Run: 2026-02-17-01KHMQGF7XZVP9T3TFRW3BHC1G

The air inside the Fae Grove didn’t move. That was the first thing Rory noticed as she stepped past the ring of ancient oaks. Not a whisper through the leaves, not a breath of wind to ruffle her hair or cool the prickle of sweat along her spine. The silence had weight. It pressed against her ears like cotton stuffed deep, muffling even the crunch of her boots on fallen leaves, which should have been loud in such stillness. But it wasn’t. Nothing was loud enough. She stopped just inside the standing stones, heart thumping low and steady. One step forward, one step back into Richmond Park’s familiar twilight, and she could still turn around. But the pendant around her neck pulsed—once, gently—like a sleeping thing twitching in its dreams. Warm. Alive. The Heartstone. It had arrived two nights ago, slipped under her door at Silas’ bar with no note, no postmark, only the faint scent of damp soil and something wilder—like crushed violets and cold iron. She hadn’t asked for it. Didn’t know who sent it. But its warmth had whispered to her in the dark, a quiet insistence: *Go to the Grove. Midnight. You’re needed.* Eva would have called it a trap. Rory knew that. But Eva wasn’t here. And Rory had always trusted the quiet pull of things most people ignored. Now, standing in the grove, she wondered if she’d made a mistake. Moonlight didn’t fall clean here. It filtered through the canopy in fractured shards, caught and twisted by something unseen. The wildflowers—impossibly bright even in this gloom—grew in perfect spirals along the ground, petals too vivid, too symmetrical, as if arranged by hands that didn’t understand chaos. Their perfume should have been sweet. Instead, it carried a metallic tang, like old blood on the back of the tongue. Rory’s fingers brushed the crescent-shaped scar on her wrist. A nervous habit. Evan used to hate when she did that. Called it a tick. But the scar didn’t ache. Not like it did when the weather changed. It didn’t tingle. That should have comforted her. It didn’t. She took another step. The pendant pulsed again—stronger this time—and a faint crimson glow seeped through her shirt. Then came the first sound. A whisper. Not words. Just breath shaped into syllables without meaning. From behind? She turned. Nothing but shadow between the oaks. She stared at the nearest standing stone—massive, gnarled, bark etched with symbols that shifted when she wasn’t looking. She blinked. The carvings looked like eyes. Then, only grain. Her breath fogged. Not from cold—the grove was unnervingly warm—but from something else. The air thickened, coiling around her throat like damp silk. A rustle. To her left. A flicker. She turned sharply. A figure, pale and tall, stood between two oaks. Motionless. Hair like smoke. Eyes—no. Not eyes. The space where eyes should be was dark and hollow, sunken like burnt holes in fabric. It wore something like a robe, but the cloth didn’t hang right. It rippled without wind, as though underwater. Rory froze. The figure didn’t move. Didn’t breathe. Didn’t blink—because it couldn’t. But then, slowly, one hand lifted. Not toward her. But to its own face. It pressed two long fingers into the hollow where an eye should be—and *pulled*. Rory’s stomach twisted. She took a step back. Then another. The figure didn’t follow. It just… stood. And the hand remained at its face, fingers buried in that impossible depth. Then the whisper came again. Not one voice. Many. Layered. Overlapping. From everywhere. *“She comes. She comes. She carries the stone. She bears the mark.”* Rory’s fingers closed around the pendant. Warm. Palpitating. The glow beneath her shirt deepened. She backed toward the ring of stones. Her boot struck something soft. She looked down. A flower. White. Delicate. But as she watched, its petals darkened at the edges, curling inward like dying skin. Then it began to *breathe*. A slow, rhythmic pulse in the stem. She stepped away. Harder now. The stones loomed ahead. Just beyond them—parkland. Streetlights. The world. But as she reached the threshold, the whispering stopped. Silence. Deeper than before. And then—music. Distant. Faint. A lullaby. She knew it. Her mother used to sing it when she was small. *“Hush now, Rory, stars are high, close your eyes and watch them fly…”* Her breath caught. That voice. That exact tone. Slight Welsh lilt. Precisely as Jennifer Ellis sang it when Cardiff nights stretched long and quiet. But her mother had been dead five years. The song drifted from behind her. Soft. Beautiful. Horrifying. Rory didn’t turn. She stepped through the stones. And the grove changed. The standing stones weren’t behind her anymore. They were *in front*, forming a new ring ten paces ahead. The clearing had rotated. Shifted. Like a dream where corridors fold in on themselves. The lullaby continued. *“Dreams are safe and shadows lie…”* Rory’s throat tightened. She broke into a run. Branches clawed at her arms. Roots snaked up from the ground. The air grew hotter. The scent of violets and iron flooded her nose. The pendant burned now, searing against her skin. Crimson light spilled from beneath her collar. She sprinted past a patch of flowers. And saw her own face in the petals. Not reflected. *Formed.* Her features, carved from overlapping blossoms—lips parted, eyes wide—mouth moving in time with the lullaby. She stumbled. Crawled. Forced herself up. The stones again. The exit. The real world. She reached for it. A hand gripped her ankle. Cold. Withered. Skin like old paper. She screamed. Twisted. Kicked. Felt the grip give. Looked back. Nothing. Only grass. And the flowers. Hundreds of them. Now all shaped like faces. Some hers. Some Eva’s. One—Evan’s. Smiling. She turned and ran. The grove twisted. Paths looped. Trees bent inward. The moon hung too low, too large, its face cracked down the middle like broken glass. And then, silence. Absolute. The lullaby gone. The whispers gone. The pendant cold. Rory stood in the center of the clearing. No exit. No stones. Just flowers. Watching. Something moved in the corner of her vision. She didn’t look. She *knew* not to look. But it stepped into view anyway. A woman. Dressed in grey. Hair black as Rory’s. Face—no, not a face. A mask. Porcelain. Smooth. Featureless except for two narrow slits where eyes should be. In her hands, a silver chain dangled. At the end—the Heartstone pendant. Only, it wasn’t glowing. It was *dull*. Lifeless. The woman tilted her head. The mask did not move with her. Then, in a voice that was not a voice—more like words pressed between teeth—she spoke. “You were never meant to leave,” she said. “You were meant to stay. To *be*. Like the rest of us.” Rory’s mouth went dry. “I don’t know you,” she whispered. The woman lifted the pendant. Held it out. “You do,” she said. “You just forgot. You gave us your name. You gave us your voice. You gave us your *face*. And when we called, you came back. As you always do.” Rory backed away. “I’m not— I’m not like you.” The woman stepped forward. The flowers turned their faces to follow. “You are,” she said. “You’ve always been here.” The pendant in Rory’s hand flared one last time—scorching, desperate. Then it went dark. And the grove exhaled.