Run: 2026-02-17-01KHMQE6PASW1DPNYHH862RSBK

The bus hissed to a halt, a great metal beast sighing into the damp London night. Aurora stepped down onto the slick tarmac, the exhaust fumes a warm, acrid kiss against her cheek. The streetlamps here, on the outskirts of Richmond Park, cast long, skeletal shadows that writhed and twisted like nervous dancers. She’d told Silas she’d be back by ten—a foolish promise, she knew. Time in the Fae Grove was a fickle thing. Rain slicked her black hair to her forehead as she pulled her worn leather jacket tighter. The crescent moon, already high, offered little comfort, a sliver of bone against the bruised velvet of the sky. She clutched the strap of her messenger bag, the familiar weight of her textbooks a small anchor in the growing unease. The entrance to the Grove was supposed to be marked by ancient oaks, their trunks gnarled and thick as pub pillars. But tonight, where the path should have beckoned her in, there was only a wall of impenetrable darkness. A fog, thicker than any London pea-souper, coiled around the base of the trees, muffling the usual sounds of the city—the distant rumble of traffic, the mournful cry of a siren. Even the rustling of leaves seemed muted, swallowed by the oppressive silence. Her heart hammered a frantic rhythm against her ribs, a bass drum in the sudden quiet. She’d come here for answers, whispers of Dymas and the Heartstone Pendant that had appeared on her doorstep a week ago. An unknown benefactor, the inscription hinted, a gift for a soul “touched by the veil.” Rory, pragmatic Rory, the girl who double-checked her lock on the way to the corner shop, felt a cold dread seep into her bones. This wasn't the peaceful, wildflower-strewn clearing Silas had described, not in her imaginings. She took a hesitant step forward, her boot sinking into mud that clung like living flesh. The air grew heavy, thick with the scent of damp earth and something else… something sweet and decaying, like forgotten fruit left too long on the vine. Her gloved hand went to the pendant beneath her shirt, the cool silver of the chain a thin barrier against the prickling sensation on her skin. It hadn’t pulsed, not once, since her arrival. Was it broken? Or was it simply that there was no Hel portal nearby? She peered into the darkness, a shiver tracing its way down her spine. She strained her ears. Was that a twig snapping? Too close. Much too close. She froze, breath caught in her throat. The sound came again, a sharp crack that shattered the silence. It was behind her. Slowly, excruciatingly slowly, she turned. Nothing. Only the shrouded trees and the suffocating fog. Her eyes scanned the tangled undergrowth, searching for movement, for anything that broke the suffocating stillness. A flicker. At the very edge of her vision, a pale shape, impossibly thin, darted between two of the ancient oaks. It was gone before she could focus on it, a ghost of movement in the periphery. “Hello?” Her voice was a thin thread, easily snapped. It didn’t echo. It died, absorbed by the unnatural hush. She fumbled in her bag, her fingers brushing against the smooth, cool leather of her old law textbooks. Useless. She needed something, anything, to defend herself. Her hand closed around the battered baseball bat she kept for late-night deliveries, its worn grip a small comfort. Another sound. A low hum, like a swarm of insects, but deeper, more resonant. It seemed to come from everywhere at once, vibrating not just in her ears, but in her teeth, in the marrow of her bones. She pressed her hands to her ears, but the sound only intensified, a relentless pressure building behind her eyes. The fog seemed to churn now, swirling with a purpose. It thinned in patches, revealing glimpses of the Grove—or what was supposed to be the Grove. The wildflowers were there, yes, but they were unnaturally vibrant, their colors too saturated, almost phosphorescent in the gloom. And they seemed to pulse, a slow, rhythmic throb that mirrored the unnerving hum. A rustle in the leaves, directly to her left. She spun, bat held high. A branch. Just a branch, swaying gently. But the wind hadn’t stirred. The air was dead, motionless. She took a step back, then another, her boots squelching deeper with each movement. The ground felt… soft. Too soft. Like walking on sodden moss, but with an unsettling give. She dared to look down. Beneath the fog, the earth seemed to breathe, rising and falling with a subtle, sickening rhythm. Then she saw it. A flicker of movement in the fog, not at the edge of her vision this time, but directly in front of her. A slender, white hand, unnaturally long, with fingers that tapered into needle-sharp points. It emerged from the mist, impossibly pale, beckoning. A low, sibilant whisper slithered through the air, too faint to make out words, but too clear to ignore. It was a voice that promised secrets and unravelled sanity. Her blood ran cold. She stumbled backward, tripping over something unseen. She hit the mud with a squelch, the impact jarring her teeth. The baseball bat flew from her grasp, landing with a dull thud nearby. Panic, sharp and acrid, clawed at her throat. She scrambled to her feet, her eyes wide, darting from one shifting shadow to another. The hum was louder now, a deafening roar that threatened to splinter her thoughts. The trees seemed to lean in, their branches like skeletal fingers reaching out to ensnare her. The wildflowers pulsed brighter, their luminous petals unfurling like hungry mouths. She could feel it now, a presence. Not just one, but many. They were cloaked by the fog, hidden in the unnatural stillness, watching her with unseen eyes. She wasn’t alone. She had never been alone. Her hand instinctively went to her neck, to the pendant, her fingers closing around the cool metal. It still didn’t pulse. A futile gesture. She was open, vulnerable, a solitary lamb in a thicket of unseen wolves. The air grew colder, the sweet decay sharpening into a coppery tang. She bolted. Her lungs burned, her legs pumped, but the ground seemed to resist her, each step a struggle against an unseen current. The fog clung to her like a shroud, heavy and cloying, muffling her gasps, trying to drag her down. The whispers coalesced, a chorus of breathy, hissing sounds that seemed to circle her, to weave themselves into her very thoughts. She ran blindly, a desperate animal fleeing an inescapable predator. The familiar world she knew, the concrete jungle of London, the comforting scent of stale beer from Silas’s bar, the mundane rhythm of her delivery job, felt impossibly distant. Here, in this pocket between realms, something ancient and hungry stirred. And it had noticed her.