Run: 2026-02-19-01KHTX4TMDKS7KY72ATT8Y1PES

The bike’s tyres crunched over frost-bitten gravel as Rory killed the engine. The silence that followed wasn’t natural—it pressed against her eardrums, thick as wet wool. She swung a leg over the saddle and stood, stretching her back. The air smelled of damp earth and something older, something that didn’t belong in Richmond Park at midnight. She unclipped the helmet and shook out her hair, the cold biting at her scalp. The pendant around her neck pulsed once, a faint warmth against her skin. She ignored it. The Heartstone had been acting up all evening, but she’d come too far to turn back now. The standing stones loomed ahead, their gnarled roots twisting like fingers into the earth. Ancient oaks, their bark blackened with age, marked the boundary of the grove. Rory exhaled, her breath curling in the air. She’d read the stories—everyone in London had heard whispers about the Fae Grove—but she hadn’t expected the weight of it. The way the air hummed, just below hearing. She stepped forward, boots sinking slightly into the damp ground. The stones were taller than her, their surfaces carved with symbols that made her eyes ache if she stared too long. She reached out, fingers brushing the cold, rough surface of the nearest one. A twig snapped. Rory froze. The sound had come from behind her, but when she turned, the path was empty. Just the bike, its frame glinting under the sickly glow of the park’s distant lamps. She exhaled sharply, her breath fogging in front of her. *Probably a fox.* She turned back to the stones, but the pendant burned against her skin now, insistent. She pulled it free from her jacket, the crimson gem catching the dim light. The glow inside it flickered, like a heartbeat. “Right,” she muttered. “Let’s get this over with.” She stepped between the stones. The world didn’t shift so much as *tilt*. One moment, she was standing in the park, the next, the air thickened, pressing against her skin like wet silk. The trees stretched taller, their branches knitting together overhead into a canopy that blotted out the stars. The ground beneath her feet was softer, spongy with moss. The scent of wildflowers—sweet, almost cloying—filled her nose. Rory swallowed. *Okay. Still just a grove. Still just a place.* She took another step. The pendant flared, searing hot against her palm. She hissed, dropping it back against her chest. The gem pulsed, casting jagged shadows across the trees. The glow wasn’t steady—it flickered, like a dying lightbulb. Then the whispers started. Not words. Not quite. Just sounds, low and murmuring, slipping between the trees. Rory’s fingers twitched toward the knife in her boot, but she forced herself to still. *Panicking won’t help.* She moved forward, her boots silent on the moss. The whispers followed, never quite loud enough to make out, always just at the edge of hearing. Her pulse thudded in her throat. A shape shifted in the corner of her eye. Rory spun, her hand flying to the knife. Nothing. Just the trees, their bark glistening with something that wasn’t sap. She exhaled through her nose, forcing her breathing to slow. Then she saw it. A figure stood between the trees, motionless. Tall, too tall, its limbs too long, its silhouette jagged against the dark. Rory’s breath hitched. The pendant burned against her skin, the glow now a steady, sickly crimson. The figure didn’t move. Didn’t breathe. Just *stood*, watching her. Rory’s fingers closed around the knife’s hilt. “Who’s there?” The whispers stopped. The figure tilted its head. Just slightly. Just enough. Then it smiled. Its mouth split too wide, too many teeth glinting in the dim light. Rory’s stomach lurched. She took a step back, her boot sinking into the moss. The figure took a step forward. The pendant’s glow flared, casting long, twisting shadows across the ground. Rory’s grip tightened on the knife. She didn’t run. Running would be worse. The figure’s voice slithered into the air, a sound like dry leaves scraping stone. *“You shouldn’t be here, little thief.”* Rory’s blood turned to ice. “I’m not a thief.” The figure tilted its head the other way. *“Then why do you carry what isn’t yours?”* The pendant pulsed again, hot enough to brand her skin. Rory didn’t look down. She didn’t take her eyes off the figure. “I was given it,” she said, her voice steadier than she felt. The figure laughed. The sound was wrong, too many notes at once, like a broken instrument. *“Given? Or taken?”* Rory’s fingers ached around the knife. “Does it matter?” The figure took another step. The air between them thickened, pressing against her skin. *“It matters,”* it said, *“because you don’t know what you hold.”* The pendant burned brighter. Rory’s vision swam, the edges of the grove blurring. The figure’s form wavered, its edges dissolving like smoke. Then the ground beneath her feet *moved*. Rory stumbled, her boot sinking into the moss. The earth shifted, rippling like water. She barely kept her balance, her heart hammering against her ribs. The figure was closer now. Too close. *“You feel it, don’t you?”* it murmured. *“The pull. The hunger.”* Rory’s breath came in short, sharp gasps. The pendant’s glow was blinding now, casting the grove in a hellish red light. The trees seemed to lean in, their branches twisting like grasping fingers. She didn’t wait for it to speak again. She lunged. The knife flashed in the crimson light, but the figure was faster. It twisted, its form dissolving into smoke, reforming just out of reach. Rory’s strike met only air. The figure laughed again, the sound echoing through the grove. *“You can’t hurt me, little thief. Not here.”* Rory’s chest heaved. The pendant’s heat was unbearable now, searing through her jacket. She gritted her teeth, forcing herself to think. The figure took another step. *“But I can hurt you.”* The ground beneath Rory’s feet *gave way*. She barely had time to gasp before she was falling, the moss swallowing her like quicksand. She thrashed, her fingers scrambling for purchase, but the earth was too soft, too hungry. The pendant’s glow flickered, dimming as the grove swallowed her whole. The last thing she saw was the figure, standing at the edge of the pit, its smile wide and gleaming. *“Sleep well,”* it whispered. Then the dark took her.