Run: 2026-02-19-01KHTQWVSEBV2M5Q0YC8M6B6DE

The Heartstone Pendant lay heavy against Rory’s collarbone, its crimson glow bleeding through her shirt like a slow, steady heartbeat. She adjusted the strap of her delivery bag, the weight of the takeout containers inside suddenly oppressive. The standing stones loomed ahead, their gnarled oaks black against the bruised twilight sky. Richmond Park should’ve been empty this late, but the air hummed with something else—something that prickled the hairs on her arms. She wasn’t supposed to be here. Not after dark. Not after the last time. But Eva had texted her an hour ago, voice shaking through the phone: *"Rory, I’m at the Grove. Something’s wrong. The stones—they’re not right. Please."* No other details. Just static, then silence. Rory stepped past the first stone, the ground beneath her boots shifting from damp grass to something softer, like moss. The wildflowers here never wilted, even in winter, but tonight their petals looked too bright, too *alive*, their colors bleeding into the dark like wet paint. The pendant pulsed against her skin, warmer now, as if responding to something she couldn’t see. A twig snapped. She spun, heart hammering. The trees stood still, their branches weaving a lattice against the sky. Nothing moved. Nothing *should’ve* moved. The Grove didn’t have squirrels, didn’t have foxes—just silence, thick and suffocating. "Eva?" Her voice sounded too loud, too *human*, in the quiet. No answer. She took another step, boots sinking slightly into the earth. The air smelled wrong—too sweet, like rotting fruit beneath the usual scent of damp earth and wildflowers. Her fingers twitched toward the pendant, but she stopped herself. If something was here, she didn’t want to draw attention to it. Then she heard it. A whisper. Not from the trees. Not from the wind. From *behind* her. Rory turned slowly, breath shallow. The standing stones stood in a perfect circle, their edges jagged against the sky. But one of them—just one—had shifted. The gap between it and the next stone was wider now, as if something had passed through. Her pulse roared in her ears. "Eva, if this is a joke—" A laugh. High, breathy, not Eva’s. It came from the trees, then the stones, then nowhere at all, bouncing between the trunks like a ricocheting bullet. Rory’s hands clenched. "Who’s there?" The pendant burned now, searing through her shirt. She yanked it out, the crimson gem pulsing in time with her heartbeat. The glow cast long shadows across the stones, and for a second, she thought she saw *something* move in the dark between them—a shape, too tall, too *wrong*, its limbs bending at angles that made her stomach lurch. Then it was gone. She exhaled, forcing her legs to move. Eva was here. She had to be. Rory stepped toward the center of the Grove, where the wildflowers grew thickest, their petals brushing against her jeans. The air here was heavier, pressing down on her like a hand. "Eva, *answer me*." A rustle. Not from the trees. From *below*. Rory looked down. The flowers at her feet were wilting. Not naturally—*shriveling*, their petals blackening as if burned from the inside. The rot spread outward in a perfect circle, the grass turning to ash beneath her boots. The pendant flared. She stumbled back, but the circle was already closing around her, the flowers dying in a wave. The air turned thick, cloying, like breathing through wet cloth. Her vision swam. Then the whispers started again. Not one voice. *Many*. Overlapping, hissing, words she almost understood but couldn’t quite grasp, like a radio tuned between stations. They slithered into her ears, cold and wet, and she clapped her hands over them, fingers digging into her skull. "Stop—*stop*—" The ground trembled. Rory dropped to her knees, the pendant swinging free, its glow now a violent, pulsing red. The whispers sharpened, forming a single, guttural word: *"Malphora."* Her breath caught. That wasn’t her name. Not really. But she’d heard it before—in dreams, in the dark, in the moments before Evan’s fist connected with her ribs. A name only *he* had ever called her. The stones groaned. She looked up. The standing oaks were *moving*, their roots tearing free of the earth with wet, rending sounds. They twisted, bending toward her, their branches knitting together like fingers lacing into a cage. The space between them darkened, swallowing the last of the twilight, and something *breathed* in the black. The pendant burned white-hot against her skin. Rory screamed.