Run: 2026-02-17-01KHMR19EZY9KT3BGEK5YH9E4X

Aurora Carter steps through the circle of ancient oaks and feels the air shift, as though the grove has paused its own breath to watch her. Night drapes itself over Richmond Park, but here the darkness is thicker, almost tactile, sliding against her skin like cold silk. She tightens her grip on the Heartstone Pendant nestled beneath her shirt, where its faint crimson glow pulses against her ribs. An hour ago, at home above Silas’s bar, she never would have believed she’d follow an artifact into this place. But the pendant’s warmth tugged at her, insistent as a heartbeat guiding her feet across the city toward this hidden clearing. Wildflowers bloom in moonlight despite the season—bluebells and foxgloves uncurling from the leaf litter in impossible clusters. Aurora’s boots crinkle on damp moss as she steps between the weathered standing stones. Their surfaces bear runes she can’t decipher—knots of lines that twist toward one another and then back away, as if the stones whisper secrets they refuse to share. She runs a fingertip along one curve, her scar catching on a shallow groove. Pain flickers there, small and familiar. A memory of a kitchen countertop and a careless moment. As a child she learned that some wounds linger under the skin. Here, she suspects, the grove’s wounds do the same. She pauses, scanning the gloom beyond the circle of stones. The trees stand rigid, their branches a lattice overhead. A breeze stirs, but it carries no wind. Leaves shiver in place as if a ghost exhales. Aurora’s heart lurches. She swallows and tells herself it’s nothing: the grove is old, alive in a way London never will be. That’s all. She has her reasons for coming. The pendant pulsed as she neared the boundary—proof enough. She takes a cautious step forward, toward the clearing’s center. Moonlight sifts through the oaks, outlining a crooked cairn of rough stones piled eight feet high. Moss smothers the cairn’s base; a single foxglove blossoms between stones like a watchful sentinel. Aurora breathes out. The cairn must be what she’s meant to find—the point where worlds meet. A Hel portal, the benefactor’s message promised. Her throat tightens with anticipation. She circles the cairn, careful not to step on the thick roots weaving above ground. The grove’s silence presses against her eardrums. Even her footsteps sound distant—hollow echoes that vanish into the stillness. She reaches the cairn’s northern face and stares up at its peak. She raises her palm to the cold stones, feeling a faint tremor, as if something deep within waits to pulse back. A rustle behind her draws her gaze. She spins, senses coiling. The wildflowers sway at the edge of the clearing, but no breeze stirs. One foxglove petal drifts downward as if caught in an unseen current. Aurora’s pulse hammers in her ears. She stands very still, listening. The grove demands stillness, and she obeys. Nothing comes. Just that petal, unfurling like a pale tongue against the dark. She breathes again, louder. The pendant’s warmth pulses, a steady glow, comforting. She exhales slowly. “It’s just me,” she whispers, tone firm despite the quiver in her voice. No answer. The trees remain mute. She forces her shoulders to relax and kneels beside the cairn, reaching for the pendant. Its silver chain slips easily from beneath her shirt. She threads it through her fingers, watching the stone’s inner light ripple. The warmth radiates through her palm, a gentle thrum synchronized with her heartbeat. If the portal lies nearby, the stone should guide her. As soon as the chain leaves her shirt, the glow dims—from bright crimson to a dull ember. Her stomach twists. The pendant belongs close to her chest, not her palm. She drapes the chain around her neck once more. The glow returns, stronger this time, pulsing like a second heartbeat in the hollow between stones. Aurora inhales. The effect is humbling: she senses that the portal might answer her call, if only she asks right. She lays both hands on the cairn. The moss is cool and damp under her fingers. Gathering courage, she speaks aloud: “I’m here for passage.” Her voice cracks in the hush. She imagines the benefactor’s calm words, luring her to this place. She wants closure, a way to heal scars deeper than the one on her wrist. She wants answers to questions she’s barely dared voice. Nothing changes. But then—a low moan, distant at first, as if the wind through branches, but sharper, more guttural. Aurora freezes. The sound deepens, resonating from the stones themselves. A shiver runs up her spine. The grove exhales around her; the trees’ shadows shift. She lifts her head and scans the standing stones. Pale veins of luminescence trace the runes, bleeding outward like ghostly sap. The glow is faint, but unmistakable. White light flickers along the carvings, then pulses in rhythm with the Heartstone. Aurora’s blood drums in her ears. She clutches the pendant, its glow intensifying until the clearing is bathed in dim red light. The moan crescendos into a chant, syllables unspoken on human tongues—sharp, echoing against oak and stone. Aurora backs away, knees scraping moss. She stumbles to her feet, the chant rippling around her, beckoning. Panic pricks at her calm. The portal, if that’s what it is, answers. But it feels wrong, like someone reaching through her chest, fingering her fears. Her flashlight