Run: 2026-02-17-01KHMQPM91N963ZT4DYBS6482J

A thin membrane of mist clung to the gnarled roots of the oaks as Rory stepped through the threshold of the standing stones. Behind her, the familiar hum of London—the distant growl of the A3, the orange city glow, the comfort of exhaust-fumed air—snapped shut like a heavy book. The silence that rushed in to fill the void was heavy and cloying, smelling of crushed wildfowers and damp, ancient earth. She checked her watch, the glass face glinting in the moonlight. Ten forty-two. She had promised Silas she’d only be an hour, just long enough to find the peculiar herbs the old man insisted grew only in this specific clearing of Richmond Park. Now, standing within the perimeter of the Grove, the very idea of a clock felt like a joke. The air felt thick, more liquid than gas, and the wildflowers beneath her boots—primroses and violets that had no business blooming in the biting chill of late autumn—glowed with a soft, bioluminescent pallor. Rory adjusted the strap of her bag, her fingers brushing against the crescent-shaped scar on her left wrist. It was an old habit, a tactile grounding mechanism she’d developed back in Cardiff when her father’s legalistic interrogations or Evan’s quiet rages became too much. Tonight, the skin felt tight, a phantom ache pulsing beneath the surface. She moved deeper into the clearing. The oaks here were wrong. Their bark didn’t twist with growth; it looked warped, as if the wood had been frozen mid-scream. Above, the canopy was so dense it blotted out the stars, yet a sourceless, silver light permeated the space, casting shadows that didn’t quite align with the objects creating them. A sudden heat flared against her collarbone. Rory reached up, fumbling under her scarf to touch the Heartstone Pendant. The deep crimson gem was vibrating, a low-frequency hum that she felt more than heard. It pulsed with a steady, rhythmic warmth—like a heartbeat. It usually stayed dormant, a heavy thumb-sized weight on its silver chain, but now it was alive. "Great," she whispered, her voice sounding flat and muffled, as if the Grove were swallowing the sound. "Portals." She scanned the perimeter. To her right, a patch of foxglove swayed, though there was no wind. She froze. The movement wasn't random. It was a rhythmic parting of the tall stalks, as if something heavy were testing the air. Rory forced herself to walk, her boots sinking into the unnaturally soft turf. She needed the mountain ash berries Silas had described. She spotted a cluster near the far end of the grove, where the trees leaned inward like conspirators sharing a secret. As she approached, a sound caught her ear—a sharp, metallic *clink*. She stopped. The sound had come from the direction of the standing stones, the way she’d entered. She turned slowly. The mist had thickened, turning the stones into grey, indistinct monoliths. The path she’d taken was gone. Not hidden, simply absent. In its place stood more of the silver-veined oaks. The Heartstone grew hotter, the crimson glow now visible through the knit of her sweater. "Is someone there?" she called out. The cool-headed logic that made her a favorite at the Golden Empress fought against the rising tide of adrenaline. "I’m just passing through. I have business with the bar downstairs." No answer came, but the silence had changed. It was no longer empty; it was expectant. She saw it then—a flicker of something white at the edge of her vision. It moved behind a tree with a fluid, jointless grace. Rory didn't run. Running invited a chase. Instead, she reached into her pocket and gripped her keys, the sharp edges of the brass digging into her palm. She kept her eyes fixed on the tree. "I see you," she lied. A soft, wet sound echoed from behind her—the sound of a boot pulling out of thick mud. She spun around, but the clearing was empty. Or it seemed empty. As her eyes adjusted, she realized the shadows were lengthening, stretching toward her like reaching fingers despite the moon staying stationary in the sky. The Heartstone was now burning, a searing heat that forced her to pull it out and let it hang over her clothes. It throbbed a frantic, bloody red. The light it cast illuminated the ground at her feet. She wasn't standing on grass anymore. The wildflowers had retracted, folding into the earth, revealing a floor of white, bleached bone. Not human—at least, she hoped not—but thousands of tiny, delicate ribs and skulls of birds and small forest creatures, knitted together like a macabre carpet. A whisper drifted past her ear, so close she felt the cold stir of breath on her neck. It wasn't a word, but a name. *Malphora.* Rory’s breath hitched. That wasn't her name. It was a name she’d heard in dreams she couldn't remember, a name that tasted like iron and ozone. She backed away, her heart hammering a frantic rhythm that matched the pulsing of the pendant. *Clink.* The sound was closer. It was the sound of silver on stone. She turned toward the sound and saw it. Standing near the center of the grove was a figure. It was tall, impossibly thin, draped in rags the color of bruised plums. It had no face, only a smooth, pale expanse of skin where features should be, and arms that hung too low, the fingers brushing the bone-strewn floor. It held a silver chain in its hand, dragging it idly across the stones. Rory felt the familiar coldness of a panic attack beginning to bloom in her chest, but she pushed it down. *Think, Rory. Out of the box.* The creature didn't move toward her. It simply stood there, its head tilting with a sickening, audible snap of vertebrae. It was waiting for something. She looked at the Heartstone. It wasn't just glowing; it was pointing. A thin shard of crimson light shot out from the gem, lancing through the mist toward a gap between two of the warped oaks. She didn't wait for a second invitation. Rory lunged for the gap. As she ran, the Grove seemed to expand. The distance between the trees grew, the ground beneath her turning from bone to a viscous, grey sludge that tried to suck the shoes from her feet. Behind her, she heard the *clink-slid-clink* of the chain. The creature was moving now, its gait a terrifying, jerky stutter, appearing several yards closer every time she blinked. "Not today," she hissed through gritted teeth. She reached the gap where the light pointed. There were no standing stones here, just a shimmering distortion in the air, like heat rising off a Cardiff road in July. She could see the park on the other side—the dark silhouettes of regular trees, the distant glow of a streetlamp. It was so close. A hand, cold as a slab of ice and twice as heavy, clamped onto her shoulder. Rory screamed, a raw, guttural sound, and swung her bag with everything she had. The heavy canisters of Yu-Fei’s delivery containers inside the bag slammed into the creature with a dull thud. It didn't cry out; it didn't even stumble. But the impact was enough to break its grip for a fraction of a second. She dove for the shimmering air. The transition was like being surged through a pressurized pipe. Her ears popped, her lungs burned, and the smell of ozone became deafening. Rory hit the grass hard, tumbling forward until her face pressed into the cold, damp turf of the actual Richmond Park. She scrambled to her feet, spinning around, her chest heaving. The gap was gone. She was standing near a perfectly normal, overgrown oak tree. There were no standing stones. No bone-strewn floors. No faceless things in purple rags. She stood there for a long time, the silence of the London night finally feeling like a blessing. Her hand went to her throat. The Heartstone Pendant was cold again, a dull, dark red pebble on a silver string. She checked her watch. Ten forty-four. Only two minutes had passed since she entered. Rory shivered, pulling her jacket tight around her. She looked down at her shoulder. On the dark fabric of her coat, right where the thing had grabbed her, was a handprint of fine, white powder—crushed bone. She didn't look back again. She turned and began the long walk toward the park gates, her mind already racing to find a way to tell Silas why she’d come back without the herbs. But as she walked under the safety of the streetlamps, she couldn't shake the feeling that the name she’d heard—*Malphora*—wasn't a mistake. It was an invitation. And the thing in the grove was still holding the other end of the chain.