Run: 2026-02-17-01KHMRCJ37SHDDB61QPM0ZKSGA

The crunch of gravel under Aurora’s worn boots was the only sound that dared to interrupt the suffocating quiet of Richmond Park. Moonlight, a weak, watery thing, filtered through the skeletal branches of ancient oaks, casting long, distorted shadows that writhed like living things. It was well past midnight, and the London air, usually a symphony of distant sirens and late-night revelers, was utterly still. She clutched the strap of her messenger bag, its familiar weight a small comfort against the prickle of unease crawling up her spine. She’d told herself it was a stupid idea, a desperate one. Isolde’s grove. The Fae Grove. A whisper of magic in the mundane world, a place where the veil between realities thinned. Eva had sworn by it, once. A place to find answers, or so the more fantastical of Eva’s pronouncements went. Rory, however, was chasing a different kind of answer. Something about the pendant. Dymas. The name itself felt alien, a fragment of a forgotten dream. The Heartstone pendant, nestled against her skin beneath her drab work uniform, was usually a comforting weight, a deep crimson pulse against her sternum. Tonight, it felt cold, inert, like a dead thing. The grove was marked by standing stones, Dymas had said. Ancient oaks, taller and thicker than any Rory had ever seen, stood sentinel around the clearing. They weren't just trees; they were monoliths of dark wood, their bark like scarred, leathery skin. The air here was different. Cooler, denser, carrying the faint, cloying scent of something blooming, something that shouldn’t be blooming in the dead of autumn. In the heart of the clearing, wildflowers, impossibly vibrant, pushed through the leaf litter, their colours a jarring splash against the muted tones of the night. A pocket between worlds, they’d called it. It felt more like a wound. Rory stopped at the edge of the clearing, her breath catching in her throat. The silence wasn't peaceful; it was predatory. It pressed in on her, a physical force, muffling her own heartbeat. She strained her ears, listening for the rustle of leaves, the scurry of some unseen creature. Nothing. Not even the whisper of wind. It was as if the park itself was holding its breath. She took a tentative step forward, her boot sinking slightly into the mossy ground. The pendant against her chest gave a faint, almost imperceptible thrum. It wasn't the warmth she usually felt; it was a shiver, a tremor that ran through her like an electric current. This was it, then. The place. But what was she supposed to do? Dymas’s message had been cryptic, full of half-truths and veiled warnings about “seeking resonance.” Resonance with what? With the pendant? With this… place? She walked deeper into the clearing, the standing stones looming around her like silent judges. Their surfaces were unnaturally smooth, as if worn down by centuries of unseen hands. She reached out a hesitant hand, her fingers brushing against the cool, rough bark of one of the oaks. It felt strangely alive, pulsing with a slow, deep rhythm that seemed to echo her own disturbed heartbeat. A snap echoed from behind her, sharp and sudden. Rory whipped around, her heart leaping into her throat. Nothing. Just the trees, the distorted shadows. She told herself it was a branch, a clumsy animal. But the sound had been too distinct, too close. It hadn’t sounded natural. She pulled her jacket tighter around herself, the thin fabric offering little defence against the encroaching chill. The wildflowers at her feet seemed to pulse with bioluminescent light, their colours growing more intense in the gloom. A delicate bluebell, impossibly large, unfurled its petals further, revealing a darkness within that seemed to absorb the moonlight. She heard it again, a whisper this time, a faint rustling just beyond the circle of stones. It was too low to be the wind, too formless to be an animal. It sounded like voices, countless tiny voices, too far away to discern words, but close enough to feel their presence. She spun around again, her eyes scanning the dense ring of trees. The shadows seemed deeper now, more solid. They swayed, not with the wind, but with a deliberate, unsettling grace. “Hello?” Her voice was a fragile thread, swallowed by the oppressive silence. “Is anyone there?” Of course, that was a foolish question. This was supposed to be a place of otherness. The pendant against her skin flared with heat, a sudden, sharp burn that made her gasp. It was so intense she thought it might melt through her clothes. She fumbled with the clasp, intending to pull it out, to see what was happening, but her fingers felt numb, clumsy. As she struggled, a movement caught her eye at the periphery of her vision. A flicker of something pale, something that darted between the trees. She froze, her breath held tight in her chest. It was slender, elongated, and moved with an impossible fluidity. It was gone before she could truly focus on it, leaving behind only the impression of something that defied easy categorization. Not human. Not animal. The whispers intensified, coalescing into a low, keening murmur. It washed over her, a tide of mournful sound, and the air grew heavy, cloying. The scent of unnatural blooms thickened, becoming almost suffocating. She felt a rising panic, a desperate urge to flee, to run back to the familiar grit of the city, to the noise and the light. But her feet felt rooted to the spot, caught in the strange, compelling stillness of the grove. A single, impossibly long shadow detached itself from the trunk of the nearest oak. It didn't stretch away from the tree; it peeled itself off, like a dried leaf. It flowed across the ground towards her, a ribbon of pure darkness that seemed to absorb the scant moonlight. There was no sound as it moved, only a profound absence of light. Rory’s eyes were fixed on the encroaching shadow. It was no longer outside hers. It was here, in the grove, and it was coming for her. Her fingers finally found the pendant. It was searing hot against her skin. A faint, crimson glow emanated from within the Heartstone, a desperate pulse in the suffocating darkness. She pulled it out from her shirt, holding it aloft like a meager shield. The pendant seemed to react to the shadow, its glow intensifying, a fragile defiance. But the shadow was faster. It was already at her feet, a tangible cold seeping into her bones. The whispers around her shrieked, a cacophony of tiny, piercing voices. She could feel things brushing against her legs, soft, insubstantial things like cobwebs, but colder. She squeezed her eyes shut, her knuckles white as she gripped the pendant. She didn’t want to see what was coming, what was already here. But the cold was inside her now, seeping into her very core, and the overwhelming certainty of being utterly, terrifyingly alone, yet not alone at all, settled upon her like a shroud. The wildflowers pulsed, their impossible blooms opening wider, like hungry mouths in the deepening gloom.