Run: 2026-02-19-01KHTX1T9ZH2P6YGP2JG9CEQAW

Rain had started just as Rory crossed the deer gate into Richmond Park, fine needles of it stinging her cheeks. She pulled her coat tighter, the collar damp against her neck. The Heartstone Pendant weighed against her sternum, its usual warmth now a dull throb beneath her fingers where she’d clutched it through her shirt. The map Yu-Fei had scrawled on the back of a takeout menu was smudged, ink bleeding at the edges, but she didn’t need it anymore. The grove called to her. The pendant pulsed. Not warm. Not comforting. A slow, uneven beat—like a heart buried under ice. She stepped off the path. The trees crowded in. Oaks, ancient and bowed, their bark split like old leather. Between them, the ground rose unevenly, carpeted in moss so thick it muffled her footsteps. The air was too still. No wind. No rustling. Even the rain didn’t touch her here. A gap between two trunks. A breath of wild jasmine. The Fae Grove. She paused at the threshold. The standing stones ringed the clearing—massive, barkless oaks with trunks so wide they looked carved from the land itself. Their roots coiled like petrified serpents, and where their branches met overhead, a pale, silvery light filtered down, not from moon or stars, but from the grove itself. Wildflowers bloomed in impossible clusters—purple foxgloves, white snowdrops, fire-orange poppies—all thriving in a December midnight. The air smelled of damp soil and something bitter underneath. Like iron, or old coins. Rory’s wrist ached—the crescent scar tingling as if scraped fresh. She stepped inside. The temperature didn’t change. But the silence did. Not silence. A hum. Low, sub-audible. It pressed against the base of her skull, vibrated in her molars. She swallowed, and the sound echoed in her own throat like it had traveled too far. “Hello?” she called. Her voice didn’t carry. It collapsed into the moss, strangled by the trees. The pendant thumped once. She walked toward the center of the grove, where a ring of foxgloves bloomed unnaturally close together, their bell-shaped flowers trembling despite the absence of wind. Kneeling, she pulled the backpack from her shoulders, unzipped it, and withdrew the jade box Yu-Fei had entrusted to her. Carved with spirals and half-formed faces, it felt heavier than stone. The lid didn’t open—no hinge, no seam—only a single indentation shaped like a teardrop. Like the Heartstone. She hesitated. The map hadn’t mentioned this. Only that she must bring the box *to* the grove. Not what to do with it. The pendant flared. Warmth this time. Sharp. Insistent. She lifted it from its chain, slipped it into the indentation. It fit. A crack split the air—not loud, but deep. Like ice giving way beneath a lake. The box opened. Not by parting, but by *unfolding*, petals of jade peeling back like a flower blooming in reverse. Inside, nothing. Just a hollow lined with black silk. Then a sound. A whisper. Not in her ears. In her *mind*. A voice made of smoke and thorns. *You are not the one.* Rory jerked back. The box remained open. Silent. She glanced over her shoulder. Nothing. The standing stones stood like sentinels. The flowers did not stir. But her shadow—long and thin in the grove’s eerie light—wasn’t hers. It crouched lower than she did. Elbows bent too far backward. Fingers too long, dragging in the moss. She stood. The shadow stayed. She stepped left. It didn’t move. She took two hard steps forward, into the foxglove ring. The shadow stayed behind. And slowly, it raised its head. She didn’t look back. Her breath came fast. Shallow. She forced it slow. Analyze. Observe. Eva’s voice in her head: *Fear makes bad plans.* But this wasn’t fear. This was older. A deep, animal knowledge that she had stepped into a place that was never meant for her. Something brushed her ankle. She looked down. A vine? No. Too smooth. Too deliberate. It slithered around her boot, thin and dark as a root. It pulsed, once. She kicked. It unraveled, melting into the moss. Another whisper. Not in her head this time. From the stones. *You don’t belong.* She turned. Behind the nearest standing oak, something stood. Tall. Too tall. Slender. Its limbs were long, arms hanging past its knees. It wore no clothes, but its skin shimmered like oiled bark, patterned with swirls that moved when she wasn’t looking directly at them. Its face—she couldn’t see its face. Only a dip where eyes should be, and a slit of darkness beneath. It didn’t move. It didn’t need to. She backed away. Her heel struck something soft. She turned. The jade box was gone. In its place, the Heartstone Pendant lay in the moss, glowing crimson. She knelt to grab it. A hand—blackened, twig-fingered—sank through the earth and closed around her wrist. She screamed. The sound didn’t echo. It was *swallowed*. The thing behind the stone stepped forward. Just one step. Noiseless. Another emerged from behind a second stone. Then a third. They didn’t walk. They *unfolded*, limbs extending like joints on a spider’s legs. Their heads tilted, listening. Not with ears. With their skin. Rory wrenched her arm free. The hand dissolved into roots. She snatched the pendant, shoved it back around her neck. Run. She bolted toward the gap in the stones. But the path wasn’t there. The trees had shifted. The opening sealed shut with ivy as thick as rope. She turned. They circled now, slow, methodical. Silent. The pendant pulsed—warm, frantic. One of them raised a hand. Not toward her. Toward the foxglove ring. The flowers convulsed. Petals blackened. Curled. Shriveled to ash. From the center of the ring, the earth split. A column of darkness rose—smooth, polished, like obsidian. Taller than the trees. Wider than a house. It had no features. No opening. But she felt it *breathe*. The pendant screamed against her skin. Not a sound. A vibration. A warning. She stumbled back. And tripped. Fell hard on her side. The breath left her. For a moment, she saw stars. Then the grove returned—worse. The standing stones were no longer trees. They were *bodies*. Twisted. Fused. Their bark peeled back to reveal muscle and sinew, their roots dragging through the earth like entrails. Eyes opened in their trunks. Hundreds of them. All fixed on her. The obsidian monolith pulsed. A low, resonant tone filled the air. Not sound. *Pressure.* It pressed into her ears, her chest, her bones. Words formed in the dark. *You were not invited.* Behind her, something moved in the moss. Small. Quick. Skittering. She didn’t turn. She couldn’t. The monolith’s surface rippled. An opening formed—vertical, lipless. A mouth. Or a door. From within, a light. Not silver. Not orange. Green. Flickering. Familiar. Like the neon sign above Silas’ bar. Home. Her breath caught. A way out? She took a step. The figures in the clearing raised their hands. Not to stop her. To *beckon*. She hesitated. The pendant burned. She looked down. Her hands—her real hands—were covered in moss. Thin tendrils creeping up her wrists, lacing over her fingers. The crescent scar pulsed, black at the edges. She wasn’t alone. She never had been. Something lived inside the grove. And it had been waiting. For her.