Run: 2026-02-19-01KHTX4ZJ6AXGAGH181PH67HM8

The air in the Grove thickened, heavywith the scent of damp earth and something else—sweet, almost sickly, like overripe berries. Aurora Carter, or Rory, as her friends called her, pushed through the ancient oaks, their gnarled roots twisting like grasping fingers beneath the moss-carpeted ground. The path was narrow, barely wide enough for one person, winding deeper into the heart of Richmond Park. She’d come here, fleeing the suffocating familiarity of her flat above Silas’s bar, seeking the Grove’s rumored peace. But peace felt like a lie the moment she crossed the invisible threshold. The birdsong, a cheerful cacophony outside, vanished. In its place, a low, resonant hum vibrated in her bones, like distant thunder trapped beneath the earth. She stopped, leaning against a massive oak, its bark rough under her palm. The sky above was unnaturally dark, thick with clouds that swallowed the moonlight. A single, cold star pierced the gloom, watching her. She shivered, not from cold, but from a prickle of awareness that crawled up her spine. Something was wrong. The silence wasn’t peaceful; it was a vacuum, sucking sound into itself. She listened harder, straining to hear the rustle of leaves, the cry of an owl. Nothing. Just the hum, growing louder, a low thrum that made her teeth ache. A flicker of movement caught her eye at the edge of the clearing. She snapped her head around, heart hammering against her ribs. Nothing. Just shadows coalescing around the ancient standing stones, their moss-draped forms silhouetted against the gloom. The stones themselves seemed to shift, imperceptibly, as if breathing. A cold sweat broke out on her forehead. She’d read about the Grove’s time distortion—an hour inside could be minutes or days outside. But that didn’t explain the feeling of being watched, the oppressive weight pressing down on her chest. She pulled the Heartstone pendant from beneath her shirt, its deep crimson gem pulsing faintly against her skin. It felt warm, almost feverish. She pressed it against her wrist, where the small crescent scar from childhood lay. The pendant’s glow intensified, a tiny, insistent beacon in the oppressive dark. She tucked it away, the warmth a small comfort against the creeping dread. She needed to get out. She needed to find the exit before the Grove claimed her. She turned, following the path back the way she’d come. But the path wasn’t there. Instead, she found herself facing a wall of thick, impenetrable brambles, their thorns glinting with an unnatural sheen in the faint starlight. Panic clawed at her throat. She tried to backtrack, but the Grove seemed to shift, the trees rearranging themselves, the stones moving. The hum swelled into a low, rhythmic thrum, like a heartbeat not her own. She heard it now—a faint, wet sound, like something dragging across stone, coming from deeper within the clearing. She froze, listening. The sound stopped. Silence descended again, heavier than before. Then, a whisper, not of wind, but of fabric, soft and deliberate, coming from her left. She spun around, heart pounding a frantic tattoo against her ribs. Nothing. Just the ancient oaks, their branches swaying slightly in a non-existent breeze. The whisper came again, closer this time, a sibilant hiss that sent a shiver down her spine. *Who’s there?* she breathed, her voice tiny and lost in the vast, silent Grove. The brambles shifted, parting silently. A figure emerged from the shadows near the standing stones. It was tall, impossibly so, draped in a cloak that seemed woven from shadows themselves. Its face was obscured, hidden beneath a hood. It didn’t move towards her, just stood there, watching. Aurora felt the cold grip of terror tighten. This wasn’t just unease; this was presence. A wrongness that seeped into her bones, colder than the night air. The Heartstone pulsed violently against her skin, a frantic warning. *Run.* The word echoed in her mind, sharp and clear. She didn’t move. She couldn’t. The figure stepped forward, the sound of its boots crunching on the dead leaves unnaturally loud in the sudden silence. It stopped a few feet away, its hood casting its face in deep shadow. Aurora saw nothing but darkness. Then, its hand emerged from the cloak, not human, but twisted and elongated, ending in sharp, claw-like fingers. The pendant flared, a bright crimson light cutting through the gloom, illuminating the figure’s face for a split second—a face devoid of eyes, just two deep, empty sockets staring into her soul. The figure didn’t speak. It didn’t move. It just *was*, a silent sentinel of the Grove’s darkness. Aurora felt the air crackle with static, the hum vibrating through her teeth. Time seemed to slow. She could feel the weight of its gaze, a physical pressure on her back. The Heartstone’s glow dimmed, then went out, leaving her in utter blackness. The figure’s presence was a tangible thing, a cold void that threatened to swallow her whole. She took a step back, her foot catching on a root. She stumbled, falling hard onto the moss, the breath knocked from her lungs. The figure didn’t advance. It just stood there, in the darkness, its hood casting its face in impenetrable shadow. Aurora lay there, heart hammering against her ribs, the only sound her ragged breathing and the distant, insistent thrum of the Grove’s heartbeat. The wrongness wasn’t just in the air anymore; it was inside her, a cold, creeping dread that whispered promises of oblivion. She knew she had to move, to run, but her body refused. The figure remained, a silent, watchful guardian of the Grove’s deepest secrets, its empty sockets holding her captive in the suffocating darkness. The thrum grew louder, a low, resonant pulse that vibrated through the earth, shaking the very foundations of her fear. She was not alone. She was never alone. The Grove had claimed her, and the only escape was through the darkness it offered.