Oblivion Standing Stones Novels & Stories

The light gently came from the source as though it was tapping out a rhythm. He next said, “We’re approaching something ancient as much as we are going higher.” Something left behind. But not abandoned.” They stepped through the shimmer. --- The summit was made of a large and flat stone. Like a platform. At the very heart of the circle are a set of standing stones. Various figures, such as trees, rivers, stars, hands, were carved onto each stone. Many of them were known to me because I had visited them in the city. Some were new.

So she moved with them, her wet dress clinging uncomfortably to her legs as she walked, watching as they all gathered at a specific point in the clearing. The space looked different from the rest of the area somehow, though Lyralei couldn’t quite put her finger on why. Ancient standing stones formed a circle around the spot, each taller than three men and carved with symbols that looked older than anything she’d ever seen. The symbols reminded her of the books in her pack’s library, the ones that talked about the old world before the territories were divided. Deep claw marks scored the stones’ surfaces like something had tried to tear them down and failed, the gouges so deep she could fit he

He was currently, according to Jax's last message, "extremely bored and being very irritating about it." Day seven. Node nine. An old standing stone in a field that three generations of the Thornridge pack had been using for informal boundary marking without knowing it was a covenant node. The contamination here was the most sophisticated yet, threaded through the stone's structure in a pattern that took me almost an hour just to map before I could begin addressing it.

The morning air is thick with the scent obsoletism, a reminder of the earth’s resilience amidst turmoil. ******* The Old Watchtower of Clovis City once loomed as an unyielding sentinel, a symbol of unmatched authority and relentless vigilance. Its obsidian walls, weathered by centuries of storms and battles, rose high above the treetops, an indomitable figure etched against the blood-orange horizon. Legends whispered that the stones of the tower were soaked in the blood of those who dared defy its dominion—each crack in the stone, a scream, each weathered groove, a forgotten battle.

Returning to her side, Adea was standing before the most peculiar and unnerving sight she had ever seen. In a small opening in the brush, a series of small stone slabs were standing perched in a circular pattern. There were seven of them, and they were positioned around a cleared space that looked large enough to fit a full-grown person. Just outside the circle of stones, there were three larger slabs perched the same way evenly spaced apart from one another. She looked over at Lyda, whose face was lit up with excitement.

The air grew colder. In a small, rocky clearing, we found it. A circle of seven standing stones, no taller than my waist, covered in thick moss and ivy. They looked utterly mundane, forgotten. But in the center of the circle, the moss was grey and dead. And from that dead patch, a thin, silver mist was rising, smelling exactly as Maia described: like a frozen lightning bolt and moonlight on a tomb.

“Tell me where.” He breathed once, steadying. Then he drew it for her with words. “The fog shelf falls off the ridge like a white river,” he said, gesturing east. “We’ll move high where it thins but not so high the ash gullies eat our ankles. There’s a scent path only the old make—iron and wild rosemary. Follow it when you can. Ignore it when you can’t.” “And the standing stones.” “Black rock, taller than a man, set crooked like broken teeth in a jaw,” he said. “The ground around them hums. You’ll feel it in your feet.”

“Come. The tide is receding. The memory will rise soon.” Clara hesitated for only a moment before following. As they descended into the cave, the air grew thick, not with moisture—but with pressure. As if they were being watched by something buried just beneath the surface of reality. The passage narrowed and then opened into a chamber lit by bioluminescent fungus trailing from the ceiling like hanging spirits. At the center stood a pool of still water surrounded by eight standing stones, each carved with ancient glyphs and sealed with handprints—some small, some impossibly large.

she said and leaned towards Iktanne's ear and whispered, "... we've heard a few days ago in the library from the proctors that the Giants were collecting gold and souls from the normals. They said that there was an insignia left on the shores of the north... which might cause a great trouble because it links back here in the Academy and the Empire." Iktanne's face was wild with shock. "What insignia was it?," she whispered back. "Well, we don't know for the bell started ringing for our next class so we weren't able to get what they were saying." The blond guy, Anthony, stood up from the other end of the couch and interrupted them, saying he'll be away to get some food. He looked at Iktanne's

POV: Barzil The platform stones were cold. They siphoned the remaining heat from my boots, the chill climbing my shins. I stood at the edge of the stone dais in the center of the ruined plaza. My palm was slick with sweat against the pommel of my sword, the grip-texture biting into my skin. Below me, a density of biological forms—Lycans, Nulls, and Rogues—surged against the containment line. "Death! Death! Death!"