Run: 2026-02-19-01KHTRMTYZ76SHCJ9NS1CFG3YC

The Heartstone Pendant lay heavy against Rory’s collarbone, its crimson glow bleeding through the thin fabric of her shirt like a slow-burning ember. She adjusted the strap of her backpack, the weight of the delivery bag from Golden Empress pressing into her shoulder. The standing stones loomed ahead, their gnarled oaks twisted into shapes that didn’t quite make sense—too many angles, too many knots that looked like faces frozen in silent screams. She shouldn’t have come. Not at night. Not alone. But the pendant had pulsed against her skin all evening, a steady, insistent warmth that grew hotter the closer she got to Richmond Park. And then there was the message, slipped into her pocket during her last delivery: *"The Grove. Midnight. Come alone."* No signature. No explanation. Just the same handwriting as the note that had arrived with the pendant weeks ago. The air smelled wrong. Too sweet, like rotting flowers. The wildflowers that should have carpeted the grove were wilted, their petals blackened at the edges. The standing stones cast long, jagged shadows in the moonlight, stretching toward her like skeletal fingers. Rory stepped between them. The world tilted. A breath of wind that wasn’t wind brushed against her neck, and for a second, the trees seemed to lean in, their branches creaking like old bones. She swallowed hard and kept walking. The clearing opened up before her, bathed in silver light. The grass here was still green, but the blades trembled, though there was no breeze. At the center of the grove stood a single oak, its trunk wider than three men, its roots twisting into the earth like veins. A hollow gaped in its side, dark and yawning. The pendant flared hot against her skin. She reached for it, fingers brushing the smooth crimson stone. The glow pulsed in time with her heartbeat, faster now. Something moved in the hollow of the tree. A shadow. A shape. "Hello?" Her voice sounded too loud, too sharp. No answer. Just the rustle of leaves that shouldn’t have been moving. She took a step closer. The hollow wasn’t empty. Something glinted inside—a pair of eyes, reflecting the moonlight like a cat’s. Then they blinked out. Rory froze. A whisper slithered through the grove, so soft she almost missed it. Her name. *"Aurora."* She spun, heart hammering. Nothing. Just the trees, the stones, the unnatural stillness. Then the ground beneath her feet trembled. Not an earthquake. Something deeper. Something alive. The roots of the great oak twitched. She stumbled back, nearly tripping over her own feet. The roots writhed, slithering across the grass like serpents, inching toward her. The pendant burned now, searing her skin, but she couldn’t look away. A hand shot out from the hollow. Long fingers, pale as bone, wrapped around the edge of the tree. Then another. A figure dragged itself into the moonlight, crawling on all fours like a broken thing. Rory’s breath hitched. It was a woman—or it had been. Her skin was stretched too tight over sharp angles, her limbs too long, her joints bending in ways that made Rory’s stomach clench. Dark hair hung in matted strands around a face that was almost familiar. Almost human. The woman lifted her head. Her eyes were black. No whites. No pupils. Just endless dark. "Rory," the thing whispered, its voice like dry leaves scraping stone. "You came." Rory’s pulse roared in her ears. She should run. She should scream. But her feet were rooted to the spot, her body locked in place by something deeper than fear. The thing smiled. Its lips split too wide, too many teeth glinting in the moonlight. "Do you know who I am?" Rory shook her head, mute. The thing tilted its head, studying her. "No. Of course you don’t." It pushed itself up, standing on legs that bent backward at the knee. "But you will." The roots coiled around Rory’s ankles. She gasped, yanking against them, but they held fast, tightening like ropes. The pendant flared white-hot, searing through her shirt, branding her skin. She cried out, more in shock than pain, and the thing in front of her laughed—a sound like breaking glass. "You feel it, don’t you?" it crooned, taking a step closer. "The pull. The call." Its fingers twitched at its sides. "You’re one of us now." Rory’s vision swam. The grove spun around her, the trees blurring into streaks of black and silver. The thing’s voice echoed in her skull, whispering words she couldn’t understand but somehow knew. The roots dragged her forward. She fought, digging her heels into the earth, but the ground beneath her was soft, giving way like quicksand. The thing’s hand closed around her wrist, its grip cold as death. Its fingers traced the crescent scar on her skin, and for a heartbeat, the world went still. Then the thing leaned in, its breath reeking of damp earth and decay. "You’ve been marked," it murmured. "And now, you’re mine."