Run: 2026-02-17-01KHMMXPS1VYB46E1N89KVGQW7

The air in Richmond Park was too thick, too heavy, like the moment before a storm when the sky itself holds its breath. Aurora Carter—Rory to herself, though no one called her that anymore—pulled her jacket tighter around her shoulders, the collar brushing the scar on her wrist, a faint reminder of the life she’d left behind. The pendant at her throat, the Heartstone, hummed faintly against her skin, its crimson glow pulsing once before settling into a steady, warm throb. She didn’t know why she’d brought it. The benefactor who’d given it to her in a back alley behind a pub in Cardiff had been vague, pressing a folded note into her palm before vanishing into the night. *"Find the grove. Trust the stone."* That was it. No explanation. No warning. She’d followed the directions anyway. The standing stones loomed ahead, their gnarled oaks twisting upward like skeletal fingers, their bark blackened as if scorched by something unseen. The path between them was overgrown, the wildflowers here blooming in defiance of the season—pale bluebells and golden ragwort, their petals too bright, too *wrong*. Rory’s breath came out in white clouds in the frigid air. She shouldn’t have come. She knew that. But the note had been specific. *The grove.* And the pendant had led her here, its warmth guiding her through the park’s familiar streets, turning left when she expected right, pulling her deeper into the woods than she’d ever ventured before. The last of the streetlights faded behind her, swallowed by the trees. The grove opened up ahead, a clearing so still it seemed to breathe. The air here was different—thicker, sweeter, like honey laced with something metallic. Rory’s pulse quickened. She shouldn’t have come. She stepped forward, her boots sinking into damp earth. The pendant’s glow flickered, brighter now, casting long shadows that didn’t quite match the shapes around her. The trees here were wrong, too. Their branches stretched too high, their leaves too dense, blocking out the stars. The moon was full, but it was pale, almost sickly, as if filtered through a veil of smoke. Rory’s breath hitched. *This isn’t right.* A sound. Not a rustle of leaves. Not the creak of branches. Something wet, like skin sliding against skin. She turned slowly, her fingers tightening around the pendant. The clearing was empty. Too empty. Then—a whisper. It slithered through the air, just beyond her hearing, just beyond her understanding. Rory’s skin prickled. She wasn’t alone. She took another step forward, her boots crunching on something brittle beneath her feet. Twigs? No. Something harder. Something *old*. The pendant pulsed against her chest, its warmth seeping into her skin, into her bones. She could feel it now, the pull of the grove, the way it *wanted* her here. Wanted her *inside*. Rory’s breath came faster. She shouldn’t have come. A figure moved at the edge of her vision. Tall. Too tall. Its limbs were wrong, too long, too slender, like a spider’s. It didn’t walk. It *flowed*, its movements liquid and smooth, as if it were made of smoke given form. Rory’s stomach twisted. She turned, but it was gone, vanishing into the shadows of the trees. She was alone again. The pendant burned hotter. The grove was calling her. She could feel it in her bones, a pull deep inside her, like a magnet dragging her toward something she couldn’t name. She shouldn’t have come. Rory forced herself to take another step. The air grew colder. The flowers here were different—pale, almost translucent, their petals curling inward like fingers. She reached out, brushing one gently. It crumbled to dust beneath her fingertips. The pendant pulsed violently, its glow casting jagged shadows across the ground. A voice, soft and sweet, like a lullaby sung by something not quite human. *"You shouldn’t have come."* Rory whirled. Nothing. The grove was empty. But the voice was still there, whispering in her mind, in her blood. She backed away, her heels hitting something solid. A stone. One of the standing stones. She pressed her palm against its rough surface. It was warm. Too warm. The pendant’s glow flared, casting her shadow across the stone, but her shadow was wrong—too tall, too elongated, its edges fraying like smoke. The voice laughed, a sound like wind through dead leaves. *"You’re already here."* Rory’s hands trembled. She shouldn’t have come. She *knew* that. But the pendant was burning now, its warmth seeping into her veins, into her soul. She could feel it, the grove’s hunger, its need. It wanted her. It *needed* her. She took a step forward, her boots sinking into the damp earth. The pendant’s glow filled the clearing, illuminating the wrongness of it all—the twisted trees, the pale flowers, the way the air itself seemed to twist and turn around her. The figure moved again, just at the edge of her vision, its form flickering in and out of existence like a mirage. Rory’s breath came in ragged gasps. She shouldn’t have come. But she was here now. And the grove was *hungry*. The pendant pulsed once more, its glow intensifying, casting long shadows that stretched and twisted, reaching for her. The figure moved closer, its form solidifying, its limbs too long, too slender, its face— Rory screamed. The pendant shattered in her hands, its crimson light exploding outward, filling the grove with a blinding, searing glow. The figure shrieked, a sound like tearing fabric, like something being pulled apart from the inside. The trees withered and blackened, their leaves crumbling to ash. The grove itself seemed to recoil, the air turning cold, the shadows retreating. Rory fell to her knees, her hands trembling, her vision swimming. The pendant was gone. But the grove was changing. The standing stones were crumbling, their bark peeling away like dead skin. The flowers were wilting, their petals curling inward, their colors fading. She was alone. The grove was empty. But the pendant’s warmth lingered in her veins, its glow still pulsing deep inside her, like a heartbeat. She could feel it now, the pull of the grove, the way it *remembered* her. The way it *wanted* her back. Rory stood slowly, her legs unsteady. She shouldn’t have come. But she was here now. And she wasn’t leaving. Not yet.