Run: 2026-02-17-01KHMQRQQ1CMZPJT3R4BFSG8DN

The chill of the night air bit at Aurora’s exposed skin. Her breath plumed white, a tiny ghost against the indigo expanse of the sky. Richmond Park was a familiar place, a sprawling green lung that often served as her escape from the city's clamor. But tonight, the familiar felt alien. The ancient oaks, their branches skeletal against the sliver of moon, seemed to press in, their shadows deepening into an unnatural black that swallowed the faint starlight. She tightened the collar of her worn leather jacket, the chill seeping through the thin material. Her gloved fingers fumbled with the zip, a stark contrast to the usual grace she brought to her movements, whether on the back of a motorbike or navigating the labyrinthine routes of London. Tonight, her hands were clumsy, her focus fractured. She’d told Silas she was going for a walk. A long one. He’d raised a skeptical eyebrow, his gruff voice laced with amusement. "Don't get lost in the woods, Rory. Wouldn't want your mum to worry." He didn't know about this particular wood, or the reason she craved its isolation. A secret she’d guarded even from him, a secret that had been gnawing at her for weeks. The reason was Isolde. Or rather, the whispers of Isolde. The old tales of the Fae Grove, tucked away in the deepest heart of Richmond Park, a place where the veil between worlds thinned. A place where one might, if they were desperate enough, find an answer. And Rory was desperate. She’d followed the faint, overgrown path, her boots crunching on fallen leaves that sounded too loud in the oppressive silence. The air grew heavier with each step, thick and cloying, like stagnant water. It wasn’t just the absence of sound; it was a *presence* of silence, a void where everyday noises should have been. No rustle of unseen creatures, no distant hum of the city, not even the whisper of the wind through the leaves. Then, the trees changed. They became older, their bark rougher, gnarled like arthritic fingers. The path narrowed, almost disappearing altogether, forcing her to push through low-hanging branches. A prickle of unease danced on the back of her neck. This wasn't the part of Richmond Park she knew. She’d walked these paths countless times, felt the comfort of its well-trodden familiarity. This felt… wrong. She glanced at her wrist, the faint, crescent-shaped scar a pale ghost against her skin, a reminder of a childhood mistake, a fall from a swing set that had once seemed so significant. It felt trivial now, an echo of a past innocence that had long since fractured. She pushed aside a final curtain of ivy and stepped into a clearing bathed in an eerie, ethereal light. Wildflowers, impossibly vibrant under the scant moonlight, carpeted the ground. They bloomed with a fierce, unnatural beauty, their colors too saturated, their petals almost luminous. This was it. The Fae Grove. Ancient oak standing stones, moss-covered and immense, marked the boundary, their dark forms like silent sentinels. A wave of disorientation washed over her. The air here was different, cooler, carrying a faint, sweet scent that was almost cloying, like overripe fruit. She looked up at the moon, a thin, pale sliver, and then back at the dense trees surrounding the clearing. It felt as though she had stepped out of one reality and into another, a subtly altered version where the rules of nature had been rewritten. She’d come seeking an answer, a way to understand the burgeoning strangeness in her life, the inexplicable occurrences that had started subtly and were now escalating. The whispers about the grove, its connection to… *other* places, had piqued her desperate curiosity. As she stood there, absorbing the unnerving stillness, a faint warmth bloomed against her chest, beneath her shirt. Her hand instinctively went to the Heartstone Pendant. Its crimson gem, usually a dull ember, pulsed with a soft, inner glow, a tiny, rhythmic beat of warmth against her skin. It was reacting. It always did when there was… something else. Her eyes scanned the perimeter of the grove, the shadows between the standing stones wavering as if stirred by an unfelt breeze. She’d read about the Grove, about how time itself bent and twisted within its borders. An hour here could be minutes outside, or days. It was said to be a place of transition, a threshold not just between realms, but between moments. A soft, almost imperceptible sound, like the rustle of silk, reached her ears. She froze, every nerve ending screaming. The sound was too close, too deliberate to be natural. She strained her ears, but it didn't repeat. Only the oppressive silence and the sickeningly sweet scent of the flowers. She took a tentative step forward, the wildflowers crunching softly under her boots. The pendant pulsed again, a little stronger this time, a comforting weight against her skin. She needed to know. She needed to understand. Another sound. This time, a faint, dry skittering, like insects on stone. It seemed to come from the edge of the clearing, near the largest of the standing stones. Rory’s gaze snapped towards the sound. Nothing. Just the dark, silent monolith, its surface slick with dew. But the feeling of being watched intensified, a heavy, suffocating presence pressing in from all sides. She swallowed, her mouth suddenly dry. Her mind, usually so quick to analyze, felt sluggish, battling against an instinctual terror. This was not the quiet solitude she had craved. This was teeming with an unseen life, a life that felt utterly alien. A flicker of movement at the very edge of her vision. She turned her head sharply, but the clearing remained empty, the wildflowers undisturbed. Yet, the impression lingered, a fleeting shadow that had darted behind one of the smaller standing stones. Her heart hammered against her ribs, a frantic drumbeat against the overwhelming silence. She told herself it was her imagination. The isolation, the strange atmosphere of the grove—it was getting to her. She was projecting her own anxieties onto the empty space. But the warmth of the pendant was a tangible reassurance, a reminder that she wasn't entirely alone, that this place held a power she couldn't yet comprehend, but one that her artifact recognized. She took a deep breath, trying to regain her composure. She was Rory Carter. She wasn't easily frightened. She’d dealt with worse than a few shadows and unsettling sounds. She started walking, slowly, deliberately, around the perimeter of the grove, her eyes constantly sweeping the edges, trying to pierce the deceptive darkness. As she neared the opposite side, the air grew colder, the sweet scent of the flowers replaced by a damp, earthy smell tinged with something sharp, metallic. A shiver traced its way down her spine. The pendant’s glow intensified, its crimson heart now beating like a frantic pulse against her chest. Then she saw it. Nestled between two of the standing stones, almost hidden by encroaching brambles, was a disruption. A shimmer in the air, like heat rising from asphalt, but cold. It was a palpable distortion, a tear in the fabric of the Grove. And it was bleeding a faint, sickly emerald light. This was not a place for answers. This was a place for endings. A soft, melodic humming started, barely audible, like wind chimes made of bone. It emanated from no discernible source, yet seemed to surround her, weaving itself into the very air she breathed. It was beautiful, and terrifying. Rory’s breath hitched. Her eyes were drawn to the shimmering portal, a morbid fascination overriding her fear. And then, from the trees beyond the clearing, came a sound that was not a rustle, not a skitter, but a low, guttural growl. It was deep and resonant, a sound that scraped against her very soul. It was answered by a chittering, high-pitched and alien, that scraped her nerves raw. They were not alone. Not at all. The warmth of the pendant flared, a blinding rush of heat against her skin, and Rory knew, with a certainty that chilled her to the bone, that she had stepped not into a place of answers, but into a trap. The soft, silken rustle sounded again, closer now, and this time, she saw it—a flicker of something impossibly white, impossibly long, vanishing behind one of the standing stones. The grove, the beautiful, dangerous grove, was alive, and it was watching her. Waiting. And the growls from the trees were drawing nearer.