Run: 2026-02-17-01KHMPADVXWMTAES3VGS1E3PPT

The air in Richmond Park tasted different after midnight—thicker, heavier, like the atmosphere itself had grown teeth. Rory zipped her jacket higher, her breath curling in pale wisps as she stepped off the paved path. The Heartstone pendant pulsed against her collarbone, a slow, insistent warmth that had drawn her here. She hadn’t questioned it. Not after the dreams. The standing stones loomed ahead, ancient oaks twisted into impossible shapes, their bark blackened as if scorched by some long-ago fire. Between them, the air shimmered faintly, like heat haze in winter. The Fae Grove. Eva had warned her about this place—*time moves funny there, Rory. Don’t linger.* But Eva wasn’t here. No one was. Rory’s fingers brushed the crescent scar on her left wrist, an old habit when her nerves prickled. The trees whispered as she crossed the boundary, their branches creaking in a wind she couldn’t feel. The grove opened before her, a perfect circle of wildflowers blooming out of season, their petals too vibrant under the moonlight. The pendant’s warmth sharpened. Then the first wrong thing: a laugh. High and bright, it skittered between the trees, too close and too far all at once. Rory froze. The sound didn’t belong—not here, not now. It was the laughter of a child at a birthday party, of a girl swinging too high in a sunlit park. Not this midnight place. The flowers shivered. No wind. She exhaled slowly, forcing her shoulders to relax. *Just your brain filling silence.* But the pendant throbbed, its crimson glow seeping through her shirt. Another laugh, this time behind her. Rory spun. Nothing but shadows and silvered grass. Then—movement. A flicker at the edge of vision, something darting between the stones. Too fast to be human. Too *fluid.* Rory’s pulse hammered in her throat. She should leave. Now. But the pendant burned hotter, tugging her forward. The flowers parted as she stepped deeper into the grove, their stems bending away from her boots as if repelled. The air smelled wrong—cloying sweetness undercut by something metallic, like old blood. The standing stones formed a tighter ring here, their trunks fused together in places, knotted like clenched fists. Another laugh. Directly above. Rory looked up. The girl perched in the branches was beautiful in the way of sharp things—all edges and gleaming intent. Her dress was made of leaves stitched with spider silk, her hair a cascade of living ivy. Too-long fingers curled around the oak’s limb, nails blackened and pointed. "You’re late," the girl said, grinning. Her teeth were perfect. And slightly *serrated.* Rory’s hand closed around the pendant. "I wasn’t aware we had an appointment." The girl tilted her head, birdlike. "Oh, but you *called.*" She dropped from the branch, landing soundlessly. "All those little whispers in the dark. *Help me. Find me.*" Her voice shifted as she spoke, mirroring Rory’s own cadence, her own inflections. Ice slid down Rory’s spine. She hadn’t spoken those words aloud. Not ever. The girl stepped closer. The wildflowers withered where she walked. "You carry *his* stone," she murmured, reaching for the pendant. "Poor lost thing. He should never have given it to you." Rory stepped back. "Who?" The girl’s grin widened. "Now *that* would spoil the fun." A rustle in the undergrowth—then another, and another. Shapes moved between the trees, their forms indistinct but undeniably *there.* Watching. Waiting. The pendant’s glow turned feverish, its pulse erratic. The girl sighed. "They’re hungry. It’s been so long since we had a guest." She leaned in, her breath smelling of crushed petals and damp earth. "Run, little rabbit." Rory didn’t hesitate. She bolted for the standing stones, the laughter erupting around her in cascading peals. The trees groaned, their branches lashing like whips. Something snagged her jacket—she wrenched free, heart slamming against her ribs. The boundary shimmered ahead. A hand closed around her wrist. Rory twisted, swinging her elbow back. It connected with something solid. The grip loosened. She didn’t look back. Then she was through, stumbling onto the ordinary grass of Richmond Park, the ordinary night air cold in her lungs. The pendant cooled instantly, its glow fading. Behind her, the grove stood silent. Empty. But as Rory turned away, a whisper trailed after her—soft, singsong, in her own voice: *"Next time, don’t run."*