Run: 2026-02-17-01KHMQE6PDB9JPFKQR6W166H1G

The air in Richmond Park was thick with the scent of damp earth and something older, something that clung to the back of Rory’s throat like the memory of a half-remembered dream. She adjusted the strap of her backpack, the weight of the Heartstone pendant pressing against her sternum through the thin fabric of her hoodie. It had been warm all evening, a faint, insistent pulse against her skin, and now it thrummed like a second heartbeat, urging her forward. She shouldn’t have come at night. The thought slithered through her mind, unwelcome. She *knew* that. Knew the park closed at dusk, knew the standing stones at the edge of the grove were supposed to be off-limits, knew the way the trees here leaned in too close, their branches knitting together like skeletal fingers. But the pendant had grown hotter with every mile she’d biked from her flat, and the note tucked into her pocket—*Find the grove. Bring the stone. Midnight.*—had been too cryptic, too *urgent*, to ignore. Rory exhaled sharply, her breath fogging in the unnaturally still air. The standing stones loomed ahead, their surfaces carved with spirals and symbols that made her eyes ache if she stared too long. She hesitated at the boundary, her fingers brushing the rough bark of an oak. The pendant flared against her skin, a sharp, almost painful heat. “Right,” she muttered. “No turning back now.” She stepped between the stones. The world *shifted*. Not a sound, not a gust of wind—just a sudden, sickening lurch, like the ground had tilted beneath her feet. Rory staggered, her boots sinking into soft moss that hadn’t been there a second ago. The air was warmer here, thick with the scent of wildflowers that shouldn’t have been in bloom in October. She turned slowly, her pulse hammering in her throat. The grove was wrong. Not in any way she could immediately name, but in the way a half-remembered face is wrong when you realize the eyes don’t quite match. The trees were too tall, their trunks too smooth, their leaves too *still*, as if they weren’t leaves at all but something else, something pretending. The wildflowers at her feet glowed faintly, their petals pulsing with a light that wasn’t quite light, more like the afterimage of a dream. Rory swallowed hard. “Okay. Just… find whatever you’re supposed to find and get out.” She forced herself to move, her boots making no sound against the moss. The pendant’s heat was a brand now, searing through her hoodie. She pulled it out, the silver chain cool against her fingers, the crimson gemstone glowing like a dying ember. It pulsed once, twice—then the glow steadied, pointing toward the center of the grove. Toward the *thing* standing there. Rory froze. At first, she thought it was a statue. A figure carved from pale stone, its features too sharp, too *precise*, to be human. It stood in the center of a ring of mushrooms, their caps glowing the same eerie blue as the flowers. Then it *moved*. Not a twitch, not a shift—just a slow, deliberate turn of its head, as if it had been waiting for her. Its eyes were black, depthless, and when it smiled, its teeth were too white, too *many*. “You brought it,” it said. Its voice was like wind through dead leaves, dry and whispering. “Good.” Rory’s breath hitched. She took a step back, her fingers tightening around the pendant. “Who—what are you?” The thing tilted its head, the movement too fluid, too *wrong*. “You don’t know?” It took a step forward, and the mushrooms at its feet withered, their glow snuffing out like candles. “I am the door. And you, little thief, are the key.” The pendant burned against her palm. Rory’s mind raced. *Door. Key.* The Hel portals. The notes Eva had shown her, the ones that talked about gateways and things that slipped through. She’d thought it was all metaphor. She’d been *wrong*. “You’re not supposed to be here,” she said, her voice steadier than she felt. The thing laughed, a sound like cracking ice. “Neither are you.” A rustle in the trees. Rory’s head snapped toward the sound, her heart hammering. The branches trembled, though there was no wind. Shadows pooled at the base of the trunks, too thick, too *deep*, and for a second, she thought she saw *eyes* in the dark. Dozens of them. Watching. The pendant pulsed again, urgent now. Rory didn’t think—she *ran*. She didn’t know where she was going, only that she had to get away from the thing in the grove, away from the watching shadows, away from the way the air itself seemed to press in around her. The trees blurred past, their branches snagging at her hair, her clothes. The pendant’s glow was her only light, casting long, wavering shadows that didn’t match the movement of her body. Something *laughed* behind her. Not the thing from the grove. This was higher, lighter, like a child’s giggle—but wrong, *so wrong*, because it came from too many directions at once. Rory’s skin prickled. She didn’t look back. A root snagged her ankle. She went down hard, her palms scraping against the moss. The pendant flew from her grip, skittering across the ground. She lunged for it, her fingers closing around the chain just as the laughter cut off. Silence. Then—a *breath*. Warm. Wet. Right against the back of her neck. Rory *screamed*. She twisted, her fist swinging blindly. Her knuckles connected with something solid, something that *hissed* in pain. She didn’t wait to see what it was. She scrambled to her feet and ran, the pendant clutched in her fist, its glow the only thing keeping the dark at bay. The trees thinned. Ahead, she could see the standing stones, their symbols glowing faintly in the dark. *Almost there. Almost—* A hand closed around her wrist. Rory *screamed* again, wrenching free. She stumbled, her back hitting one of the stones. The moment she touched it, the world *lurched* again, the grove twisting, the trees groaning as if in pain. The thing from the grove was there, its black eyes wide, its mouth stretched in a snarl. “You don’t belong here,” it hissed. Rory didn’t answer. She *shoved* the pendant against the stone. Light *exploded*. A sound like a thousand voices screaming at once. The ground trembled. The thing in the grove *shrieked*, its form unraveling like smoke in the wind. The trees groaned, their branches twisting, their leaves blackening. Rory clapped her hands over her ears, her eyes squeezed shut— And then. Silence. She opened her eyes. She was back in Richmond Park. The standing stones loomed around her, their symbols dark. The air was cold, the scent of damp earth and autumn leaves sharp in her nose. Her hands trembled. The pendant was cool against her palm, its glow faded to a dull ember. Rory looked down at her wrist. The crescent-shaped scar from her childhood accident was *gone*. In its place was a mark—black as ink, shaped like a key.