Run: 2026-02-19-01KHTX6XK85Y7K9BACBN7EZ47W

The air in Richmond Park hung thick with the scent of damp earth and something older—something that didn’t belong to the world Rory knew. She adjusted the strap of her backpack, fingers brushing the Heartstone pendant tucked beneath her shirt. It pulsed once, a faint warmth against her skin, like a warning. She shouldn’t have come at night. But the note had been clear: *Midnight. The standing stones. Bring the pendant.* No signature, no explanation—just the same slanted handwriting that had slipped under her door three times before, each message more urgent than the last. The first had been a warning. The second, a plea. The third had simply read: *They’re coming.* Rory exhaled through her nose, her breath curling in the cold. The standing stones loomed ahead, their gnarled roots twisting like skeletal fingers into the earth. The oaks were ancient, their bark blackened as if scorched by something unseen. She stepped closer, boots sinking slightly into the damp moss. The pendant pulsed again, stronger this time, its glow seeping through the fabric of her shirt. A twig snapped. She froze. Nothing moved. The trees stood silent, their branches knitting together overhead like a cage. The wind had died. Even the usual hum of London traffic—distant but ever-present—had vanished, swallowed by the unnatural stillness. Rory turned slowly, scanning the grove. The standing stones formed a rough circle, their surfaces etched with symbols she didn’t recognise. Some looked like writing. Others like wounds. *You’re being paranoid.* She reached for the pendant, pulling it free. The crimson gemstone throbbed in her palm, its glow casting jagged shadows across the ground. The warmth spread up her arm, prickling like static. Then she heard it. A whisper. Not from the trees. Not from the wind. From *inside* the stones. Rory’s pulse spiked. She took a step back, her heel catching on a root. The pendant’s light flickered, dimming for a heartbeat before flaring brighter. The whispers grew louder, overlapping, a chorus of voices speaking in a language that slithered into her ears and coiled around her thoughts. *You shouldn’t be here.* She didn’t know if the words were in her head or in the air. The standing stones seemed to lean inward, their shadows stretching unnaturally long. The moss beneath her boots darkened, spreading like ink. A figure stepped out from behind the nearest oak. Tall. Too tall. Its limbs were elongated, joints bending in ways that made her stomach clench. The face—if it could be called a face—was a smooth, featureless oval, save for a vertical slit where a mouth should have been. It tilted its head, studying her. Rory’s breath came in shallow bursts. The pendant burned against her skin. The thing took a step forward. The ground didn’t so much as tremble beneath it. No sound. No rustle of leaves. Just silence, thick and suffocating. “You have something that doesn’t belong to you,” it said. Its voice wasn’t a voice. It was the sound of dry leaves skittering across pavement, of a needle scraping against vinyl, of a breath held too long. The words wrapped around her skull, pressing inward. Rory clenched her fists. The pendant’s glow intensified, casting the grove in a sickly red hue. The thing’s slit of a mouth twitched. “Give it to me,” it said. She didn’t move. The whispers from the stones grew louder, more insistent. The air thickened, pressing against her skin like wet cloth. The figure took another step. Then another. The space between them shrank. Rory’s fingers tightened around the pendant. The warmth seared her palm, but she didn’t let go. “No,” she said. The thing stopped. The slit in its face stretched into something resembling a smile. Then the ground beneath Rory’s feet *moved*. Not an earthquake. Not a shift. The moss *ripped* itself from the earth, tendrils lashing upward like serpents. They coiled around her ankles, yanking her off balance. She hit the ground hard, the impact knocking the breath from her lungs. The pendant flew from her grip, skittering across the damp earth. The thing lunged. Rory rolled, her fingers scrambling for the pendant. The moss tightened, dragging her backward. She kicked, her boot connecting with something solid—one of the standing stones. Pain shot up her leg, but the moss loosened just enough for her to twist free. She grabbed the pendant. The moment her fingers closed around it, the world *screamed*. A blast of crimson light erupted from the gemstone, searing through the grove. The thing shrieked—a sound like tearing metal—and recoiled, its form flickering like a dying flame. The moss withered, crumbling to dust. The whispers from the stones cut off abruptly, leaving only the ragged sound of Rory’s breathing. She didn’t wait. She ran. Branches whipped at her arms as she crashed through the undergrowth, the pendant’s glow lighting her path. The grove seemed to twist behind her, the standing stones shifting, the path narrowing. She didn’t look back. The edge of the grove came into view—a break in the trees, the faint glow of London’s streetlights beyond. She burst through, her boots pounding against pavement. The cold night air hit her like a slap, sharp and real. Rory didn’t stop running until she reached the flat above Silas’ bar. Only then did she dare to look down at the pendant. It was dark. Lifeless. And the crescent-shaped scar on her left wrist *ached*.