Run: 2026-02-17-01KHMQKJKKDXA6VSZX73QZBPFP

Aurora Carter slipped through the final tangle of brambles and stood at the edge of the grove. The moon hung low, a tarnished silver coin between swaying branches. Ancient oak standing stones loomed in a half-circle, gnarled silhouettes against the sky. She pressed a hand to the trunk of the nearest oak, the bark damp and rough beneath her fingertips. Even before stepping into the clearing, she felt the shift—like crossing an unseen border. Time felt thicker here, as if the air itself remembered centuries of secrets. She checked her phone battery: twenty-three percent. No signal. She tucked the device into the pocket of her leather jacket and drew a slow breath, tasting earth and something faintly sweet, like overripe berries. The wildflowers lining the grove glowed dimly in moonlight, their petals pale and dreamlike. A moth brushed her cheek, its wings fragile and silent. Rory shivered and smoothed an errant curl of her shoulder-length black hair. Her heartstone pendant rested against her collarbone, the deep crimson gem cool to the touch. She had come for a reason tonight: whispers of a Hel portal hidden in the grove, rumors that the pendant would pulse its faint warmth near one. An unknown benefactor—no name, just a slip of paper with coordinates—had lured her from the safety of her flat above Silas’s bar. The words on that note burned at the back of her mind: “Find what lies between worlds.” Ahead, the stones formed a ring. She stepped inside. Silence dropped like a curtain behind her. Outside, the distant hum of traffic and the occasional howl of a fox would slip by. Here, nothing moved but starlight. The clearing’s wildflowers seemed to watch her, petals trembling with some secret stir. She lowered her gaze and saw the Heartstone’s color shifting, the faint inner glow deepening. A warmth blossomed against her skin. She gasped, startled. She exhaled sharply, listening for anything beyond the beat of her pulse. Leaves rustled at the edge of the clearing—too sharp, too close. She froze, bright blue eyes scanning the gloom. The rustle stopped. Aurora ducked under a low-hanging branch and followed a narrow path of moss between two stones. Her fingers brushed the silver chain. The warmth grew. With each step, a soft sigh seemed to follow her, like wind through reeds—urgent, beckoning. She paused beneath a tall oak, its trunk split by an ancient scar that curved like a broken smile. She pressed her palm to that groove, leaning in. The air shivered. An unearthly hum rose from the flowerbeds, too deep for moths or crickets. She knelt and traced a finger across the ground. The soil shifted under her touch, as if breathing. She jerked her hand away. Faint birdcalls—high-pitched and clipped—echoed from beyond the stones. No birds sang at this hour. Her breath hitched. She glanced at her wrist scar—a small, crescent-shaped memory of a childhood fall. She twisted her wrist toward the pendant, running her thumb along its cool surface. It flickered, pulsing now in time with her heartbeat. She turned in a slow circle. The standing stones seemed to lean closer, heavy oaks draped in lichen and moss. Shadows pooled between their roots. A soft thump sounded behind her. Her chest clenched. She darted an arm across the path, but no shape leapt from the darkness. She held her breath. A grim hush squeezed her ears. “Hello?” Her voice cracked, brittle. “Is someone there?” No answer. Only the hum and the soft, steady pulse at her chest. She took a steadying breath and rose. The clearing stretched before her like a living thing. She moved forward, skirting the outermost stone. She paused at a tangle of wildflowers—bluebells, forget-me-nots, blooms that thrived in perpetual night. She leaned down and touched a petal. It shivered, then recoiled from her fingertip. She blinked, but the flower stood still again, innocent and mute. Her hands trembled. She clasped them over her heartstone, its warmth spreading to her collarbone. The glow brightened, casting flickering crimson light against the trunk of the oak. Regret rippled through her. She’d left Eva’s flat for this—following a whisper about a door between worlds. Still, answers called to her louder than fear. A branch cracked overhead. She glanced up at the canopy. Moonlight sifted through shifting leaves. A figure might slip between shafts of pale light—she could believe it. She swallowed and stepped deeper, guided by the pulsing glow. At the center of the grove lay a shallow depression in the earth. She knelt on damp moss and brushed soil away. Old grooves carved in a spiral led to a ring of half-buried stones. The heartstone’s heat flared. Her pulse