Run: 2026-02-17-01KHMQW5GRE1CZ2BMRHPYQDJ48

Aurora Carter’s breath came in shallow gusts as she stepped through the circle of ancient oaks marking the boundary of the Fae Grove. A thin mist curled at her ankles, cool against her skin. She tightened her grip on the Heartstone Pendant resting at the hollow of her throat—its silver chain taut, the tiny crimson gem pulsing faintly against her chest. Moonlight filtered through knotted branches, illuminating wildflowers that bloomed in impossible profusion. Their lavender and white petals gleamed like watchful eyes. She had come seeking answers. An anonymous note, delivered through an untraceable courier, had named this place as the threshold to truths she could no longer ignore. The grove lay hidden somewhere in Richmond Park, but when she found it—when she forced her way past brambles and dead ends—the world beyond the stones fell silent behind her. No distant traffic, no rustle of deer; only the steady whisper of her pulse. She took a careful step forward, senses straining for movement. The air tasted of damp earth and something older—wet stone, fallen leaves, and something like cold iron. Rory brushed a strand of black hair from her face, her bright blue eyes adjusting to the gloom. She scanned the ring of standing stones—oaken monoliths knotted with lichen, each concentric ring etched into the grass. At their center, a hollow where no flower bloomed. A pit, or an empty promise. When her shoe crunched faintly on gravel, she stiffened. No gravel should be here. She knelt, peered at the ground. A few scattered white pebbles, as if someone had scattered them in a line. A path? The hair on her neck prickled. She stood again, weighed the pendant in her palm. It pulsed more insistently now, a low throb of warmth that traveled up her throat. A guide, perhaps, or a warning. Aurora moved toward the pebbles, her footsteps deliberately soft. With each step the mist thickened. The moon’s glow dimmed to a sickly yellow. The petals of the wildflowers shivered, though no breeze stirred. She reached out for one—its stem felt damp, almost slick. When she lifted it, the blossom drooped as if alive, its stamen curling inward like a wounded bird. She dropped it and backed away, heart ratcheting tight in her chest. A distant sound: a twig snapped. She froze. The grove was supposed to be empty. Rory swallowed hard. “Hello?” Her voice cracked in the hush. She cradled the pendant. Beneath her palm it thrummed, a heartbeat in the dark. Silence answered. She counted to ten, the grove’s unnatural stillness pressing in on her. Then—soft steps behind her. Light sand against leaf mold. She whirled, but the fog blurred everything into shape-shifting swirls of gray. She saw the outline of a figure—slender, tall as a tree, and for a moment she thought it was someone waiting to guide her. She blinked. It was gone. Aurora clenched the pendant chain until the links bit into her fingers. She had studied folklore at university, debated whether the Fae were real or story. Now she felt their gaze. Watching. She forced herself forward, toward a narrow gap between two stones. Each carried the grooves of centuries; each felt like a silent sentinel. The gap yawned like a crooked doorway. She stepped through. On the far side, the air had a sharper chill. The mist coalesced into shapes at the periphery of her vision—shadows that lurched and receded. Her heart thrummed so loud she could hear it in her ears. She swallowed, reminding herself of the spear of adrenaline in her veins. She had come for truth. She would not be driven away by shadows. She followed the line of stones deeper, weaving between trunks thick with moss. The wildflowers turned pale under the dim sky. They bent toward her as if drawn by a will of their own. She remembered her mother’s tales of faerie trickery: sweets that mesmerized, blooms that bound unwary souls. Rory shivered and pulled her jacket tighter around her. The scar on her left wrist—her childhood reminder of carelessness—burned hot. She flexed her hand, willing calm. Another sound: a soft humming, like a lullaby half remembered. She paused. The hum grew louder, closer. Beneath the melody was a subtle discord—notes barely out of tune, unsettling. She scanned the trees. No lights, no movement. Yet the hum persisted, swirling around her. Her spine tingled. She fought the impulse to run. The Heartstone glowed faintly. Rory closed her eyes, pressed the gem against her lips. Its warmth seeped into her. The humming stuttered, then fell silent. When she opened her eyes, the grove had changed: the mist hung lower, clinging to her calves, and the stones seemed to lean inward as though they listened. She took another step. Gravel crunched beneath her boot again. She froze. The pebbles had returned, forming a jagged ring around a shallow pool of black water. The surface lay still, reflecting nothing. She knelt at its edge, staring into the void. Her breath billowed in front of her face. Something shifted beneath the water—an inky ripple that should not have moved. “Rory…” The voice was soft, warm, sighing her nickname. She spun upright, heart pounding. Only mist and trees. Yet she heard it again, a gentle coaxing. “Laila…” Her blood ran cold. That was an alias Eva had used to tease her as a child. No one else called her that. She backed away, tripping over a root. Pain flared in her knee, but fear propelled her to her feet. She dashed toward the nearest standing stone, pressed her palms against its rough bark. Its surface felt alive, pulsing with silent energy. The world tilted. The hum returned, louder, as if the grove itself were breathing. She clutched the Heartstone, the gem’s glow intensifying, illuminating her sweat-darkened face. A cool breeze wandered by, carrying the scent of honey and decay. The flowers bowed, and in their movement she thought she saw tiny faces flicker among the petals—grinning mouths and hollow eyes. She swallowed hard and forced her gaze upward. The branches overhead entwined like skeletal fingers. Footsteps sounded again, closer this time, deliberate, pacing. They circled her. She dared not turn. Her lungs burned. Mind screaming to flee. The pendant’s warmth surged, as though trying to guide her somewhere safe. She followed its thrum, weaving through stones, her boot heels skidding on damp grass. A branch snapped sharply—so near it must have brushed her shoulder. She flinched, whirled, and almost dropped the pendant. There, at the edge of moonlight, she saw a figure: tall, slender, hunched. Its features hidden; a pale flicker where a face might be. Her heart slammed against her ribs. She stammered, “Who—What are you?” No answer. Just that lethal quiet, and then a footstep—slow, deliberate—taking half a pace toward her. Rory’s breath caught in her throat. The Heartstone pulsed violently, a quickening drumbeat that echoed around her. She staggered back until her calf struck a stone. Pain exploded in her leg, but terror drove her forward. She ran. Branches whipped her arms and face; the wildflowers trembled as she crashed past. The mist thickened until she could taste it—cold and salty, like tears. Every step felt heavier. Time warped: seconds stretched into minutes. She dared not look back, yet felt the pursuit, heard faint laughter rising behind her—childish, mocking. Finally, she burst through the line of oaks. The mist fell away, and the grove’s hush was replaced by the distant call of an owl and the rustle of leaves in a real breeze. She staggered forward, gasping, clutching her side. The Heartstone pendant lay cold against her chest. Its inner glow had faded. Aurora sank to her knees outside the boundary, her palms pressed to dew-damp grass. Her mind raced. That place… it had wanted something. Her name, her fear, memories. She pressed her uninjured hand against her scar, willing herself to steady her breath. Only two minutes had passed on her watch, but she knew she’d been inside far longer—lost in a quicksilver nightmare. As she rose, shoulders trembling, she glanced back at the grove. Moonlight played through the trees; the stones stood silent, moss-softened. No sign of the figure. No movement. Yet as her eyes drifted back to the shadow-draped oaks, she thought she saw a flicker at the boundary—an arm, slender and pale, beckoning. A voice, softer than a sigh, whispered her name: “Come back…” Aurora swallowed, backed away, then turned and ran toward the park’s edge, the whisper chasing her into the night.