Run: 2026-02-17-01KHMQF9PGGDGGY3NYK5P92EVJ

The air in Richmond Park was too still. Rory Carter adjusted the strap of her backpack, the weight of the Heartstone Pendant pressing against her sternum through the thin fabric of her hoodie. She shouldn’t have come here at night. That much was obvious now, standing beneath the skeletal branches of the ancient oaks, their gnarled fingers clawing at the bruised purple sky. But the pendant had grown warmer with every mile she’d biked from her flat above Silas’ bar, its faint pulse insistent, like a second heartbeat. *This way. Now.* She exhaled, her breath curling in the cold. The standing stones loomed ahead, their surfaces slick with moss, their shapes too perfect to be natural. They marked the boundary of the Fae Grove—or so the notes in her mother’s old journal had claimed. *Isolde’s grove*, Jennifer Ellis had written in her looping script, *where the veil is thin.* Rory had never believed in fairy tales, not even as a child. But the pendant had started glowing the moment she’d stepped off the bike path, its crimson light seeping through the fabric of her hoodie like blood through a bandage. She shouldn’t have come. But she had. The first wrong thing was the silence. No owls. No rustling of small animals in the undergrowth. No distant hum of London traffic, though the city should have been a constant murmur even here, at the edge of the park. Just… nothing. As if the world had taken a breath and forgotten to let it out. Rory swallowed and stepped forward, her boots sinking slightly into the damp earth. The standing stones were closer now, their surfaces etched with symbols she didn’t recognize—twisting, spiraling marks that made her eyes ache if she stared too long. She reached out, her fingers hovering just above the nearest stone. The air hummed, a low vibration that thrummed against her bones. Then, a sound. A whisper. Not from the stones. Not from the trees. From *behind* her. Rory spun, her pulse hammering in her throat. The path behind her was empty. The oaks stood like silent sentinels, their branches motionless. But the whisper came again, softer this time, like a sigh carried on the wind. *“Laila.”* Her stomach dropped. No one called her that. Not since she was a child. Not since— She cut the thought off. *Focus.* The pendant burned against her skin, its glow intensifying. She yanked it free from her hoodie, the silver chain biting into the back of her neck. The gemstone pulsed, its crimson light casting jagged shadows across the ground. The whispers grew louder, overlapping now, a chorus of voices murmuring just beyond hearing. *“You shouldn’t be here.”* *“Turn back.”* *“She’s waiting.”* Rory’s breath came fast. She clenched the pendant in her fist, the edges of the gemstone digging into her palm. “Who’s waiting?” she demanded, her voice too loud in the suffocating silence. No answer. Just the wind, though the air hadn’t moved. She turned back to the stones. The symbols on their surfaces were glowing now, a faint blue light seeping from the grooves like phosphorescence. The grove lay beyond them. She could feel it—the pull of it, like a current dragging her forward. The pendant was a brand against her skin, urging her on. *This is why you came.* She stepped between the stones. The world *shifted.* One moment, she was standing in Richmond Park, the next— The air was warmer here. Thicker. It clung to her skin, heavy with the scent of wildflowers and something else, something metallic and sweet, like copper and honey. The trees were different, too. Their bark was smooth, almost glass-like, and their leaves shimmered in colors that didn’t exist—deep violets, electric blues, greens so vivid they hurt to look at. The ground beneath her feet was soft, carpeted with moss that glowed faintly, as if lit from within. And the stones. The standing stones were *alive.* Not in the way of trees or animals, but in the way of *things that should not be.* Their surfaces rippled, the symbols shifting and rearranging themselves like living things. Rory’s breath hitched. She took a step back, her boot sinking into the moss. *“You’ve come at last.”* The voice was neither male nor female, neither young nor old. It was *every* voice, layered and echoing, as if a dozen people had spoken at once. Rory’s grip tightened on the pendant. “Who—?” *“Isolde.”* The name hung in the air, vibrating like a plucked string. Rory’s skin prickled. The whispers returned, swirling around her, pressing in. *“She’s been waiting for you, Laila.”* *“So long, she’s waited.”* *“You carry her heart.”* Rory’s fingers trembled around the pendant. “This isn’t mine,” she said, her voice steadier than she felt. “I was given it. I don’t know what it is.” A laugh, soft and sad. *“Oh, but you do.”* The moss beneath her feet *moved.* Not shifted. Not swayed. *Moved.* Like a living thing, like a carpet of tiny, writhing fingers, it slithered toward her, creeping up her boots, her ankles, her calves. Rory stumbled back, her heart hammering. “What the hell—?” *“You feel it, don’t you?”* The voice was closer now, right beside her ear. *“The pull. The *hunger.*”* She whipped her head around. Nothing. Just the trees, the stones, the endless, shimmering grove. *“She’s hungry, Laila.”* *“She’s been hungry for so long.”* The moss reached her knees. It was warm. Too warm. Like blood. Rory clenched her jaw and yanked her leg free, stumbling back. The pendant burned in her hand, its light flaring. “Stop it,” she snapped. “Whatever you are, *stop it.*” Silence. Then, a sound. A *crack.* Like a branch snapping. But not from the trees. From the *ground.* Rory’s blood turned to ice. The moss was splitting open. Not all of it. Just a thin, jagged line, like a wound, right in front of her. Dark liquid oozed from the fissure, thick and glistening. It pooled on the surface of the moss, spreading, seeping, *breathing.* *“She’s waking up.”* The voice was a chorus now, a hundred voices, a thousand, all whispering at once. Rory’s breath came in short, sharp gasps. She took another step back, her boot sinking into the moss. It *grabbed* her. Not like hands. Not like fingers. Like *roots,* twisting around her ankle, yanking her down. Rory cried out, her free hand scrambling for purchase as she hit the ground. The moss surged over her, covering her wrists, her arms, her chest. She thrashed, her fingers clawing at the living carpet, but it was no use. It *pulled.* *“You brought her heart.”* *“You brought it *home.*”* The fissure in the ground yawned wider. The dark liquid bubbled, churning, *rising.* Rory’s vision swam. The pendant’s light was blinding now, searing her palm, her fingers. She gritted her teeth and *slammed* it against the moss. A scream. Not hers. The moss *recoiled,* shrinking back, its tendrils unraveling from her limbs. Rory gasped, scrambling to her feet. The fissure in the ground *twitched,* the dark liquid hissing like acid. The pendant’s light pulsed, casting long, jagged shadows across the grove. *“No.”* The voice was a snarl now, a guttural, inhuman sound. The trees *shuddered.* The stones *groaned.* The air *thickened,* pressing in on her, suffocating. *“You don’t belong here.”* Rory didn’t wait to hear more. She turned and *ran.* The grove *moved* around her. Paths that hadn’t been there before twisted and shifted, leading her deeper into the trees. The whispers followed, a storm of voices, a hurricane of sound. *“Laila. Laila. *Laila.*”* She didn’t look back. She didn’t stop. The standing stones loomed ahead, their blue glow a beacon in the dark. Rory lunged for them, her fingers brushing the cold, smooth surface— —and the world *screamed.* A sound like tearing fabric, like shattering glass, like a thousand voices wailing in unison. Rory’s ears rang. Her vision blurred. She stumbled forward, her knees hitting the damp earth of Richmond Park. Silence. Just the wind. Just the trees. Just the distant hum of London, far away and unreal. Rory gasped, her hands trembling as she clutched the pendant. It was cool now. Dormant. As if nothing had happened. But her skin still crawled. She looked back. The standing stones were just stones. The grove was just a clearing. The moss was just moss. But the air still hummed. And somewhere, just beyond hearing, something *laughed.*