Celtic Metal Up Lifting Music, "Mists of Forgotten Stone"

The mist clung to the land like a half-remembered dream, curling around the ancient stone pillars that rose from the earth as if they had grown there. They stood in silence, tall and patient, their surfaces etched with knotwork and runes worn thin by centuries of wind and rain. A faint blue light pulsed within the carvings, slow as a heartbeat.

She stood among them alone.

Her leather armor bore the marks of long use—cracked, mended, darkened by age—yet the knotwork tooled into it spoke of careful hands and old pride. Muscle moved beneath the hide as she shifted her weight, sword held low but ready. The blade was notched, its edge scarred by battles she could no longer fully recall, and it caught the dim light like rippling water.

Her green eyes, flecked with gold, searched the horizon. Recognition stirred there, followed by confusion, as though the land itself were calling her name in a language she once knew fluently and had somehow forgotten. The wind tugged at her flame-red hair, wild and unbound, feathers and bronze charms woven through it chiming softly with each gust.

She reached out with her free hand and laid her palm against one of the pillars. The stone was cold, damp with moss, yet something stirred beneath her touch. A tremor of warmth, of memory—fires burning on distant hills, laughter, blood on grass, a promise spoken beneath the open sky. The visions slipped away before she could grasp them, leaving only a hollow ache in her chest.

The air hummed, thick with magic that had never truly faded. Somewhere beyond the mist, a wolf howled, its voice long and lonely, echoing across the stones. She straightened, drawing a steady breath, fingers tightening around her sword.

Whatever she had lost, whatever this place still held for her, she knew one thing with absolute certainty: she had not come here by accident. In this place between history and myth, the land was waiting