Run: 2026-02-17-01KHMR0T1233HJTVMEKWHSFW3Y

The damp air of Richmond Park clung to Aurora’s skin like a wet shroud. It was nearly midnight, the kind of hour that turned the sprawling greenery of London’s largest park into a void of indistinct shapes and unsettling whispers of wind. She pulled her coat tighter, her fingers brushing against the silver chain around her neck. Beneath her shirt, the Heartstone Pendant sat heavy against her sternum. It was warm—unnervingly so. The deep crimson gem didn't just hold heat; it thrummed with a rhythmic, low-frequency pulse that she felt in her very marrow. She had come to the Grove because the dreams had turned into demands. For weeks, she had seen the ancient oak standing stones in her sleep, hearing a voice that sounded like grinding schist and honeyed water calling her name. Not Rory, the name her friends in London used to distance her from the shadow of her life in Cardiff, but Aurora. The boundary of the Fae Grove appeared suddenly. One moment she was trekking through the familiar, scrubby wilderness of the park, and the next, the air turned floral and thick. The scent of jasmine and crushed violets rose from the damp earth, impossible for a London autumn. Before her, the ancient oaks stood like petrified giants, their gnarled limbs interlocking to form a jagged gateway. As Aurora stepped between the first pair of stones, the sounds of the city—the distant hum of the A3, the drone of a passing plane—snapped into a terrifying silence. It wasn't the silence of a quiet room; it was the silence of a vacuum. "Okay," she whispered, her voice sounding thin and alien to her ears. "I’m here." She checked her watch. 11:46 PM. She knew the stories about the Grove, how time here was a frayed thread. She could spend an hour wandering these wildflowers and emerge to find the sun rising, or worse, find that only seconds had passed while her mind felt years older. She moved deeper into the clearing. The wildflowers were luminous, their petals pale and translucent under the moonless sky. They didn't sway with the breeze—mostly because there was no breeze. The air was stagnant, yet the long grass rippled. Out of the corner of her eye, Aurora saw a flash of movement. It was quick, a shimmering distortion like heat rising from asphalt. She spun around, her black hair whipping against her cheeks, but there was nothing. Only the oaks, their bark looking more like leathered skin the longer she stared. Her left wrist began to ache. It was a dull throb in the small, crescent-shaped scar she’d carried since childhood. She rubbed the mark absentmindedly, her eyes scanning the perimeter of the Grove. Something was wrong. The wrongness wasn't in what she saw, but in the geometry of the space. The standing stones seemed further apart than they had been a moment ago. The clearing was stretching. A sound broke the vacuum—a soft, wet crunch. Like a footstep on a rotted log. Aurora froze. "Who's there?" No answer. She reached into her pocket, her hand closing around her phone, but she didn't pull it out. The light would only blind her, making her a beacon in the dark. She relied on her instincts, the quick, out-of-the-box thinking that had helped her survive the long, suffocating years with Evan. Back then, she had learned to read the shift in a room’s pressure before a blow landed. The pressure here was skyrocketing. The Heartstone Pendant flared. The crimson light bled through the fabric of her cream-colored sweater, casting a rhythmic red glow onto the white flowers at her feet. It was pulsing faster now. Near a Hel portal. The realization hit her with a spike of adrenaline. She hadn't come here for a spiritual quest; she had been lured. She turned to flee, but the path back to the gateway was gone. Where the two entrance oaks had stood, there was now only a solid wall of brambles and thorns that shimmered with a sickly, oily sheen. The Grove had closed behind her like a mouth. Another crunch. Closer this time. Behind a thick-trunked oak to her right, a shadow detached itself. It didn't move like a person. It was too fluid, its limbs elongating as it drifted from the cover of the tree. It lacked a face, possessing only a smooth, pale surface where features should be, draped in tatters of something that might have been silk a century ago. Aurora backed away, her boots treading on the vibrant wildflowers. They didn't crunch; they bled a clear, sticky sap that smelled of rotting meat. "I don't belong here," she said, her voice firmer than she felt. "I'm leaving." A laugh echoed through the clearing. It didn't come from the shadow. It came from the stones themselves. A dozen voices, layered and discordant, whispering from the cracks in the bark. *Stay, Malphora,* the voices sighed. *The cycle is thirsty.* "My name is Aurora," she snapped, the terror sharpening into a cold, academic anger. It was the barrister’s daughter in her, the part of her that used to analyze her father's briefs for loopholes. "And I don't acknowledge that name." The shadow stopped ten feet away. It tilted its head, a gesture horribly human. From the darkness beneath its tattered shroud, a hand emerged. The fingers were too long, possessing an extra joint that clicked as they curled. It pointed toward the center of the clearing, where the ground was beginning to sink, forming a perfect, dark circle in the turf. The Heartstone was now burning hot. Aurora gasped, clutching the gem through her clothes. The heat was searing, but as she held it, the crimson light intensified, projecting a beam of harsh, red radiance toward the encroaching shadow. The creature hissed—a sound like steam escaping a pipe—and recoiled. Aurora didn't wait. She looked at the sinking earth in the center and the wall of thorns behind her. Logic dictated the thorns were the exit, but her intuition—the part of her that had kept her alive in the dark corners of Cardiff and London—told her otherwise. The shadow wanted her away from the center. It was herding her toward the brambles. She ran toward the sinking circle of earth instead. The ground beneath her feet felt like quicksand. The smell of ozone and ancient dust choked her. As she reached the edge of the pit, she looked down and saw not a hole, but a reflection. She saw the London skyline, the lights of the Golden Empress, the neon sign of Silas’ bar. It was a bridge. The shadow shrieked, a sound that bypassed her ears and tore straight into her skull. It lunged, its elongated limbs snapping like whips. Aurora didn't hesitate. She squeezed the Heartstone, ignoring the sensation of her skin blistering against the gem, and threw herself into the dark. For a heartbeat, she was nowhere. There was no sound, no light, only the sensation of being stretched thin as a wire. Then, the world slammed back into place. She tumbled onto hard, cold asphalt. The smell of diesel and stale beer replaced the jasmine. She gasped for air, her lungs burning, and looked up. She was in the narrow alleyway behind Silas’ bar. The dumpster was overflowing, and a stray cat hissed as it darted under a pile of pallets. Aurora stayed on the ground for a long time, her chest heaving. Her hand was red and peeling where she had held the pendant, the crescent scar on her wrist standing out stark and white against her flushed skin. She reached into her collar and pulled the Heartstone out. It was cold again. The crimson depths were dull, the inner glow extinguished. She checked her watch. 11:47 PM. Only one minute had passed. She stood up shakily, brushing the London grime from her jeans. As she turned to head toward the stairs leading to her flat, she noticed a single, luminous white petal stuck to the toe of her boot. It was translucent, beautiful, and as she watched, it turned to gray ash and blew away in a London breeze that finally felt real. She didn't look back at the park. She didn't look at the shadows stretching beneath the streetlamps. She just climbed the stairs, locked the door, and for the first time in years, she pushed a heavy dresser in front of it. She was safe, for now. But the heat of the stone was still etched into her palm, a reminder that the Grove didn't just take—it marked. And the voices had called her more than just a name. They had called her a promise.