lies at her side, forgotten in her flurry. She fumbles for it, thumbs shaking as she clicks it on. The narrow beam slices through the darkness, illuminating the cairn’s base. The stones rotate where her hands rested, shifting impossibly, edges smoothing. The foxglove that stood sentinel quivers and droops, petals curling inward like blackened tongues. Aurora’s breath hitches. A presence brushes past her shoulder: cold as grave air, heavier than the night. She whips around, flashlight jittering. The beam catches nothing—just the ring of stones and the leaning blooms. She lowers the light and squints into the gloom. Figures drift between trunks: silvery shapes at the edge of vision, half-seen. They pause, bent and silent. Then slip behind another tree. She jolts forward. “Hello?” The word cracks. She advances, light sweeping the ground. The forest floor ripples as if the earth itself is watching. A rustle in the undergrowth to her right. She spins, heart pounding so loudly she can barely think. A branch snaps. Her mind floods with flight. Yet she stands her ground, knuckles whitening on the flashlight. “Who’s there?” Her voice echoes, brittle. No reply, but the chant resumes—softer now, coaxing. Aurora’s eyes flick to the cairn: the stones are rearranging themselves, curling around a narrow gap that opens like a slit in flesh. Through it, violet darkness yawns. She feels vertigo, a pull at her core. The portal beckons, and she tastes cold iron on her tongue. She glances at the standing stones. Their luminescence has grown, spectral runes tracing lines toward the cairn, forming a ladder of light. The wildflowers beside each oak lean inward, their petals stretching, straining to touch the glow. Aurora’s rational mind protests: Fae magic, legend. But here, it pulses in her palm, thrums in the soil. Her pulse quickens. She knows the rules: time shifts here. An hour could be days elsewhere. She can’t linger. She has to decide: step through or run. She stares at the violet abyss, feels the resonance in her chest. The Heartstone burns hotter, as if the portal recognizes her. She takes a trembling step toward the stones, drawn. The chant grows louder, voices rising in harmony beneath the trees. Her skin prickles; every hair stands on end. The night deepens, pressing in, the moon locked behind a thick canopy. Only the red glow of the pendant and the violet breach offer light. Aurora’s rational mind tries to seize control: this is madness, go back— But the pendant flares, searing warmth scorching doubts away. She inhales, tastes adrenaline. Her scar tingles, echoing the pain that starts behind her eyes. A figure slips from the shadows: tall, gaunt, limbs spindly as brambles. Its face is pale, eyes reflecting the pendant’s crimson light. It moves without sound, a predator stepping out of dream. Aurora freezes. The flashlight beam swings up. The figure’s mouth opens—no words, just a widening rictus. It tilts its head, studying her. Instinct screams. She shoves past the standing stones, hurrying around the cairn’s far side, shedding flashlight. The portal’s glow pulses behind her like a heartbeat she can’t fast enough outrun. The creature glides after her, a phantom stalking between oaks. Aurora’s breath shreds in her throat. She darts for the nearest standing stone and presses her back against its mossy surface. The creature pauses on the other side, limbs braced. The runes along the stone carve themselves brighter, illuminating her face. She sees her reflection: bright blue eyes wide, hair plastered to her temples. The crescent scar on her wrist throbs. She touches it, tasting fear. She reaches for the pendant and holds it before her. The creature recoils, the red light dazzling it. It retreats a step, hissing soundless through cracked lips. Behind it, the violet portal bleeds more light across the grove floor. Aurora straightens. She raises her voice: “Go back!” The pendant responds, its glow flaring white-hot. The creature shrieks, retreating further. The portal’s edge ripples, as though aware of the conflict. Aurora steps forward, heart slamming, and the light spills over her palms, then arcs toward the creature in a ribbon of scorched warmth. The thing lunges, silhouette elongated and grotesque, but the glow pushes it back into the violet depths. The portal swallows it, along with the chant and the breath of the trees. Silence falls. The portal winks shut, stones clattering back into place. The runes fade. The wildflowers relax their rigid focus and nod gently in a breeze that finally stirs through the clearing. Aurora stands alone, chest heaving, the pendant dim once more, a soft crimson pulse at her heart. She glances around at the ancient oaks, at the standing stones now quiet, at the foxglove petal drifting still in the moonlight. Time feels elastic; a distant clock might show minutes or hours or days have passed. She doesn’t care. She slipped through a veil, faced the hunger beyond it, and survived. Aurora brushes damp hair from her face and drapes the chain around her neck. The pendant’s warmth soothes her, a promise she doesn’t trust but needs anyway. She takes one last look at the cairn, its secrets sealed for now, and steps back through the circle of stones. Night in Richmond Park swallows her footprints, offering no sign she was ever here. Yet she carries the proof close to her chest—a heartbeat in silver and stone.