Run: 2026-02-17-01KHMN2HWWB4XRMBJ4EV16GHDE

The air in the Grove was too thick, too sweet, like honey left too long in the sun. Aurora—Rory, to her friends—had always prided herself on her ability to read a room, a city, even a person. But this place? This was a living thing, breathing in and out around her, and it wasn’t telling her anything. She adjusted the strap of her backpack, the weight of the Heartstone Pendant pressing against her chest like a second heartbeat. The pendant had been a gift from someone who knew more than they let on. *Find the Grove when the moon is high,* the note had said. *And bring the pendant.* No name. No explanation. Just that and the faintest pulse of warmth against her skin, as if the stone itself were waiting. The standing stones loomed ahead, their gnarled oaks stretching toward the sky like skeletal fingers. The moon hung low and fat, casting long, shifting shadows that didn’t quite match the landscape. Rory stepped between the first two stones, her boots crunching on the damp earth. The moment she crossed the threshold, the world seemed to exhale. Then inhale. The wind picked up, not with a gust, but with a whisper—too many whispers, overlapping, murmuring in a language just beyond understanding. Her pulse quickened. She told herself it was the wind. Told herself she was being paranoid. But the Grove wasn’t supposed to feel like this. She followed the winding path deeper, the pendant’s glow flickering faintly against her ribs. The air grew colder, though the night was warm. The wildflowers here—pale bluebells, goldenrod, something she didn’t recognize—bloomed in defiance of reason, their petals heavy with dew. A few brushed against her sleeve as she passed, and she flinched, half-expecting them to cling. A sound. Not the wind. Not an animal. A *step.* Rory froze. The path was empty. The trees stood still. Her breath came shallow, her fingers tightening around the pendant. She turned slowly, scanning the darkness. Nothing. Then—another step. Closer this time. She whirled, heart hammering, but the path was clear. The moonlight pooled around her feet, silver and unbroken. She exhaled, but the air caught in her throat when she realized she wasn’t alone. Something was *watching.* Not from the trees. Not from the shadows. From the *flowers.* The bluebells nearest her drooped, their heads turning as one toward her. Their stems bent, twisting, forming a path—no, a *shape*—right in front of her. A face. A mouth. Petals parted, revealing rows of tiny, needle-thin teeth. Rory stumbled back, her breath ragged. The pendant burned against her skin. She yanked it free, holding it up like a shield. The flowers recoiled, their petals curling inward. *Stupid. Stupid, stupid, stupid.* She turned and ran. The path twisted, the trees closing in. The air smelled of iron and something older, something *wrong.* Her lungs burned. Her legs ached. She didn’t dare look back. Then the ground gave way. Not under her feet—*around* her. The path beneath her feet dissolved into thick, vine-like roots, coiling around her ankles. She yanked free, but the roots lashed out again, faster this time. She fell to her knees, scrambling backward, but the Grove seemed to shift with her, the path reforming just as she tried to step away. The pendant pulsed violently in her hand. A voice—if it could be called that—slithered through the air. Not words. Not quite sound. A *feeling,* like teeth scraping against bone. *You shouldn’t have come.* Rory’s breath came in ragged gasps. She clutched the pendant tighter, her knuckles white. The roots coiled higher, wrapping around her wrists, her forearms. She twisted free, but the moment she did, more roots burst from the earth, blocking her escape. The flowers were moving again. Not just the bluebells. The goldenrod. The strange, thorned things she hadn’t noticed before. They all turned toward her, their petals unfurling, revealing more of those teeth. The pendant burned hotter. She had to get out. She had to— A hand closed around her ankle. Rory screamed. The touch was cold. Too cold. The hand—no, the *thing* wearing her skin—pulled her down. She hit the ground hard, the breath knocked from her lungs. The pendant fell from her grip, skittering into the dirt. The Grove swallowed it whole. The roots tightened around her wrists. The flowers advanced. And then—silence. Not the silence of the night. Not the silence of the Grove. The silence of something *waiting.* Rory’s vision blurred. Her pulse hammered in her ears. She could feel it—the thing beneath her, the thing that had pulled her down, the thing that had been waiting for her to come. The pendant had led her here. And now it was too late.