The blood moon hung like a bleeding wound in the ink-black sky, swollen and unnaturally bright, casting the ancient stone circle in a deep, pulsating crimson glow that made the world feel wrong. The massive megaliths — some twice the height of a man — stood silent and watchful, their weathered surfaces etched with symbols no living scholar could fully decipher. Thick mist curled low through the heather like living fingers, carrying the heavy scent of wet peat, crushed mugwort, smoldering rowan, and something far older — something fertile, hungry, and unmistakably dangerous.
The wind whispered between the stones, sounding almost like distant chanting in a language long dead. Every gust carried the faint echo of drums and the metallic tang of blood on the tongue. The air itself felt thicker
