Run: 2026-02-17-01KHMQH938FRDYPBA52BJY8SR9

The air in the Fae Grove wasn’t cold, not really, but it carried a kind of damp stillness that clung to Aurora’s skin the moment she stepped past the first of the standing oaks. She didn’t remember crossing the boundary—only that one second she was pushing through the thickets at the edge of Richmond Park, her boots crunching on frost-rimed leaves, and the next, the forest behind her had fallen utterly silent. No cars from the A3, no distant hum of streetlights or the occasional bark of a dog. Nothing. Just the whisper of long grass brushing against her jeans and the faint, rhythmic thud of her own pulse in her ears. She stopped beneath the first oak, its bark etched with symbols that hadn’t been there last time. Or had they? Aurora frowned, reaching out, then hesitating. The standing stones formed a rough circle about fifty yards across, their trunks gnarled and ancient, too large to be natural. She’d been here twice before—once with Silas, once with Eva—but both times the grove had felt… lighter. Warmer. Now, the wildflowers blooming in impossible clusters along the ground glowed faintly in the dark, their petals too vivid—violets that pulsed like veins, white stars that shimmered with an oily sheen. Their scent, usually sweet with honeysuckle and earth, was cloying, thick with something metallic. Aurora pulled the collar of her coat higher, fingers brushing the silver chain at her throat. The Heartstone Pendant rested between her collarbones, its crimson gem dull beneath her touch. She hadn’t come here by choice. It had started three nights ago with a dream—an old man standing in a flooded cathedral, water up to his waist, holding out a key made of bone. His mouth moved, but no sound came out. Then the pendant had warmed against her chest, its inner glow brightening briefly before fading. Since then, it had pulsed at random: once while she was delivering noodles in Croydon, again at 3 a.m. as she passed a boarded-up Tube station. Then this morning, the same dream, but with a voice—not the man’s, but a woman’s, whispering, *Come. It’s waiting.* She didn’t question it. Not anymore. The grove was a place between places. Time bent here. So did rules. And she had learned, over the last six months, that ignoring the call of magic was worse than answering it. Her boots sank slightly into the moss as she walked toward the center. The ground felt spongy, elastic. Too soft. Around her, the silence deepened. She stopped, turning slowly. The standing stones stood like sentinels, roots coiled into the earth like sleeping serpents. She counted them—eight. Last time, there had been nine. She was sure of it. A flicker at the edge of her vision made her turn. Nothing. Just the sway of a foxglove, heavy with purple bells. Yet the air had shifted—not colder, but… thicker. As if the grove was holding its breath. Then a sound. Not loud. Not sharp. Just a soft, wet rustle—like cloth dragging over stone. Aurora froze. She scanned the trees. Nothing moved. Still, she felt it now—the prickle at the base of her neck, the slow drip of wrongness pooling in her gut. She reached up, fingers curling around the pendant. It was warm. Not hot. But unmistakably warm, the crimson stone pulsing once, faint as a dying ember. She took a step back. Another rustle—this time from her left. Closer. She turned. The wildflowers trembled, though there was no wind. A patch of bluebells shivered, their stems bending inward, as if something had passed through them. But the space was empty. She stared, heart thudding now, loud enough to echo in her skull. “Hello?” Her voice sounded small, swallowed by the trees. No answer. She exhaled, shaking her head. *Paranoia. Just nerves. This place does that.* But even as she told herself that, her hand went to the scar on her left wrist—the crescent-shaped mark she’d carried since she was nine, when she’d fallen onto a shard of porcelain at her father’s flat. It tingled. Not painful. Just… present. Like a memory waking up. Then—music. Faint. Distant. A melody played on something old and wooden, a tune with no rhythm she recognized, slipping in and out of time like breath. It came from behind the tallest standing stone. Aurora didn’t want to go toward it. But she couldn’t not. The pendant grew warmer. She moved slowly, keeping low, using the mossy mounds and thickets as cover. Each step sank slightly, the ground releasing tiny puffs of mist. The music swirled—higher now, almost playful—yet it carried no joy. It was the sound of something mimicking joy, poorly. And then she saw it. Not a person. Not quite. Between two of the oaks, a figure stood with its back to her. Tall, too tall—nearly eight feet—its limbs elongated and jointed in ways that looked wrong, like a shadow stretched too far. It wore a long coat, tattered and ancient, its fabric shifting between textures: wool, then leather, then something that glistened like fish skin. It held a flute to its mouth, though Aurora couldn’t see its face. The music stopped. The figure didn’t move. Aurora’s breath caught. Her fingers tightened on the pendant. It was hot now—nearly burning. Then, slowly, the figure turned. Not a face. A mask. Smooth, pale, featureless except for two hollows where eyes should be. And below them, a slit—just one—that widened slightly, as if inhaling. It wasn’t breathing. It was *listening.* Aurora stepped back—her heel snapped a twig. The head tilted. She didn’t wait. She turned and ran. The grove distorted as she moved. Trees leaned inward. The ground stretched. Her boots pounded moss that should have been thirty feet away but felt miles distant. The music began again, not behind her now, but *above*, echoing through the canopy, though there was no canopy, only stars she didn’t recognize, swirling in constellations that hurt to look at. She reached the edge—where she remembered the gap between oaks—and threw herself forward. But the opening wasn’t there. Instead, the standing stones had closed in, their roots twined together like a wall. She skidded to a stop, heart slamming, and spun. The figure stood near the center, motionless. But now, there were others. Shadows. Shapes just beyond the edge of vision, stepping out from behind the oaks, their forms flickering—sometimes human, sometimes not. A woman with too many fingers. A child with eyes too wide and black. A man whose mouth unzipped all the way down his chest. None of them moved. None of them blinked. They just watched. And the pendant—hot now, searing—its glow flared crimson, casting jagged shadows across the clearing. Then a voice—soft, familiar—spoke from behind her. “Rory.” She knew that voice. Eva. But Eva wasn’t here. Eva was asleep in her flat in Camden. Aurora didn’t turn. If she turned, she knew she wouldn’t see her friend. She knew what she’d see instead. Instead, she whispered, “Time doesn’t work here.” The voice didn’t answer. Aurora pulled the pendant from beneath her shirt, held it up. “Show me the way.” For a heartbeat—nothing. Then, in the center of the grove, between the watching shapes, a vertical line of deeper dark split the air. Thin. Trembling. Like a wound in the world. A portal. She didn’t run. She walked, slowly, eyes never leaving the shadows around her. They didn’t follow. They didn’t move. But as she passed the first standing stone, the symbols on its bark shifted. New ones formed. One looked like a key made of bone. Another, a crescent—identical to the scar on her wrist. And the third—a name. *Malphora.* She didn’t stop. She stepped through the portal. Behind her, the music began again.