Run: 2026-02-17-01KHNFDDNG3MV7ZPXQRQ3G17MQ

Rory stepped through the gap between the ancient oaks, and the temperature dropped ten degrees. The October wind that had been tugging at her jacket collar died to nothing, as if she'd passed through an invisible membrane into somewhere else entirely. Richmond Park stretched dark behind her, but ahead lay the grove Isolde had described—wildflowers blooming pale in the moonlight despite the season, their petals luminescent against grass that looked too green, too alive for autumn. The Heartstone pendant hung heavy against her breastbone. She'd worn it under her shirt out of habit, but now it pulsed with warmth that spread through her chest like whiskey. Not the sharp, urgent heat that signaled a portal to Hel—this was different. Slower. Like a heartbeat that wasn't quite her own. She checked her phone. 11:47 PM. Isolde had said midnight, insisted on it with that particular fae precision that made Rory's teeth ache. "When the moon sits highest, child. Not a moment before or after." The fairy queen's instructions echoed in her memory, melodic and wrong, each word shaped by a mouth that had never quite learned how human speech should sound. The clearing opened before her, perfectly circular, carpeted with those impossible flowers. Their scent drifted up—honey and copper and something else, something that made her think of opened veins. She forced herself to step forward. The grass whispered against her boots, and she could have sworn the blades bent away from her feet before she touched them. In the center of the grove stood a stone table she hadn't been able to see from the edge. Rough-hewn granite, its surface carved with symbols that hurt to look at directly. The moonlight gathered there, pooling like mercury in the carved channels. Rory approached it slowly, fighting the urge to turn back. She'd come here for answers about the pendant, about why it had been left for her, about what her connection to all this madness might be. Isolde had promised revelations in exchange for a simple task—retrieve a silver box hidden beneath the table and bring it unopened to the Winter Court. Simple. Nothing with the fae was ever simple. The pendant's warmth intensified as she knelt beside the table. The ground beneath was soft, too soft, as if the earth here had never quite solidified. She dug with her fingers, soil rolling away like water, unnaturally warm and damp. Six inches down, her knuckles struck metal. A branch snapped somewhere behind her. Rory froze, fingers still buried in the earth. The sound had been crisp, deliberate—not the random settling of wood but the precise pressure of weight on dead timber. She held her breath, listening. The grove had gone silent. Not quiet—silent. No insect hum, no rustle of small creatures in the undergrowth, not even the whisper of air through leaves. The flowers around her no longer swayed. Another snap, this time to her left. She pulled the box free in one swift motion, soil cascading from its smooth surface. Silver, as promised, no bigger than a paperback book. The metal felt wrong against her palms, simultaneously too hot and too cold, as if it existed at a temperature human nerves couldn't quite process. She stood slowly, tucking it into her jacket's inner pocket. The pendant flared against her chest—not warm now but scalding. The heat that meant danger, that meant something from Hel was near. But the portals she'd encountered before had torn reality like paper, edges visible and raw. This felt different. Subtler. Like something had always been here, waiting, and she'd simply wandered into its web. Movement in her peripheral vision—quick, skittering. She spun toward it, but found only flowers nodding in a breeze she couldn't feel. The moonlight seemed dimmer now, though no clouds crossed the sky. The shadows between the oak sentinels had deepened, taken on substance and weight. She needed to leave. Now. Rory moved toward the gap she'd entered through, forcing herself not to run. Running would acknowledge the wrongness, would give it permission to chase. The flowers caught at her jeans with thorns she hadn't noticed before, tiny pinpricks of pain that left no mark. The ground beneath her feet had gone soft again, each step sinking deeper than the last. The gap between the oaks had narrowed. She was certain of it. What had been a comfortable passage was now barely shoulder-width, the ancient bark pressing in from both sides. The pendant burned against her skin, and she could smell her shirt beginning to singe. Through the narrowed opening, Richmond Park looked wrong—trees where there hadn't been trees, paths that curved in impossible directions. Something laughed behind her. Not quite human, not quite animal. The sound started low in the register her ears could process and climbed until it passed beyond hearing, leaving only a vibration in her bones. She lunged for the gap. The oaks scraped against her shoulders, bark tearing at her jacket. For a moment, she stuck fast, the space too narrow for her body. The laughter came again, closer, and she felt breath on the back of her neck—cold despite the burning pendant, carrying the scent of earth and old blood. She threw herself forward with all her strength. The world tore. Rory tumbled onto the familiar paths of Richmond Park, gasping. The October wind hit her like a slap, cold and real and gloriously normal. She scrambled to her feet, spinning to look back at the grove. The oaks stood as they always had, ancient and indifferent. The gap between them showed only darkness. But as she watched, something pale moved in that darkness—too tall, jointed in too many places, reaching toward the threshold with fingers that branched like winter trees. The pendant's heat faded to warmth, then coolness. Whatever had been hunting her couldn't cross over. Not yet. She checked her phone with shaking hands. 11:51 PM. Four minutes. She'd been in the grove for only four minutes. The silver box sat heavy in her pocket, its weight somehow greater than its size suggested. She could feel it pulling at her, trying to drag her down, to root her to this spot until the thing in the darkness found another way through. Rory forced herself to walk, then jog, then run—away from the grove, away from Richmond Park, away from whatever Isolde had truly sent her to find. Behind her, carried on the wind, came the sound of oak bark splitting. She ran faster.