crossed the threshold.
The moment she did, a force slammed into her.
She stumbled, falling against something solid—a broad chest.
Strong hands gripped her arms, steadying her.
Danielle’s head snapped up.
Not a tourist. Not a tour guide.
Towering, clad in plaid and leather, with long dark hair, a chiseled jaw, and eyes that gleamed like emeralds in firelight. A massive sword was strapped across his back, and he was staring at her as if she had fallen from the sky.
“Lass,” his deep, heavily accented voice rumbled, sending a shockwave through her, “where in the devil’s name did ye come from?”
Danielle’s breath caught in her throat.
She turned, whipping around to find the door—her way back.
Replaced by solid, ancient stone.
This wasn’t Dunscaith Castle’s ruins.
This was Dunscaith Castle.
And she was no longer in the 21st century.
Danielle gasped. The warrior’s grip tightened.
“Ah, hell,” she whispered.
Then, from somewhere outside the stone halls, a horn blared—loud and ominous.
The warrior’s expression darkened. His grip on her shifted from steadying to protective.
“Ye best be ready, lass,” he murmured, drawing his sword.
“Ready?” she echoed, heart pounding. “For what?”
He turned toward the archway, muscles tensing.
Then the doors burst open.
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