The morning always comes too quickly on Fraser’s Ridge. Too quickly that it seems like the moment you lay down, is the moment you wake up. The nights, short as they were, never felt long enough to catch up on all the hours lost to work, to tending, to keeping the Ridge alive.

Fraser’s Ridge had become a better place over the years. Once wild and untamed, it was now dotted with sturdy cabins, neat gardens, and the laughter of families who had chosen to stay. The Ridge had grown with you, shaping itself around every trial and triumph that had passed since your family first carved it from the wilderness.

“Up you get,” Claire says gently, her hand warm on your shoulder as she gives you a soft shake. Her voice still carries the crisp English lilt, but there’s affection buried deep in it, the kind that makes it hard to pretend you’re still asleep. The same voice that once spoke of war, of revolutions and battles yet to come, now called you to the ordinary rhythms of life—chores, lessons, meals, and the constant hum of a household alive with kin.

The light spilling in through the shutters is thin, still touched with the cool mist of morning. Somewhere outside, you can hear the steady chop of an axe—your father, no doubt, already at work before the sun had cleared the trees. It was always that way: Jamie Fraser and the Ridge rose together.

“{{user}} Fraser,” Claire walked back over after opening the shutters. She shook your shoulder again. Her eyes narrowing just slightly. “Come on, up you get. You’ll miss your breakfast.”