Run: 2026-02-17-01KHMQM6GVRHEHTT8E0QP2SRQ5

Aurora Carter’s boots crunched against the underbrush, the sharp snap of twigs sounding brazen in the stillness. Night had settled like a velvet shroud over Richmond Park, the moon's silver light fracturing unevenly through knotted branches. She tightened the silver chain of the Heartstone Pendant around her neck, feeling its faint warmth pulsing against her collarbone—a strange comfort amid unease. The ancient oaks marking the boundary of the grove loomed ahead, their gnarled limbs twisting like arthritic fingers against the sky. Aurora’s breath fogged in the cold air. She tightened her jacket, the small crescent-shaped scar on her left wrist tingling as if the night itself recognized her. She shouldn't have come here. The grove was supposed to be a sanctuary, a place to find answers. Eva had insisted, her voice low and urgent over the phone, “It’s the only place left, Rory. You have to trust me.” But now, standing on the cusp of the Grove, the warm hum of the Heartstone was the only thread anchoring her sanity. The wildflowers were still blooming, absurdly bright under the moonlight, their colors almost unnatural—deep crimsons and vivid blues that should have faded weeks ago. The air was thick with scent, floral and heavy, yet there was a sour undertone, something rotting beneath the sweetness that made Aurora wrinkle her nose. She shifted forward, pushing past a curtain of hanging moss. Time shifted. She knew it did here, or so the legends said. An hour inside could be minutes or days out. The thought frayed her nerves. If only she could remember exactly why she’d come. Something was wrong, she could feel it in the way the shadows inked themselves too thickly between the trees, pooling like spilled ink. Her footsteps faltered as a sharp rustling sliced through the silence. Not a bird—too hushed, too deliberate. She turned, eyes scanning the darkness, catching a flicker of movement in the corner of her vision. A shape skittered between the trunks—too quick, too silent. The pulse at her neck quickened. “Hello?” Her voice was a brittle crack in the night, swallowed immediately by the heavy trees. She took a deep breath, trying to steady the racing blood in her ears. “Eva said you’d find me here,” she whispered, more to herself than anyone else. But the grove swallowed her words. Another rustle, closer, this time with a brittle whisper that had no shape but spoke deep in her bones, a soft scrape that felt like fingernails dragging across bark. Aurora’s hand went to the pendant. The warmth flared, steady and insistent. She resisted the urge to clutch it, afraid what might happen if she did. Instead, she moved deeper, following a narrow dirt path carpeted with wildflowers, petals brushing her ankles like silken fingers. The air was heavier now. She could hear her heartbeat, an insistent thump inside her chest, loud enough to drown the subtle sounds—the low whispering, almost voices, tangled with the sighing wind. There, at the edge of the clearing, the standing stones waited, solemn and ancient, bathed in a faint silver glow from the pendant. Aurora stepped closer. The stones pulsed faintly, warmth radiating outward, glowing like faint embers freshly fed by a dying fire. She reached out, fingertips grazing ancient oak roughness. The stones hummed, vibrating subtly. The hair on her neck prickled. Behind her, the soft snap of a twig. She whipped around. Nothing but darkness shifting with the wind. Her pulse thrummed like a drumbeat—steady, then erratic. “It’s just the wind,” she told herself, but the sensation clung. That wrongness, prickling over skin and spine. A shadow flickered just beyond her peripheral vision. She blinked—gone. Her bright blue eyes darted, searching. She squeezed her eyes shut, forcing calm, but the scent of decay grew stronger, sharper now. The grove felt wrong—too alive. Each breath of wind felt like a whisper from something unseen, and each shadow seemed to hold a pair of watching eyes. Aurora’s fingers tightened around her scar unconsciously, a small anchor to reality. The Grove was ancient, yes—but none of the stories had prepared her for this feeling of being hunted, of being watched by something that shouldn’t exist. A sudden shift in the air forced her attention upward. The trees themselves groaned, branches groveling as if under pressure. A shape emerged—a black silhouette too tall, too slender to be human, but not quite animal either. It lingered just beyond the standing stones. Frozen, she held her breath. The silhouette tilted its head, as if studying her. The air between them quivered, charged with something primordial and unsettling. Heartstone’s warmth surged, and a faint crimson glow distinguished the shape’s form in the night. Without thinking, Aurora stepped backward, hand instinctively gripping the pendant. The thing began to move—slowly, deliberately—like smoke drifting, dissipating and then reforming. Her mind raced. The Grove was no ordinary place. It bridged realms, twisted time, and harbored creatures born of ancient magic and malice. This figure, whatever it was, might not welcome her presence. “Aurora,” a voice hissed, barely a breath, yet cutting through the night. It echoed from nowhere and everywhere. Her name, whispered like a curse. She swallowed the lump rising in her throat. “Who’s there?” Her voice betrayed the calm she tried so hard to summon. Only silence answered, then the shadow stepped closer. She could see now—eyes that gleamed like molten silver, unblinking. The creature lacked a mouth, but she swore the whisper came from it. Fear sharpened every nerve in her body, but the chill was tempered by the pendant’s pulse, steady and warm. “Why are you here?” the voice—or the whisper—asked again, velvet smooth and terrible. Aurora swallowed hard. This was no place for hesitance. “I came for answers,” she said, voice firmer than she felt. “For understanding.” The shadow seemed to consider her words, then shifted, fading into the darkness between the trees. As it withdrew, the air cooled, and the oppressive weight lifted slightly. She dared to exhale, but the sound caught in her throat when a soft laugh rippled through the clearing. Not human, not joyful—something ancient and mocking. Aurora’s eyes snapped toward the source. Among the wildflowers, movement—not quite a figure, more a flicker of shapes and colors that shimmered at the edge of perception, vanish, then reappear somewhere else. The pendant pulsed again, and this time the warmth spread through her chest like fire. Determination took root beside the fear. This place was alive with secrets, with power beyond her reckoning. But she had come this far. She couldn’t turn back—not now. With one last steadying breath, Aurora stepped deeper into the Grove, heart thrumming, senses sharpened, ready to face whatever whispered, watched, and waited in the shadows.