Run: 2026-02-17-01KHMQX7X4KA3022BNMJR768S5

The air in Richmond Park was usually crisp, a bite of damp earth after the fog of London, but here, beneath the canopy of the ancient oaks, it smelled like sugar and rot. Aurora Carter pulled her collar higher, shielding the lower half of her face, though the cool air did little to settle the sheen of sweat on her upper lip. Her boots crunched on gravel that didn't sound like gravel, more like shattered bone or dry husks. She checked her phone, her thumb hovering over the screen, but the signal icon remained stubbornly absent. She had tried to leave ten minutes ago, or perhaps an hour—it was impossible to tell. Time here didn’t tick; it bled. She clutched the small, rough stone of the Heartstone Pendant inside her palm. It was warm, radiating a deep, rhythmic heat that felt less like a battery and more like a living thing pressed against her skin. The codex had warned of this artifact, a gift from a benefactor whose name was a void in her memory. When near a Hel portal, it pulsed. Right now, it was hammering against her bones, demanding she move. To her left, the dense wall of ivy parted without a sound. The wildflowers that should have been dormant in the late autumn mist bloomed in violent profusion, their petals a neon shock of purple and gold against the gloom. They looked too perfect, too symmetrical, like plastic decals pasted over reality. Aurora stepped carefully, her left wrist throbbing—a reminder of the childhood accident that had given her the crescent-shaped scar. She rubbed it absentmindedly, grounding herself. She was here for Silas. Or at least, that was the story she’d told herself to justify coming to the edge of the Fae Grove alone. But the deeper she walked, the more the lie felt fragile. The pendant in her hand burned. The warmth was no longer a pulse; it was a steady, agonizing ember. A Hel portal. It was close. "Hello?" Her voice was a whisper, swallowed instantly by the unnatural quiet. Not a cricket. Not a wind. A dry, slithering sound followed by a sharp *snap* of a twig. It came from somewhere behind the cluster of standing stones ahead. The ancient oaks marked the boundary of the pocket realm, their roots gnarled like grasping fingers over the uneven earth. Aurora had skirted these stones a dozen times on her deliveries, using the route to cut across the park and avoid the main roads back to the bar above Silas’s. She knew this clearing. She knew this clearing. She stopped, turning in a slow circle. The sense of déjà vu hit her like a physical blow. She remembered the dip in the earth here. She remembered the grey rock to her right. But the rock was now a mossy stump. The dip was a mound. The geometry of the grove had shifted. "Rory?" The voice was faint, carried on a breeze that didn't exist. It was Eva’s voice. Panic, cold and sharp, cut through the dread. *Eva.* She was in trouble. Aurora’s practical side reared up. Panic got people killed. She thought about her father, Brendan, and the way he could argue a case out of a paper bag. She forced her breathing to slow, matching the rhythm of the torch on her keychain. She wasn't a victim. She was a delivery girl who could navigate a three-dimensional labyrinth. She took a step forward, then another. The ground beneath her boots felt spongy, unstable. She looked down and saw her own reflection in a small pool of water—a distorted, elongated blur. She looked terrified. Ahead of her, the shadows between the stones began to lengthen, but they were doing so in the wrong direction. Darkness should have retreated as she approached the light from the perimeter of the park, but the gloom was shifting like smoke, gathering into forms. She reached for the pendant. It felt incredibly hot now, almost scorching. She tightened her fist around it, wincing. If a Hel portal was opening, the energy would be intense. It would tear her apart. But staying was a death sentence if whatever was stalking her was patient. She took off, her feet scrambling over the tufted grass. Behind her, the slithering sound returned. It was louder this time. *Ssssskrrrt.* She passed the standing stones. She didn't stop to touch them, though a nagging instinct screamed at her to anchor herself to the earth. She vaulted over a fallen log—old wood, wet and slick with sap—and landed hard, catching herself on her hands. Her shoulder gave a sharp twinge. She scrambled up, ignoring the pain. The light at the edge of the grove was miles away. It looked like a faint, starless smudge on the horizon. The distance felt wrong, too vast. She heard it then. The heavy, wet thud of something landing nearby. Not a tree falling. The rhythm was too deliberate. Too heavy. She ran. Her lungs burned, the cold air filling them with sharp shards. She kept her eyes on the ground, scanning for roots, for tripwires. The scar on her wrist throbbed in time with her heart, a cold crescent moon against her skin. *Snap.* She veered left, dodging a shrub that seemed to lunge at her as she passed. She spun around, ready to throw her torch, but the bushes were still. They hung limp, their leaves unnaturally still, holding a frozen expression of surprise. There was nothing there. But the heat from the pendant was overwhelming. Her hand was sweating, making it slip, but she held on. *Open,* she thought at it. *Open now.* The ground beneath her feet lurched. The familiar texture of soil turned to chalky dust. A low rumble vibrated through the soles of her shoes, shaking her teeth. The air pressure dropped, causing her ears to pop. She had found it. The portal. But she hadn't found the way out. She spun around, breath coming in ragged gasps, and came to a halt ten feet from where she had just been running. The exit was gone. The gravel path was gone. The standing stones were gone. She was standing in the same clearing. The flowers were still there. The weird, perfect geometry was still there. The door hadn't just closed; it had been moved. She backed away slowly, her heels crunching on something hard. She looked down. It was a bone. A femur, snapped cleanly. "Rory?" The voice was right behind her. She screamed, whipping around, her lighter flicking open automatically. The flame cast a wavering cone of orange light that refused to illuminate more than a two-foot radius. Behind her, sitting on the hollowed-out log she had just vaulted, was a figure. It wore the coat of a park ranger, torn and dirty, but the face… the face was obscured by a high collar. The hands resting on the knees were elongated, the fingers tapering into claws that pressed into the wood. "Don't run," the figure whispered. The sound was wet, like two stones grinding together. "We've been waiting for you." The pendant flared blindingly red, hotter than the sun, and then, abruptly, went cold. The silence returned, heavier than before, dragging her down into the dark.