Run: 2026-02-17-01KHMQE6P1F9TZ45QVNX5CZKFA

The air in Richmond Park thickened as Rory stepped beyond the ring of ancient oaks. Not literally, of course—she could breathe just fine—but something in the quality of the night resisted her. The usual hush of woodland at midnight had gone taut, like a drumskin pulled too tight. She hesitated, one hand brushing the small crescent scar on her left wrist, a habit when nerves whispered too close. The Heartstone Pendant lay warm against her collarbone, hidden beneath her coat. It hadn’t pulsed yet, but its weight felt heavier than before. That was probably just her imagination. Or the cold. She moved forward, crunching over twigs that cracked louder than they should have. The trees here weren’t the same as the rest of the park. They were taller, their trunks smooth and silver-barked, their roots looping from the soil like sleeping serpents. This was the boundary. She’d read about it in Eva’s old notebooks, half-dreamt annotations about liminal places, about the grove that wasn’t on any map. The Fae Grove. Rory had come for proof. Not because she believed—no, she didn’t believe—but because something had changed in the last week. The pendant had appeared on her doorstep wrapped in cloth, no note, no postmark. Then the dreams: a voice calling *Laila*, a name she didn’t know, from deep within a forest that smelled of crushed laurel and iron. And every night since, the pendant had fluttered against her chest, warm fingers of light spreading beneath her skin when she passed certain alleys, certain shadows. Tonight, it had thrummed like a second heartbeat the moment she stepped onto the path leading into Richmond Park. As if guiding her. She crossed between two oaks standing farther apart than the others, their branches interlaced overhead like clasped hands. A threshold. The moment she did, the temperature dropped. Not sharply—just enough that her breath curled in front of her in slow, visible wisps, though the night had been mild only fifty yards back. The grove opened before her: a perfect clearing ringed by standing stones, not of stone at all but of blackened, petrified wood, carved with symbols that made her eyes ache if she stared too long. Wildflowers bloomed in clusters beneath her feet—bluebells, snowdrops, even a few roses—out of season, out of sense. Their scent was cloying, thick with honey and something darker, like spoiled wine. Rory exhaled, shaky. “Okay,” she said aloud, just to hear her own voice. “Just look. That’s all. Look and leave.” She unzipped her coat, fingers brushing the pendant again. The crimson gem glowed faintly from within, like embers banked under ash. Not pulsing. Not yet. Just… watching. She took three steps forward. Then stopped. A sound. From behind. A rustle. Not in the bushes. Not in the trees. It had come from *between* the stones. Like fabric dragging over bark. She turned slowly. Nothing moved. The wildflowers swayed slightly, though there was no breeze. “Hello?” she called, voice too loud in the silence. No answer. Just the drip of unseen moisture, the faint creak of wood. She swallowed. *You’re tired. You’re stressed. You’ve been having nightmares—all because of the pendant, because of the stress with—* A flicker. To her right. She snapped her head toward it. A shadow, just beyond the edge of her vision, retreating behind one of the standing trees. Not animal. Too tall. Too still. “You’re not alone,” she whispered, and hated herself for saying it, because now it was real. The pendant warmed. A pulse. Gentle, like a heartbeat. Then another. She took a step back. The flowers beneath her boots felt spongy, yielding, as if the earth had softened. The air smelled different now—still sweet, but laced with something coppery, something old. Then came the whisper. Not in her ears. In her *head*. A voice, dry as dead leaves, curling through her thoughts like smoke. *“Laila…”* She flinched. Her breath came fast. “That’s not my name.” But it *had* been, hadn’t it? In the dreams. In the fragmented memories she couldn’t place—of firelight, of a woman with silver hair singing in a language that twisted the air. Of running. Always running. The voice came again, softer, closer. *“You came back.”* “No,” she breathed. “I don’t even know where I am.” The pendant pulsed harder. Warmth spread down her chest, up into her throat. She wanted to rip it off, but her fingers wouldn’t obey. Between the trees, something shifted. She saw it fully this time. A figure. Tall, too tall, limbs elongated like stretched candle wax. It stood motionless, just within the ring of stones, facing her. Its skin—if it was skin—was the color of bruised bark, its face smooth and featureless except for two dark hollows where eyes should be. And its hands… long, too long, fingers ending in points like splintered wood. It didn’t move. It didn’t need to. Because now there were more of them. Silent. Still. Peering from behind the trunks. Framed in the arch of the oaks. Watching. The flowers at her feet began to wilt. One petal at a time, the bluebells blackened, the roses collapsed into themselves, their scent turning to rot. The ground beneath her boots grew soft, then slick. And the voice—no, voices now—spoke as one, threading through her mind like roots. *“You opened the door.”* “I didn’t,” she said, backing away. “I didn’t open anything.” *“You carry the key.”* The pendant flared. Crimson light flared across the grove, illuminating the figures. For a split second, she saw them clearly—not trees, not people, but something in between, something ancient and ravenous. Then the sound began. Not a roar. Not a scream. A *crack*, like splitting timber. From deep beneath the earth. The standing stones groaned. The ground trembled. One of the trees split open down the middle, steam rising from the fissure. From within, something glistened—a wet, pulsing mass, veined and breathing. The figures stepped forward in unison. Rory turned and ran. But the path was gone. The oaks had shifted. The clearing now stretched too far in every direction, the flowers dead and the air thick with the stench of decay. Behind her, the cracking grew louder. And the pendant—her chest—burned now, not warm, but *searing*, as if the stone had caught fire. She stumbled, fell to her knees. The soil gave way like wet paper. And from beneath, cold fingers, black and root-like, curled around her ankle. The whisper came again, not in her mind this time, but in the air, all around, from the trees, the stones, the dying flowers: *“Welcome home, Laila.”* She screamed. The sound didn’t echo. It was swallowed. And then—silence. The grove stood empty. The wildflowers, now, began to bloom again.