Run: 2026-02-19-01KHTX8RTS6RWGNX27WXP7N6T8

Rain had started just as Aurora Carter crossed the A3, slicking the tarmac with oil-slick rainbows under the orange streetlamps. The city’s noise died behind her, swallowed by the dense, ancient trees of Richmond Park. She pulled her jacket tighter, fingers brushing the cool silver of the Heartstone pendant beneath her collar. It wasn’t cold—not really—but the air had a weight to it, like the sky was holding its breath. The grove’s entrance wasn’t marked on any map. Rory had found it two weeks ago, trailing a half-mad hedge witch who’d muttered about “the thinning” and vanished between two oaks older than Cardiff. Now she stepped between them again, boots sinking into moss that felt too plush, too deliberate. The air changed instantly—muffled, thick, as if the world beyond the trees had been placed under glass. “Isolde?” she called, her voice soft but firm. No answer. The standing stones loomed in a rough circle ahead, their bark peeled back in places to reveal swirling, rune-like scars. Wildflowers dotted the ground despite the season—purple bell-heather, white starflowers, something with petals like cracked porcelain. They shouldn’t be blooming. Not in November. Not under this bruise-coloured sky. She took another step. The pendant warmed against her chest. Not much. Just a whisper of heat, like a fingertip brushing skin. Rory stopped, hand sliding to the pendant. Her thumb traced the crescent scar on her wrist—a nervous habit. She hadn’t come looking for magic. But since Evan had smashed her phone, left that voicemail with his breath too close to the mic, since she’d woken twice in a week to find her front door unlocked and the smell of petrol in the hall… Yu-Fei had slipped the pendant into her delivery bag with a quiet, “You might need this. Don’t tell Silas.” Silas, who kept a shotgun behind the bar and knew the names of faeries you shouldn’t say aloud. The grove was too quiet. Not silent. There was the rustle of leaves, the distant caw of a crow. But no insects. No mice skittering in the undergrowth. Even the wind moved wrong—shivering through the branches in short, uneven bursts, like it was being pulled along by something with fingers. Rory stepped toward the central stone. The one that looked almost carved. “Isolde?” she tried again. “I need to talk. Someone’s watching my flat. I think—” A twig snapped behind her. She turned fast, heart slamming once against her ribs. Nothing. The trees stood too close. Their shadows stretched uneven, reaching toward her like limbs caught mid-reach. The pendant pulsed again—warmer this time. Not glowing, not yet, but insistent. She exhaled. “Right. Talking to empty air. Brilliant.” She took a breath, turned back— —and froze. The flowers had shifted. Not grown. Not bloomed. *Shifted*. The starflowers that had been clustered near her left boot were now in a tight knot ten feet away, facing the central stone. Their stems leaned as if pulled by a weight. Rory crouched, studying them. Then she looked at her own boots. The moss where she’d stepped a minute ago was flattened. But between her footprints—nothing. No marks. No sign of anything passing through. Yet the moss a few feet to her right was dented. Long, narrow dents. Like something had dragged itself. She straightened. “Someone’s here.” Her voice didn’t waver. But her fingers curled around the pendant now, pressing it hard into her palm. A sound rose from the edge of the clearing. Not a voice. Not an animal. It was a wet, clicking noise—like bone tapping against stone. Once. Then twice. Then a pause. Then again. From the opposite side of the grove. She turned slowly. Between two oaks, the shadows didn’t move with the wind. They *twitched*. One elongated, stretching downward like tar from the lowest branch. It pooled on the ground, too dark to be natural, too still. Then it began to rise. Not fast. Not all at once. Just a slow, deliberate lift—like smoke given intention. Rory didn’t run. She took a step back. Then another. The pendant throbbed. Warmth seeped into her chest, spreading down her arms. The crimson gem inside flickered—once—a faint pulse beneath the silver casing. From the trees to her left, another shadow peeled free. And another. They didn’t walk. They *unfolded*—stretching, elongating, their forms never settling. Too tall. Too thin. Joints where there shouldn’t be joints. And the clicking came again. Closer. She turned to run— —and the flowers *moved*. Not blown. *Shifted*. The porcelain-petaled things writhed, stems twisting like worms. They turned toward her, faces opening like mouths. No. Not mouths. *Eyes*. Tiny, black, glassy things nestled in the roots. They watched. The air thickened. Breath caught in her throat like cotton. Her pulse roared in her ears, but beneath it—another sound. Whispers. Not in any language she knew. Syllables like cracked glass. Hisses that curled behind her molars. One of the shadows stepped forward. Not on feet. It *glided*, its lower half dissolving into the moss, reforming a pace ahead. The others followed. Silent. Deliberate. Rory backed toward the standing stones. “No,” she said, sharp, clear. “You don’t get to do this here.” The central stone trembled. Just once. A low hum shivered through the ground, and for a heartbeat, the runes along the bark flared gold—faint, like a dying ember. The shadows *hissed*. Not a sound. A feeling. A vibration in the air, like the snap of teeth inches from her neck. She stumbled. Her hand slapped against the central stone. Cold. Too cold. And wet. She pulled back. Her palm came away slick. Not with moss or sap. Blood. Dark. Thick. Dripping down the bark in slow, deliberate trails. More oozed from the runes now, pooling at the base. The pendant flared. Heat flooded her chest. The crimson stone glowed—soft at first, then brighter, pulsing in time with her heart. The shadows recoiled. Not all of them. Two held their ground, heads tilting like broken dolls. But the others—retreated. Sliding back into the trees, melting into the bark, the roots, the soil. The blood stopped flowing. The runes dimmed. Silence. Rory breathed. Once. Twice. Then—laughter. Not hers. A dry, brittle sound, like leaves crushed underfoot. It came from the central stone. She looked. The blood had seeped into the grooves. Formed a shape. A mouth. Smiling. And from deep within the stone, something whispered her name. “*Rory.*” She didn’t answer. She pressed the pendant hard against the stone. A flash. White. Burning. The grove screamed. Not in sound. In *sensation*. A wave of pressure slammed into her—ears popping, vision blurring. The flowers wilted in an instant, petals blackening. The standing stones cracked, thin lines spiderwebbing across their bark. And the shadows— Were gone. No trace. No dents in the moss. No eyes in the roots. Nothing. Only the wind now. Normal. Steady. Blowing through trees that stood like ordinary trees again. Rory sagged against the stone. It was dry. No blood. She looked down. Her hand was clean. The pendant still glowed—faintly. Steadily. And the air… Was empty. She closed her eyes. Then opened them. The grove looked like a grove. But the silence was different now. Not peaceful. *Waiting*.