Run: 2026-02-17-01KHMQSYR7KJGPPWZDDSNE6ERY

Aurora hesitated on the edge of the path, fingers searching for the smooth reassurance of the Heartstone pendant beneath her layers. Beneath her palm, the stone shed a scant heat, as if it were holding its breath. The moon hung low and sallow over Richmond Park’s muted wild, pressing halos onto the tips of dew-wet grass. She’d come as soon as her shift ended—scooted through London’s restless arteries, backpack still half-stuffed with receipts and the sour-sweet scent of Yu-Fei’s ginger sauce. She should’ve been exhausted. Instead, she was sharp as glass. She ducked past the fallen log she knew marked the turn, nearly invisible at night. Already the city’s riot of orange lights and traffic had faded to a reluctant hush, swallowed quick by the thick dark. Aurora’s boots tamped new-turned earth, and each step inched the tiny crescent-shaped scar on her wrist closer to gooseflesh. The Grove always breathed strange, but tonight the air felt swollen—brighter with color, heavier with silence. Even the usual background hum—the distant rush of night traffic, foxes yipping from the bramble—had flattened to a peculiar, waiting quiet. She found the first oak standing stone by touch: bark gnarled like an old man’s knuckle, cold enough to bite. Its shadow extended far longer than seemed possible, a bruise yawning out toward the clearing. Rory crossed the threshold fast, anxious not to imagine what might happen if she lingered. As her foot passed between the ancient oaks, the strangeness deepened, slow and lingering—a pressure behind her teeth, a twist in her gut. The wildflowers around her boots dazzled in improbable bloom. Purple and white, star-shaped and fluttering, they felt as if they were watching her pass. She should have left. Her brain screamed it in the patient, blunt rhythm she used to pick apart client testimonies in law lectures. But she pressed on—past the cold drip of leaves, past another standing stone haloed in starlight. What choice did she have, really? The message, anonymous but urgent, had come to her in the bar basement just three nights ago—a slip of paper no bigger than her palm: Cross the Grove at midnight. Bring the pendant. She squinted at the clearing ahead, mouth dry. At the center, the ancient stones made a crooked ring, half-swallowed by roots. The moonlight glimmered off the dew-wet grass, unbroken and silver. But the rest was hunger. It felt as though the dark wanted to encroach, wanted to snuff out the shape of everything. Shadow drifted where it shouldn’t—flitting among the trunks, crawling along the distant bramble patches. Nothing moved except her, but the wind teased at her hair and the edge of her jacket, raising shuddery drafts along her skin. Something chittered nearby. Too high to be a fox, too long to be anyone’s pet. Aurora froze, breath stitched tightly in her chest. She watched the tangle of ferns to her left. The sound faded—a small reassurance, flimsy and quick. She waited an extra second, counting. One, two, three—long enough for the fear to settle, for the silence to rear up again. With her left hand, she drew out the pendant. The crimson stone winked faintly at her, barely warming her fingers. She studied its inner glow: not bright enough to see by, just a dull coal at the heart of everything. She needed to move. To do what she’d come here for. “Right,” she whispered. The word fell flat. She made herself walk to the circle’s edge, each step a tiny crime against whatever hush ruled here. The stones were older than myth, rooted deeper than she could guess, pocked with night-moss and graffitied with pale lines. Her reflection swam in the slicked surface of the pendant, all bright eyes and the shock of black hair. For a second, Aurora imagined she could see something behind her—beyond the circle, in the cradle of the oaks. Movement, maybe; the suggestion of a figure, pale and angular, where vision slipped. She spun—but there was nothing but silver grass and swaying flowers. “Get a grip,” she muttered, shoving the pendant back beneath her jumper. The wrongness pressed harder now, as if the air inched closer for a better look. Tree limbs clicked together overhead—deliberate, as if in conversation. Aurora shivered. She told herself she could leave now, that whoever sent the message wouldn’t know. But the pendant flared, warm for just a heartbeat, yanking her attention back to the stones. It was pointing at something—her feet lined up like a compass needle. She padded closer, working her way through the moss and slick grass, searching for whatever should be there. Sound warbled at the edge of her hearing. A low, wavering hum, disguised as wind at first, resolved into a rhythm too precise. She blinked and peered sideways. The wildflowers at the base of the nearest standing stone were breathing—opening and closing in unison, as if stirred by underwater currents. Impossible. She took a step back, swallowed, then forced herself forward. It was just the wind. Just her eyes messing with her. A sharp crunch behind her. Aurora’s head snapped around. Nothing. Only the endless rise of shadow and oak. Her heart hammered; adrenaline made her knees weak. Still, she didn’t run—not yet. Instead, she dropped to one knee and pressed her palm to the matching crescent scar on her wrist. The memory flickered hot: the sound of Evan’s voice, the slow humiliation of being cornered, the sharp glitter of glass. Here in the Grove, the memory pressed close, another strange shadow among many. The pendant pulsed again—warmer. Louder. The hum she’d heard was now a heartbeat, wet and unfamiliar, trembling the grass at her knees. She searched the ground with both hands now, feeling for the loose stone or hidden latch the note had promised. Nothing but dirt and pale snails. Then, finally, her palm slipped over a dent—smaller than a coin, but just deep enough for her finger. She dug in, prying up a shallow stone slab, lifting it half an inch on pure stubbornness. It gave reluctantly, revealing a darkness beneath that was older than the rest. The scent that billowed out was not earth, not rot—something sweet and cloying, sicklier than any flower. A twinge—a cold prickling along her spine. Aurora fumbled for her phone for the torch, but the Grove smothered all outside light. The battery icon winked out, the screen dead. A hush, then breathing—not hers—close and eager. She jerked her head up. Across the circle, between two stones, something had uncoiled. Tall, shifting, all elbows and wrongness. It did not step so much as slide, head lolling at an angle impossible for any animal. Its eyes—if they were eyes—were wide and lidless, milky as river fog. Aurora’s brain stumbled, failed. Her mouth opened but refused sound. For an instant, the Grove turned vertiginous—gravity twisting sideways, time rippling like a dropped stone in a pond. The thing watched her, unmoving. Slowly, as if obeying some unwritten contract, she stood, slab gripped in one fist. Her tongue tasted metal. The breathing shuddered, closer now, threading between her ribs. Shadows flickered at the fringe of her vision, prickling at the certainty that more things crouched just outside the clearing—waiting, maybe watching. The pendant burned against her sternum. Aurora tried, shakily, to remember what this artifact was supposed to do. Shield her? Mark her as human? She didn’t care. She lifted it in trembling fingers, letting the crimson glow spill wide and fierce. The creature recoiled, first slow, then faster, its form unraveling into loops and tattered outlines. But its eyes never left hers. Aurora cursed under her breath—a string of Welsh and something harsher. She stepped back, guiding herself by memory, trusting the old stones would be kind tonight. The wildflowers ringed her boots, pulsing in time with the pendant. The thing in the dark slithered one step closer to the boundary but would not cross. One more step. She was over the fallen log, heart battering her ribs. The cold night air tasted new, bitter. Behind her, the wrongness lingered, coiling along the edges of her mind. Richmond Park loomed quiet and empty under the sickle moon—but somewhere, deep inside the Grove, something had marked her passage and would remember.