Let's see...how did it begin? Ah yes, I remember. 

The wind swept low over the moor, sharp and relentless, cutting through my jacket like needles of ice. I crouched beside the newly unearthed stone, my gloved fingers brushing delicately over the ancient carvings. The spiraling symbols seemed to hum with significance, as though the stone itself was alive, whispering secrets from a world long buried.

The Scottish Highlands stretched endlessly around me, rugged and unforgiving, their isolation offering no comfort. The crisp, earthy scent of damp moss mingled with the faint, metallic tang of the wind, and the low whistle of the breeze through the rocks seemed to echo like whispers in the emptiness. This wasn’t just another dig site to me, it was an obsession. The pull I felt here, in this exact spot, had defied all logic and reason. When the first reports of strange artifacts surfaced in this remote corner of Scotland, I had abandoned every project to be here.

The carvings were unlike anything I had encountered before. Their intricate spirals and patterns defied the usual motifs of known Celtic designs, yet they carried an unmistakable resonance. It was as if they bridged the gap between art and language, a forgotten script whispering fragments of a story lost to time. I had studied countless ancient sites, but nothing had struck me with the same haunting familiarity. Symbols wove around one another in intricate patterns, their meaning lost to time but somehow deeply resonant. The cold bit at my exposed neck, and my breath formed a fleeting mist as I leaned closer, tracing one of the more prominent figures.

A lone figure, etched beneath a stylized wave, stood with arms outstretched. The details were faint but undeniable, an image of a single person facing something immense, unrelenting.

I frowned, my gloved hand hovering over the figure. “What are you trying to tell us?” I muttered.

The ground beneath me seemed to hold its breath, the faintest tremor pulsing under my boots.

A sharp caw broke the stillness, jolting me. A raven landed on the edge of a nearby rock, its feathers sleek and glossy against the gray sky. Its beady black eyes fixed on me with unnerving focus.

Ravens had always unsettled me. My grandmother’s stories about them flooded back unbidden—tales of the Morrigan, the Celtic goddess who took the form of a raven to deliver omens of death and transformation. She would tell them by the fire on stormy nights, her voice low and full of gravity, warning me that ravens were never just birds but harbingers, watching and waiting for the right moment to act. The memory felt distant now, but the unease it stirred remained fresh. I scoffed at the memory, but the bird’s unyielding stare stirred something primal.

“Don’t read into it,” I murmured to myself, trying to shake the feeling. But the raven didn’t move, didn’t flinch. It perched like a silent sentinel, watching, waiting.

“What do you make of it?”

The voice startled me. I turned to see Hamish, my assistant, trudging over the uneven ground. Hamish was built like the landscape—solid, blunt, and impossible to shake. A former soldier, he had turned to assisting archaeologists after a string of unlucky jobs left him searching for steadier work. His hands, calloused and strong, seemed better suited to wielding a hammer than delicately brushing away centuries of dirt, but he had a knack for uncovering hidden layers beneath the surface. Mud clung to his boots and coat, and his ruddy face was pinched against the wind.

“Make of what?” I asked, standing to stretch my legs.

Hamish gestured with a gloved hand toward the stone. “All that scratching. Looks like decorations to me.”

I shook my head, brushing off the light dust that had settled on the carvings. “It’s more than decoration,” I said, my voice low. “This pattern… it’s deliberate, almost like a warning.”

Hamish snorted. “A warning, eh? What kind of warning?”

I ignored him, kneeling again to trace the spirals. I couldn’t shake the feeling that the carvings weren’t just random. They were a message, something left behind deliberately.

“It’s not just decoration,” I repeated, my voice quieter now. “Look at this figure, here, standing beneath the wave,” I pointed to the faint outline of the lone figure, arms outstretched. “They were trying to tell us something. Maybe a message for the future. Or a memory. Something they didn’t want forgotten.”

Hamish crouched beside me, squinting at the stone. “A memory, maybe. But if they were trying to warn us, they could’ve used less squiggly lines, eh? Can’t make heads nor tails of it.”

I smiled faintly but didn’t respond. My fingers lingered over the carvings as though the stone might somehow share its secrets through touch.

“The locals have their stories,” I said finally, glancing at Hamish. “They say this place is a crossing point. A thin place, where belief can part the veil.”

Hamish’s expression hardened, his usual jovial skepticism faltering. “A thin place, you say? You don’t believe that rubbish. Do you?”

I shrugged. “Belief and understanding aren’t the same thing, are they? But I’ll tell you this—places like this, they’re more than just dirt and rocks to me. They’re fragments of something bigger. Pieces of a world we’ve nearly forgotten.”

The raven let out another sharp caw, drawing our attention. It hopped forward, closer to me, tilting its head as though daring me to interpret its presence.

A sudden gust of wind howled through the moor, and for a moment, the carvings on the stone seemed to shimmer, the light shifting unnaturally over the surface. I blinked, unsure if my mind was playing tricks on me.

“Did you see that?” I asked, my voice tight.

Hamish frowned. “See what?”

“The light. It moved.”

Hamish shook his head. “I think you’ve been staring at that thing too long. Come on, let’s call it a day before the weather gets worse.”

But I couldn’t tear my eyes away. Something about the stone felt alive, humming with energy just beneath the surface. I leaned closer again, pressing my hands firmly against the cold rock.

The ground trembled.

Not faintly this time, this was a real tremor, subtle but undeniable. Hamish grabbed my arm, pulling me back as a low rumble echoed across the moor.

“What the bloody hell was that?!” Hamish asked, his voice sharp.

I didn’t answer. My heart was pounding, adrenaline rushing through my veins. I turned my gaze back to the stone, and for the briefest moment, I thought I saw the outline of the figure beneath the wave glow faintly, its form pulsing with the same rhythm as the tremor beneath my feet.

The raven took off suddenly, its wings cutting through the air like blades, voicing its indignation.

“Let’s get back to camp,” I said, my voice steadier than I felt.

Hamish didn’t argue.

As we made our way back across the moor, I couldn’t shake the feeling that I was standing on the edge of something monumental. The symbols on the stone, the tremor, the raven, it all felt connected in a way I couldn’t yet understand.

The wind picked up again, carrying with it the faintest sound, like a whisper on the edge of hearing. I stopped mid-step, turning back to the dig site.

“What is it now?” Hamish asked, exasperated.

“Nothing,” I said quickly, though my pulse quickened.

But it wasn’t nothing. Deep in my bones, I felt it. Something had awakened.