Run: 2026-02-17-01KHMN2HSQ30FDB4T2QSX2Y9QH

The pendant lay heavy against Rory’s collarbone, its crimson glow bleeding through the thin fabric of her shirt like a slow, uneven heartbeat. She adjusted the strap of her delivery bag, the weight of the takeout containers inside suddenly oppressive. The night air was thick with the scent of damp earth and something older, something wild and green that didn’t belong in Richmond Park this late. Or ever. She shouldn’t have come. The standing stones loomed ahead, their gnarled oaks black against the bruised purple of the sky. The last time she’d been here, the grove had been alive with golden light, the air humming with the kind of magic that made her skin prickle in a way that wasn’t entirely unpleasant. Now, the stones stood silent, their bark slick with what looked like dew but felt like something thicker when she brushed her fingers against them. Her breath fogged in front of her, though the night wasn’t cold enough for it. Rory exhaled sharply through her nose. *Get in, get the damn thing, get out.* That was the plan. The pendant had led her here, its pulse growing warmer, more insistent, until the heat had seeped through her shirt like a brand. Whatever was on the other side of those stones, it wanted her here. Or it wanted the pendant. She wasn’t sure which was worse. She stepped between the stones. The world tilted. For a heartbeat, there was nothing but the rush of wind in her ears, the taste of copper on her tongue. Then her boots hit soft earth, and the grove unfolded around her—not the wild, overgrown clearing she remembered, but something *wrong*. The trees were too tall, their branches twisting into shapes that made her stomach clench. The wildflowers that should have carpeted the ground were there, but their petals were too bright, too *wet*, glistening under a moon that hadn’t been in the sky a moment ago. It hung low and swollen, casting long shadows that didn’t behave like shadows should. Rory’s fingers twitched toward the pendant. It was burning now, a steady throb against her sternum. She swallowed hard and forced herself to walk forward. The clearing opened up ahead, and that’s when she saw it—the altar. It hadn’t been there before. She was sure of it. A slab of dark stone, slick with something that caught the moonlight in a way that made her think of oil, not water. Atop it lay a knife, its blade curved like a sickle, the handle wrapped in what looked like strips of leather. Or skin. Rory’s pulse hammered in her throat. She didn’t touch it. Didn’t even breathe. A sound cut through the silence. Not a sound, exactly. A *feeling*. Like the air itself had been plucked, a low, resonant hum that vibrated in her bones. Rory spun, her boots sinking slightly into the damp earth. Nothing. Just the trees, their branches swaying in a wind she couldn’t feel. Then—movement. At the edge of her vision. A flicker of something pale, darting between the trunks. Rory’s breath hitched. She took a step back, her heel knocking against the altar. The knife clattered to the ground. The humming stopped. Silence rushed in, so thick it pressed against her eardrums. Rory’s fingers closed around the pendant. It was scalding now, the heat searing through her shirt. She gritted her teeth and yanked it over her head, holding it out in front of her like a talisman. The crimson glow pulsed faster, casting jagged shadows across the ground. Something laughed. It wasn’t a human sound. It was the creak of branches, the whisper of wind through dead leaves, the wet click of a throat that wasn’t meant to form words. Rory’s stomach lurched. She turned slowly, the pendant trembling in her grip. Between the trees, a figure stood. Tall. Too tall. Its limbs were long and spindly, jointed in ways that made her eyes ache. Its skin—if it was skin—was the color of birch bark, smooth and pale, stretched too tight over a frame that didn’t seem to have bones. No face. Just a smooth expanse where features should have been, save for a vertical slit that might have been a mouth. It tilted its head, and the slit widened. Rory’s breath came in shallow gasps. She took a step back, then another, her boots sinking deeper into the earth. The thing mirrored her, gliding forward with a grace that was all wrong, all *unnatural*. The pendant burned hotter, the glow flaring like a dying star. The figure stopped. The slit in its face twitched. Then it spoke. The voice wasn’t a voice. It was a chorus of whispers, layered over one another, some high and childlike, others deep and guttural. *"Little thief,"* it said. *"Little thief with the stolen heart."* Rory’s fingers clenched around the pendant. "I didn’t steal it," she said, and her voice sounded small, pathetic. "It was given to me." The thing laughed again, the sound like cracking ice. *"Given. Taken. What is the difference?"* It stretched out a hand—too many fingers, too long—and the air between them shimmered, warping like heat off pavement. *"The heart calls. The heart knows. The heart* hungers."* The pendant seared her palm. Rory gasped and nearly dropped it, but she forced herself to hold on. The thing’s fingers twitched, and the ground beneath Rory’s feet *shifted*. The earth rippled, bulging upward like something was pushing its way out. Roots burst from the soil, writhing, coiling around her ankles. She stumbled, her free hand shooting out to brace herself against the altar. The roots slithered up her legs, cold and damp, tightening like ropes. The figure leaned closer. Its breath—if it had breath—smelled of rotting flowers and wet stone. *"Give it back,"* it whispered. *"Give it back, and we will let you leave."* Rory’s vision swam. The roots were creeping higher, winding around her waist, her ribs. She could feel them *pulsing*, like veins. The pendant was a brand against her skin, its glow flickering wildly. She gritted her teeth and yanked it away from her chest, holding it out toward the thing. "Take it," she snarled. The figure recoiled. The roots stilled. For a heartbeat, there was silence. Then the thing let out a sound like a scream, high and keening, and the grove *shuddered*. The trees bent inward, their branches lashing like whips. The altar cracked down the middle, the stone splitting with a sound like a gunshot. Rory stumbled back, the roots retreating, slithering back into the earth as if burned. The pendant’s glow flared blindingly bright. Rory squeezed her eyes shut, but the light seared through her eyelids, painting the inside of her skull red. The thing screamed again, and this time, the sound was *human*—a raw, guttural wail of pain. Rory’s stomach lurched. She forced her eyes open. The figure was *unraveling*. Its limbs stretched, thinning, dissolving into tendrils of smoke that writhed and twisted before being swallowed by the wind. The slit of a mouth gaped wide, and for a terrible second, Rory thought she saw *teeth*—rows of them, needle-thin and glistening. Then the smoke rushed in, and the thing was gone. The grove fell silent. Rory stood frozen, her breath ragged, the pendant still clutched in her trembling hand. The glow was fading, the heat ebbing away until it was just a warm weight against her palm. The altar was nothing but rubble now, the knife lost somewhere in the undergrowth. The trees stood straight again, their branches still. The wildflowers swayed gently in a breeze that didn’t exist. She was alone. Rory exhaled shakily and sank to her knees. The earth was damp beneath her, the scent of crushed petals rising around her. She lifted the pendant, turning it over in her fingers. The crimson glow was gone, the gemstone dark and lifeless. Something moved in the trees. Rory’s head snapped up. Between the trunks, at the edge of the clearing, a shadow shifted. Not the spindly, wrong thing from before. This was *human*. Tall. Broad-shouldered. A man, watching her with eyes that gleamed faintly in the moonlight. She didn’t wait to see if he was friend or foe. Rory ran.