Run: 2026-02-17-01KHMMX67THNAVA26ZGF56FKAZ

--- The air in the Grove was too thick, like breathing through wet wool. Aurora—Rory, if anyone asked—pulled her coat tighter around her shoulders, the silver chain of the Heartstone pendant digging into her collarbone. She’d come at dusk, when the light still bled gold through the trees, but now the sky was a bruised twilight, the kind that made shadows stretch too long. The standing stones loomed ahead, their gnarled oaks whispering against the wind that didn’t exist outside this place. She’d told herself it was a fool’s errand. The pendant had pulsed warm in her palm when she’d held it near the map in the bar’s back room, its crimson glow flickering like a dying ember. *Find the Grove*, it had seemed to say. But the Fae Grove wasn’t on any map. Not the ones that mattered, anyway. And yet here she was, stepping between the last of the oaks, the world tilting just slightly beneath her feet. The first wrongness was the silence. Not the absence of sound—there was the rustle of leaves, the distant hoot of an owl—but the way the world held its breath. No cars. No distant laughter from the park’s visitors. No hum of London’s endless pulse. Just the Grove, breathing in some slow, ancient rhythm. Rory’s boots crunched over dead leaves, the sound too loud in the stillness. She flexed her fingers, checking the pendant again. The warmth had faded, but the stone still hummed, faint and insistent. *This is where you’re supposed to be.* The standing stones marked the boundary, their carvings worn smooth by time—or something else. She ran her fingers over the bark of the nearest oak, the rough texture familiar, yet wrong. The Grove wasn’t supposed to feel *alive*. It was supposed to be a place, a pocket between worlds, not a living thing. A twig snapped. Rory froze. The sound had come from the left, just beyond the circle of light her phone cast. She turned slowly, her pulse hammering in her throat. Nothing. Just the trees, swaying slightly, as if in agreement. *Get a grip. It’s just the wind.* But the wind didn’t have hands. She exhaled, forcing herself to move deeper into the clearing. The pendant’s glow pulsed again, brighter this time, as if answering some unspoken question. The air grew cooler, damp with the scent of earth and something older, something like wet stone and iron. Her breath fogged in front of her face, though the night was unseasonably warm. Then she saw it. A shape, half-hidden in the undergrowth. A figure, crouched low, its limbs too long, too slender. Not human. Not quite. Rory’s stomach twisted. She should turn back. She should run. But the pendant burned against her chest, a searing reminder that she was here for a reason. The figure didn’t move. Rory took a step closer, her breath shallow. The thing was too still, like a statue carved from shadow. Then, slowly, it lifted its head. Its face—if it could be called that—was a smooth, featureless mask, save for two slits where eyes might be. It tilted its head, and Rory’s skin prickled. *It’s watching me.* She swallowed. “You don’t belong here.” The thing didn’t answer. It didn’t need to. Its presence was a physical weight, pressing down on her chest, making it hard to breathe. Rory backed up, her heel catching on a root. She stumbled, but forced herself to stay upright. “I’m not here for you.” The figure rose, its movements fluid, almost liquid. It was taller than she’d realized, its limbs bending in ways that made her stomach clench. The pendant pulsed violently, its warmth searing through her coat. *Run.* She turned and bolted, her boots pounding against the damp earth. The trees blurred past her, their branches clawing at the sky. She didn’t look back. She couldn’t. Then the ground gave way beneath her. Rory screamed as she fell, her hands scrambling for purchase. She hit the earth hard, the wind knocked from her lungs. She gasped, rolling onto her side, her vision swimming. The pendant was still around her neck, its glow flickering weakly. Something was wrong. The Grove wasn’t supposed to shift like this. The standing stones were still there, but the clearing had changed. The trees were denser, their branches twisting into shapes that made her skin crawl. And in the center of the clearing— A figure stood there, watching her. It was taller than the others, its form wreathed in shadows that seemed to breathe. Its face was still a smooth mask, but now Rory could see the way the light caught in the hollows, the way it *leaned* toward her. It raised a hand, and the air between them rippled, like heat haze over pavement. “You shouldn’t have come,” it said. Rory’s blood turned to ice. The voice wasn’t a voice. It was a chorus of whispers, layered like the rings of an ancient tree. “I—I don’t know what you want.” The figure took a step forward. “You do.” Rory scrambled backward, her spine hitting the rough bark of a tree. The pendant burned against her skin, its glow intensifying. She clutched it, her nails digging into her palm. “I’m not here for you. I’m here for the portal.” The figure tilted its head. “The portal is not for you.” “Then what is it?” Silence. Then, softly: “It is a wound.” Rory’s breath hitched. “A wound?” “A place where the world bleeds.” The figure stepped closer, its shadow stretching unnaturally long. “And you are the needle.” The pendant pulsed so hard it felt like it might break her skin. Rory’s vision swam. She was dizzy, her thoughts scattering like leaves in a storm. “No. I—I don’t understand.” “You will.” The figure’s hand extended toward her, its fingers long and delicate. “You are the one who will stitch it shut.” Rory shook her head, her teeth chattering. “I don’t want to.” “Then you will leave.” The figure’s voice was a knife against her skull. “And the wound will fester.” Rory’s mind raced. The pendant. The map. The way the Grove had *pulled* her here. She wasn’t supposed to understand. She was supposed to *do*. “Fine,” she whispered. “But I need to know why.” The figure hesitated. Then, reluctantly: “The Hel portal is not meant to be opened. It is a key, and you are the lock.” Rory’s stomach twisted. “I don’t have a key.” “You do.” The figure’s hand hovered just above her wrist, its touch a phantom brush against her skin. “And when you turn it, the world will remember what it was before the breaking.” The pendant burned. Rory’s vision blurred. She was falling again, but this time it wasn’t the ground that gave way—it was her own body, dissolving into the Grove, into the shadows, into the thing that wasn’t a thing but was watching her, waiting. She squeezed her eyes shut. When she opened them again, the figure was gone. The Grove was different. The trees were thinner, the air lighter. The standing stones stood sentinel, their carvings clearer now, their purpose revealed in the faintest of ways. Rory stood, her legs unsteady. The pendant’s glow had dimmed, but it still pulsed, warm against her skin. She flexed her fingers, checking for any sign of the thing that had been there. Nothing. Just the Grove, just the night, just her. She turned toward the standing stones, her steps sure now. She had a key. And she was going to turn it.