Run: 2026-02-17-01KHMQE6PA15ES81KGM0X6P75T

The air in Richmond Park was always damp at night, clinging to the back of the throat like wet wool, but tonight it tasted of copper and ozone. Rory pulled her jacket tighter around her frame, the black fabric absorbing the weak starlight. The GPS on her phone had died ten minutes ago, the screen flickering into a static grey void before going completely black, but she didn’t need it anymore. She could feel the pull. It wasn't a sound or a sight, but a physical thrumming against her breastbone. The Heartstone Pendant, usually a dormant, heavy weight beneath her shirt, was awake. Rory stepped over a gnarled root that snaked across the path like a brittle finger. To anyone else, this was just a dense thicket of ancient oaks bordering the park’s restricted southwest corner. To Rory, the boundary was visible in the way the wind died abruptly, leaving the air in a vacuum of stillness. The standing stones rose from the earth ahead—great, rough-hewn monoliths of petrified oak that marked the edge of the Grove. They shouldn't have been there, not according to any city map, but here they stood, silent sentinels guarding a threshold that didn't belong in modern London. She paused, her breath misting slightly in the unnatural chill. Her cool-headed nature, the trait that had got her through three years of an abusive relationship and a frantic escape to the city, urged her to turn back. This was stupid. Coming alone, at night, without backup or a weapon, was the antithesis of survival. But the pendant pulsed again, a rhythmic heat that seared through her skin, dragging her forward. It was a warning, yes, but also a hook. She ducked between two of the leaning oak pillars. The transition was instantaneous, a physical pressure change that popped her ears. The sounds of the distant city—the hum of the A205, the sirens, the late-night traffic—vanished as if sliced off by a blade. In their place was a silence so absolute it rang in her ears. Rory stood in the Fae Grove. It was beautiful, in a terrible, perfumed way. Wildflowers, impossible hybrids of violet and crimson, bloomed in thick carpets across the clearing, their petals glowing with a faint, sickly luminescence that contradicted the lack of moonlight. The flora here didn’t obey the seasons; it bloomed with a frantic, parasitic vitality, feeding on the magic that leaked through the pocket dimension. She took a few steps deeper, her boots sinking into the ground with a wet sucking sound. The earth here felt spongy, too yielding, as if the soil was made of decomposing matter centuries old. "Hello?" she whispered. Her voice didn't echo. The air swallowed the sound whole. The pendant flared hotter. This wasn't the gentle warmth she associated with the proximity of a Hel portal; this was an aggressive, biting heat. It was reacting to something specific, something that set the stone on edge. Rory scanned the perimeter of the clearing. The trees at the edges were twisted, their branches reaching inward like gnarled arms. They were still, yet Rory felt a sudden, prickling sensation at the nape of her neck—the instinctive certainty of eyes watching. She stopped walking. You're being paranoid, she told herself. This is just a park. A weird, magic park, but still just geography. But the logic felt thin, stretched like old paper. She reached up and touched the silver chain of the pendant, tracing the metal down to the gemstone. It was almost burning now. Then came the sound. It was subtle—dry leaves skittering over stone. But there were no dry leaves here. The flowers were fleshy and succulent, and the trees were evergreen oaks. The sound came from behind her, to the left, near the standing stones she had just passed. Rory spun around, eyes narrowing. Nothing. Just the looming darkness of the oak pillars and the swaying grass. "Show yourself," she said, her voice steadier than she felt. She wasn't a fighter, but she had learned to fake confidence, to project a threat she didn't possess. The silence stretched, taut and vibrating. Then, a rustle. Closer this time. Inside the clearing. Rory’s heart hammered against her ribs, a frantic bird in a cage. She looked for the path she had taken, the gap between the stones, but the shadows seemed to have lengthened, obscuring the exit. The geometry of the grove felt wrong, the angles of the trees shifting slightly when she didn't look directly at them. She took a step back, then another. A low hum began to emanate from the center of the grove, vibrating in the fillings of her teeth. The pendant burned white-hot against her skin. She grabbed the chain, ready to yank it off, but her hand froze. From the corner of her vision, she saw movement. Not an animal, not a person. It was a shift in the texture of the darkness itself, a patch of shadow that detached itself from the base of an ancient tree and began to glide across the flowers. The flowers bowed as it passed, their glowing heads dimming, wilting in its wake. Rory forced herself to breathe. Panic makes you stupid, her father used to say during his courtroom cross-examinations. Panic makes you miss the细节. *Breathe.* She pivoted, keeping the mass of darkness in her peripheral vision, and moved toward where she remembered the entrance being. The air grew colder, biting through her jacket. The smell of copper intensified, now mixed with the scent of stale water and rotting lilies. "Who's there?" she demanded again. The shadow stopped. It had no defined shape, no legs or head, but it possessed a terrifying density. It felt like a hole in the world, a space where light refused to exist. A sound drifted from it—not a voice, but a simulation of one. It sounded like wind rushing through a hollow cavity, a sighing resonance that formed syllables she almost recognized. *Ror... y...* It knew her name. Not the alias she used at the bar, not the delivery girl name. Her name. The pendant pulsed in time with the sound, vibrating against her sternum, syncing with the entity before her. The realization hit her with the force of a physical blow: the pendant wasn't warning her against the Grove. It had led her here. It was a beacon. She turned and ran. She didn't look back. She sprinted toward the standing stones, her boots tearing through the fleshy flowers, crushing them underfoot. The air felt thick, like running through water, slowing her down. The ground seemed to grab at her ankles, the spongy soil molding around her feet. The shadow was behind her. She could hear it—a slithering, wet sound, like raw meat dragged across stones. It was fast. Faster than her. The stones loomed ahead, jagged silhouettes against a sky that was suddenly the wrong color. The moon above was tinged with red, far larger than it should be. She hurdled a fallen log, stumbling as she landed, her wrist twisting painfully. She scrambled up, gritting her teeth against the flare of pain, and lunged for the gap between the pillars. Just as she crossed the threshold, a cold wind blasted her back, smelling of grave soil and ancient dust. A hand, or something shaped like one—long, impossibly thin, and cold as ice—brushed the back of her neck. Rory screamed, a raw, jagged sound, and threw herself forward. She hit the grass of Richmond Park hard, the impact driving the air from her lungs. The smell of exhaust fumes and wet tarmac rushed back into her nose, overwhelming the rotting floral scent. The distant hum of traffic roared like a symphony. She scrambled to her knees, spinning around to face the grove. The standing stones were gone. In their place was just a dense, impenetrable thicket of hawthorn and bramble, ordinary and lifeless in the dark. The moon above was small and white, hidden behind scudding clouds. Rory knelt on the damp grass, her chest heaving, clutching the Heartstone Pendant. It was cool against her palm, the crimson gemstone dormant and lifeless. But as she brought her hand down, she saw something on the back of her hand. A smear of dirt, dark and oily. And underneath it, faint but undeniable, five long, thin fingermarks burned into her skin, white with frostbite. She looked back at the thicket. The wind blew through the branches, making them rattle against one another. To anyone else, it would sound like wood on wood. But Rory heard the sigh. *Laila.* She stood up, her legs trembling, and didn't stop running until she reached the streetlights.