Run: 2026-02-17-01KHNFXP5XHFP7VK98GT406XV3

The air in the Grovetasted like wet earth and something older, something that clung to the skin like a second breath. Aurora Carter, or Rory, as her friends called her, pushed through the ancient oaks, their gnarled branches scraping the hood of her coat. The standing stones, weathered and moss-covered, marked the boundary where the familiar world bled into the Fae. She’d come for the pendant, the Heartstone, given to her by a stranger whose face she couldn’t quite recall. It had pulsed faintly against her chest since she’d left the Golden Empress, a low, insistent warmth that felt less like comfort and more like a warning. The night was thick, suffocating. The usual sounds of the city – distant traffic, the hum of London – were absent here. Instead, a low, rhythmic thrum vibrated in her bones, like the pulse of a distant heart. She paused, listening. The wind sighed through the oaks, but it wasn’t the wind. It sounded… wrong. Like the sigh of a thousand dry leaves, each one whispering a name she didn’t recognize. She shivered, not from cold, but from the sheer wrongness of it. She’d been here before, briefly, years ago, when she was just Rory, a kid tagging along with Eva. Back then, it had felt like a magical playground. Now, it felt like a trap. The pendant in her pocket pulsed again, stronger this time, a faint crimson glow seeping through the silver chain. It was near a Hel portal, she knew. The pendant always warned her. But why was it so insistent now? Why did the air feel thick enough to chew? She moved deeper, the path winding between the oaks. The wildflowers, blooming year-round, seemed unnaturally vibrant, their colors too sharp, too alive. A flicker of movement caught her eye at the edge of vision. She spun, heart hammering. Nothing. Just shadows coalescing and dissolving. She told herself it was fatigue, the stress of her job, the lingering fear from Evan. But the fear wasn’t lingering; it was blooming, a cold flower unfurling in her chest. The thrum grew louder, a low drone that vibrated through the soles of her boots. It wasn’t natural. It was the sound of something large, something ancient, moving just beyond the veil. She pressed herself against the rough bark of an oak, breathing shallowly. The scent of the Grove was changing. It wasn’t just earth and moss anymore. There was a metallic tang, like blood drying on stone, and something else – ozone, the smell of magic being torn open. She reached the heart of the Grove, a small clearing where the stones formed a rough circle. The air here was stiller, heavier. The thrum was a constant, low roar now. She knelt, her fingers trembling as she pulled the pendant from her pocket. It pulsed violently, a bright crimson light that illuminated the moss-covered stones. The glow wasn’t just warmth; it was heat, radiating enough to make the air shimmer. A cold certainty settled in her gut. She wasn’t alone. The wrongness wasn’t just in the air; it was *here*. The Fae were watching. They always watched. She remembered Eva’s stories, the warnings whispered in Cardiff pubs. The Fae weren’t benevolent. They were hungry. And the pendant, the Heartstone, was a beacon. A beacon for something far worse than hunger. She scrambled to her feet, the sound of her own breathing loud in the oppressive silence. The thrum intensified, a physical pressure against her eardrums. She turned to flee, but the path behind her was swallowed by shadows that seemed to shift and writhe. The stones around her felt like eyes, watching her retreat. The wildflowers weren’t just blooming; they were moving, their stems bending towards her, their petals unfurling like grasping hands. The pendant’s glow flared, blindingly bright, casting long, distorted shadows that danced like living things. It wasn’t just a warning; it was a call. A call to the Hel portal. And the Hel portal was opening. She could feel the fabric of reality thinning, like ice cracking underfoot. The thrum became a scream, a sound that vibrated in her skull, threatening to shatter her bones. She stumbled back, tripping over a root. The world tilted. The stones weren’t stones anymore; they were faces, ancient and cruel, leering down at her. The air crackled with energy, smelling of ozone and blood. The thrum was a roar now, a sound that promised pain, madness, or worse. She clutched the pendant, its heat searing her palm, a desperate anchor in the chaos. The Fae were coming. They were here. And the Hel portal was wide open. The only question was, would she be consumed, or would she find a way to close it? The answer wasn’t in the Grove anymore; it was in the pendant’s pulse, a frantic, desperate rhythm that echoed her own racing heart. The horror wasn’t just in the shadows; it was in the very air, thick and alive, waiting to swallow her whole.