Run: 2026-02-17-01KHMQF48VX4A150HD4V8VBTW0

The air inside the oak stones tasted different. Stale, like a room sealed for decades, though the sky above Richmond Park was open and starless. Rory stepped across the threshold where the ancient wood jutted from the earth, the rough bark scraping against her thigh as she squeezed past. She checked her watch. Ten past midnight. She had entered at ten past midnight. That was good. That was normal. She touched the silver chain at her throat. The Heartstone pendant rested against her collarbone, cold initially, but now warming with a sluggish, rhythmic pulse. It was the size of a thumbnail, a deep crimson gem that seemed to drink the moonlight rather than reflect it. The benefactor who had slipped it into her delivery bag at the Golden Empress had left no note, only a warning whispered in a dream she couldn't quite remember upon waking. Find the groove in the stone. Find the pocket. Rory moved deeper into the clearing. The grass here was too soft, spongy under the soles of her boots, swallowing the sound of her steps. Around her, wildflowers bloomed in violent clusters. Poppies, bluebells, foxgloves. It was November in London. The frost should have killed them weeks ago. Instead, they stood upright, vibrant and stiff, their petals unmoving in the still air. They looked painted on the landscape, fixed in a permanent, unnatural summer. She stopped, her bright blue eyes scanning the perimeter. The standing stones formed a perfect circle, blocking out the distant hum of the city. There were no cars, no planes, no wind. Just the heavy silence of a held breath. Rory rubbed the small crescent-shaped scar on her left wrist. It was an old habit, a tactile anchor from childhood accidents and later, darker times with Evan. The skin there felt tight. The pendant grew hotter against her sternum, enough to sting through her jacket. She frowned, pulling the chain out to inspect it. The crimson core glowed with a faint inner light, throbbing faster now. Something rustled to her left. She snapped her head toward the sound. A patch of foxgloves swayed, though the air remained dead still. The movement was isolated, specific, as if something had brushed against them from the inside out. Hello? she called out. Her voice sounded flat, absorbed instantly by the dense darkness beyond the stones. No echo. She waited. Nothing returned the sound. Rory was not easily rattled. She had navigated the streets of London at all hours for deliveries, dodging traffic and drunks alike. She had left Cardiff and her father's expectations behind to build a life that was hers alone. Fear was a signal, a data point to be processed, not a command to be obeyed. But this place did not process like normal data. The geometry of the clearing felt wrong. The stones seemed closer than they had been a moment ago, though she had not moved toward them. She checked her watch again. Ten past midnight. The second hand was not moving. A cold knot tightened in her stomach. She tapped the glass face of the watch. The hand remained frozen. The pendant burned hotter, searing her skin. She hissed through her teeth and tucked it back inside her jacket, but the heat radiated through the fabric. Another rustle. This time behind her. Rory spun around. The flowers behind her were crushed, flattened into the spongy grass. A path had been made, leading from the edge of the stones directly to where she stood. She had not felt anyone approach. She had not heard footsteps. She began to walk backward, keeping her eyes on the crushed flora. The cool-headed logic that usually served her well was beginning to fray. The silence was no longer just an absence of noise; it was a presence. It pressed against her eardrums, heavy and suffocating. The wildflowers nearest to her began to turn. Not wilted by wind, but rotating on their stems. The faces of the blooms oriented themselves toward her. The poppies opened wider, revealing centers that looked too dark, too deep. Rory's breath hitched. She reached for the boundary, for the gap between the oak stones she had entered through. It was only twenty feet away. She took a step. The distance did not seem to decrease. She took another. The stones remained the same distance away, receding as she advanced. The pendant was burning now. She could smell ozone and something sweet, like rotting lilies. You are not alone, a voice whispered. It did not come from the air. It came from inside her head, mimicking the cadence of her own thoughts. Rory stopped. She forced herself to breathe. In. Out. Control the panic. Analyze the exit. If forward motion failed, try sideways. She stepped to the right, parallel to the stone circle. The flowers turned with her, their stems creaking with the sound of dry bone rubbing together. At the edge of her vision, a shadow detached itself from the darkness beyond the stones. It was tall, elongated, moving with a jerky, stop-motion quality. It did not walk; it unfolded. Rory's hand went to her pocket, searching for the pepper spray she kept clipped to her keys. Her fingers found metal, but the canister felt wrong. Soft. Malleable. She pulled it out. It was a cluster of dried petals, crumbled into dust in her grip. The shadow stepped into the light of the moonless sky. It had no face, only a smooth surface that reflected the clearing back at her. She saw herself in its surface, standing among the turning flowers, looking small and trapped. The pendant screamed against her skin, a sudden spike of heat that made her gasp. The crimson glow intensified, casting long, bloody shadows across the grass. The time behavior of the Grove shifted. The air shimmered. For a second, the flowers were dead and brown, covered in frost. Then they snapped back to vibrant life. Then dead again. Flickering like a faulty film reel. Rory realized the stones were not marking a boundary to keep things out. They were marking a cage to keep something in. And she had walked into the center of it. She stopped trying to walk away. She stopped trying to fight the logic of the place. Instead, she closed her eyes and focused on the heat of the stone against her chest. It was an artifact from Dymas. It reacted to portals. To Hel. If this was a portal, it had a key. She gripped the pendant through her jacket, ignoring the burn. She thought of the delivery bag, the unknown benefactor, the reason she had come. Not to explore. To deliver. I am not staying, she said. Her voice was steady, though her hands shook. I am passing through. The shadow halted. The rotating flowers stopped their creaking. Rory opened her eyes. The shadow was closer, inches from her face. She could see her own reflection in it again, but this time, her reflection was smiling. She was not. The pendant cooled instantly. The heat vanished, leaving a ghost of pain on her skin. The frozen second hand on her watch jerked forward. Eleven past midnight. An hour had passed in a minute. The path behind her opened up. The crushed grass knitted itself together, forming a clear line to the gap in the oak stones. The flowers turned away from her, facing the center of the circle once more. Rory did not run. Running invited the chase. She walked. She kept her eyes forward, refusing to look at the shadow standing beside her. She could feel it watching, a pressure against the side of her head. She passed between the ancient oaks. The air changed instantly. The stale, sealed room smell was replaced by the damp chill of a London night. The hum of distant traffic returned, a beautiful, mundane symphony. She did not stop walking until she reached the main road. Only then did she look back at Richmond Park. The trees stood dark and silent against the sky. There was no glow. No clearing. Just the park as it had always been. Rory touched the pendant. It was cold stone now, dormant. She touched the scar on her wrist. The skin was warm. She turned her collar up against the wind and began the walk home to the flat above Silas' bar, counting her steps, listening closely to the silence, knowing that some doors, once opened, never fully close.