hammered as she lifted the pendant. The crimson gem burned bright. She held it above the spiral. For a heartbeat, nothing happened. Then the earth trembled, a vibration rising through her knees. She stifled a cry. A low moan rolled from the roots of the trees, measured and mournful. A single wildflower at the spiral’s rim unfurled, petals stretching toward the pendant. Light arced between them—rumbling, alive. She stared, transfixed and terrified. The moan curdled into a whisper: a voice like wind over graves. “Rory…” Her name, breathed against her cheek, so close she felt warm breath. She snapped her head around. Nothing but shadows. The whisper came again, from every direction, soft and mocking. She scrambled to her feet, hand on the chain. “Who’s there?” Her voice trembled. Silence. Then laughter—soft and hollow—wafted through the grove. It wrapped around her ankles, tugging, insistent. She staggered, bracing herself against a standing stone. Cool bark kissed her cheek. She blinked. The runic spiral glowed faintly in the ground. The heartstone pulsed in response, throbbing red, then fading. Lightning of dread shot through her chest. She backpedaled, hand to her scarred wrist, where sweat pooled cold. A rustling behind her drew her eyes. A form drifted into view: slender limbs, skin as pale as moonlight, face obscured by shadow. It hovered behind the stones, unmoving, watching. Her breath caught in her throat. Tentatively, she stepped forward, but the figure flickered, melting into the undergrowth. The hum rose again, urgent, and the figure slipped between the trees, vanishing. She called out, voice hollow. “Wait!” Silence. Then the heartstone sank cool against her palm. The glow died. Darkness reasserted itself. She turned back to the spiral. The grooves had vanished, as if never carved. Her knees buckled. She sank beside the indentation, breath coming in sharp stabs. She searched the clearing, logging every shift of shadow. No stones, no flowers reacting. The grove looked ordinary, innocent. She pressed her forehead against the damp earth. Her rational mind whispered: illusions, exhaustion, isolation playing tricks. But a deeper part of her knew the grove was watching—and waiting. A thud echoed beyond the stone circle. Her head snapped up. The sound: heavy, deliberate. Something large stepping on fallen branches. Something pacing. She reached for her satchel, fumbling, and realized her satchel was gone. The note, her phone, everything. She must have dropped it. Panic swelled. She had no light, no way to call for help. Another thud, closer now, just beyond the stones. She drew in a ragged breath. She had to move, had to leave—had to get back to light and signal and solid ground. She rose, voice shaking, and called out, “If you want me gone—say it! I’ll go!” Silence. The night strained to hear her. Then the stones shivered, or was it her heart? A low echo drifted to her ears: her own name, warbled in an unfriendly tune. She stifled a cry and backed toward the nearest oak. Her boot caught on a root; she stumbled, knuckles scraping bark. Pain flared. She tasted copper in her mouth. Arms trembling, she pushed away from the oak and sprinted through the ring of stones. Branches whipped at her face, tearing at her jacket. She thrust through the thicket, hair tangling with brambles. The hush behind her stretched and palpitated. She felt breath, not her own, close on her heels. Every sprinting step was shot through with the uncanny certainty of pursuit. Then she slipped through a tangle of hazel and broke free onto a narrow track. Moonlight guided her along a ribbon of earth beyond the grove. She didn’t pause. She raced down the path, thorns tearing at her jeans, breath carving ragged tunnels in the night air. The grove’s faint hum receded—like a wound closing. At the park’s edge, she stumbled onto the grass, sprawling into the damp blades. She lay and panted, eyes wide, staring at the shifting treeline. The grove stood still behind the oak circle. No light escaped its ring. No sound but her own ragged breathing. She clutched the pendant, its warmth gone. The gem was cold, opaque now, as if emptied of promise. She sat up and brushed dirt from her knees, heart thudding. Behind her, the grove waited in the moonlight. She felt its gaze and shivered. Rory stood trembling, bright blue eyes fixed on the silent trees. She had come for a reason—and found something she could not name. Something moved just out of sight, breathing the same moonlit air. She flinched as the wind sighed through the oaks, whispering her name once more. Aurora Carter turned and ran, leaving the grove’s hush behind, carrying the weight of what lingered in the dark.