Run: 2026-02-17-01KHMN08R8M8SRQRH2PBD5BX2V

The air in the grove was thick with the scent of damp earth and something older—something that clung to the trees like a second skin, warm and familiar in a way that made her stomach twist. Aurora Carter adjusted the strap of her backpack, her bright blue eyes flicking over the standing stones that lined the boundary of Richmond Park. The moon hung low, a sickle of silver bleeding into the dark, but the grove itself was already alive with shadows, pulsing with a kind of quiet violence. She had come here for a reason, but the moment she stepped beyond the park’s familiar edge, the weight of it settled in her bones. She exhaled sharply, the breath catching in her throat. The trees here were different—taller, their bark etched with patterns that weren’t quite bark at all, more like the raised veins of something far older. The wind carried whispers, not the rustle of leaves, but a murmur that slithered along her skin, just beyond hearing. Aurora’s fingers tightened around the Heartstone pendant at her throat. It pulsed faintly, warm against her pulse, a reassurance she didn’t need but clung to anyway. She moved deeper, her boots crunching over fallen branches, the sound muffled by the thick canopy overhead. The grove stretched before her, a labyrinth of twisting paths, each one leading somewhere else entirely. The air grew colder, sharper, as if the very air itself was holding its breath. A sound—a wet, dragging noise—cut through the silence. Aurora froze. It came again, closer this time, a sound like something dragging itself along the ground, slow and deliberate. Her pulse hammered in her throat. She turned slowly, scanning the darkness. Nothing moved. Not yet. But the trees seemed to lean in, their branches brushing against one another as if in conversation. Her breath hitched. This wasn’t right. The grove wasn’t supposed to feel like this. A twig snapped. Aurora whirled, her heart pounding. Nothing. The silence returned, but it wasn’t the same. It was heavier. She pressed her back against the trunk of a massive oak, her fingers digging into the rough bark. The Heartstone pulsed again, its crimson glow faint but steady, a beacon in the dark. She needed to leave. Now. But the weight of the grove pressed down on her, a physical force, like the earth itself was trying to pull her under. The whispers grew louder, closer, a chorus of voices just beyond hearing, murmuring in a language that wasn’t quite English, not quite anything. Aurora’s vision blurred. She could see them now, just beyond the edge of her vision—shadows, moving in the dark, too many to count, too many to be real. She stumbled back, her breath ragged. The ground beneath her feet felt unstable, as if it was shifting beneath her. The standing stones loomed closer, their ancient faces carved with symbols that made her skin crawl. *This isn’t happening,* she thought, but the words felt hollow, like they didn’t belong to her anymore. A hand closed around her wrist. Aurora screamed, her body jolting forward, but the pain was already there, sharp and sudden, like a blade against her skin. She stumbled, her foot catching on a root, and she fell, landing hard on her knees. The world tilted. The grove was wrong. It was *wrong*, and she was the one who had come here, who had let herself be drawn in. The whispers were louder now, a chorus of voices, all speaking at once, all saying the same thing. *You’re not alone.* Aurora’s vision blurred. The Heartstone burned brighter, its crimson glow cutting through the dark, but it wasn’t enough. She was drowning, and the water was rising, and she couldn’t swim. She couldn’t breathe. She couldn’t *move*. The standing stones shifted, their ancient faces twisting into something else, something that made her stomach lurch. The trees parted, revealing a path that didn’t exist before, a way out, but it was too late. The shadows were closing in, and she was being pulled into them, into the grove, into whatever waited beyond the edge of the dark. Aurora’s last thought was of the Heartstone, of the way it had felt in her hand, warm and familiar, but now it was cold, and it was slipping from her fingers, and she knew, with a certainty that cut through the terror, that she was already gone.