Run: 2026-02-17-01KHMQV6B53CFVFQGJFWW3WCBT

Aurora Carter pulled her coat tighter around her, the cold air biting even through the fabric. The moon was a faint slash of silver against the dark sky, casting long, trembling shadows across the dirt path that twisted into Richmond Park’s secret heart. The ancient oak stood sentinel at the boundary—its gnarled branches like twisted fingers reaching for the night. She glanced down at the Heartstone Pendant hanging beneath her collar, the faint glow pulsing softly against her skin, almost like a heartbeat. The pendant’s glow had been growing dimmer as she approached the grove, but she pressed her fingers over it anyway, feeling the faint warmth nestled against her chest. She told herself it was just her nerves, but her intuition had buried its claws deep; something was wrong. The wildflowers beneath her boots swayed with the breeze—blades of violet and white flickering at the edge of her vision, but she knew better. They were rooted here, blooming regardless of the season, yet tonight they seemed to shudder as if somehow alive—aware. The boundary carved by standing stones was only a few steps ahead, and with every slow, deliberate step she took, the silence grew oppressive, heavier than the darkness. She had come here for a reason, but now the reason sat heavy in her mind like lead in her stomach. She remembered Eva’s voice, soft but firm, telling her to come with purpose: the Heartstone was a key, a tether between worlds. Aurora’s fingers brushed the pendant, feeling the faint pulse again. Whatever was waiting in this grove, she needed to be ready—yet her senses prickled with unease. The air hung thick with a strange, static hum, as if the very space between her and the boundary was vibrating with silent noise. She paused, her eyes darting from shadow to shadow, searching for the source. Nothing. Just darkness spread out, cursed with the quiet that felt *wrong*—not just silent, but alive, listening. Her feet crunched softly on the dirt, and for an instant, she thought she saw movement—something beyond the edge of her vision, a shadow slipping just behind a cluster of wildflowers, a flicker of darker shadow within the trees. She blinked, shaking her head. Not today. Not her mind playing tricks. Then came the faintest sound—almost like a whisper, but not quite. It floated on the wind, a breath of wordless murmur that tangled in her ears. She inhaled sharply, trying to pinpoint it. Nothing but air. She clenched her jaw, forcing herself to remain calm. The Grove was always calling, promising secrets, but tonight it whispered with a different tone—more sinister. Suddenly, she felt it—something subtle and sure. Barely perceptible at first, but then undeniably real: a presence, watching. She rotated slowly, scanning the gloom. Shadows stretched and shifted unnaturally, their edges blurred as if the darkness itself was alive, breathing around her. Her eyes darted toward the boundary stones — ancient oak standing stones that had stood here for centuries, witnesses to untold secrets. A faint gust stirred her hair, black strands cascading like spilled ink against her shoulders, and with it came another ripple of that inexplicable static. Her fingertips brushed the pendant again, feeling the faint, consistent throb. It was her anchor, but it also felt like a warning. She couldn’t shake the sensation that something was waiting, not in the shadows, but beyond them. A flicker—something small, perhaps a glint—caught her eye. She moved her head slowly, half expecting a creature of the night, something from myth or nightmare, to emerge from the shadows. Nothing. Only the dark, unyielding gloom. The wildflowers continued to tremble, their movements uncoordinated and quick, as if disturbed by an unseen hand. Her ears caught a change—a shift in the static hum, a subtle crescendo. It wasn’t the wind; she knew it wasn’t. It was a noise from inside the grove, muffled but unmistakably there: a faint, rhythmic scratching, like claws skimming over bark, or teeth grinding against stone. Whatever it was, it was close. She pressed her back against the standing stones, eyes narrowing. Her body tensed, every sense honed like a predator’s. She kept her breathing even, her mind racing through possibilities—the stories she’d read, the warnings she’d ignored. She told herself to turn back, to leave—but part of her knew she needed to see this through, to understand what lurked here in the quiet depths. Suddenly, a shadow detached itself from the darkness, moving with a slow, deliberate glide toward her. The shape was too fluid to be an animal—something else, something that defied the natural laws. Its edges blurred as if it were made of the darkness itself. Aurora’s heartbeat quickened, but she kept her face impassive. She had faced chaos before—she could face this. She didn’t blink, didn’t look away, even as the shadow paused at the edge of her vision, darting just out of sight when she tried to follow. The static surged again, thickening, wrapping around her like an unseen shroud. She felt a cold that wasn’t just the night’s chill, but something deeper—like cold fingers trailing down her spine. Her mind raced to Eva’s warnings, to the odd glow of the Heartstone, to the stories of the Fae’s realm bleeding into this world. The wrongness seeped into her bones now—an instinct whispering: *run.* But she stayed, rooted by the thought that she carried a piece of that otherworld here, her pendant pulsating faintly against her chest, a reminder that she was tethered, at least for now. A sudden, sharp flicker of movement caught her eye. The wildflowers at her feet bent suddenly, unnaturally, as if pressed down by an invisible weight. When she looked at them, they appeared inert again, harmless as ever. But she knew better. Everything here was an illusion, an echo of something more ancient and dangerous. Then she heard it—her own name, whispered softly but distinctly within her mind. It was faint, almost like a song sung on the edge of hearing, and yet unmistakable. Her stomach dropped. That voice—her own name—was never spoken aloud. Someone—or something—had found her. A quiet, terrible certainty settled in her chest. She was no longer alone.