Jamie watched, frozen, as his father took a dirk and sliced his palm, pressing the red life-force into the stone. The rock drank it greedily. In that moment, Jamie understood: his family’s destiny hadn’t started with Claire’s fall through the circle. It had been bought and paid for by his father’s blood years before, a sacrifice to ensure that when a "Sassenach" finally arrived, the stones would recognize the Fraser line and let her through.

He realized then that he was never just a man caught in a story of time travel. He was the anchor. The blood of the Frasers was the key that turned the lock of history, a crimson bridge built so that love could find its way home across two hundred years.

Local legends spoke of the Fuil nan Creagan —the Blood of the Crags. They said that when the moon hung like a silver sickle, the stones would weep a dark, viscous sap. But Jamie, kneeling in the damp heather, saw it for what it truly was: a tear in the fabric of time that was physically hemorrhaging.

He stood, wrapped his plaid tight against the Highland chill, and looked toward the horizon. He couldn't go to her, but he knew now that the very earth beneath his feet was keeping the door open.