Run: 2026-02-19-01KHTXB3P969Y46BPNQ1N2XCWK

The Grove swallowed sound. Rory stood at the threshold marked by the ancient oak standing stones, their bark twisted into shapes that hurt to look at too long. She'd been here twice before, but never at night. Never alone. Her mobile showed 23:47. The Heartstone pendant beneath her jumper pulsed once against her breastbone, warm enough to notice. Not the frantic heat it gave off near Hel portals. Something else. She tucked her chin to peer down at the faint crimson glow seeping through the fabric. Isolde had sent the message three hours ago. Come to the Grove. Midnight. Come alone. Except Isolde never texted. She appeared, unannounced and irritatingly cryptic, or she didn't appear at all. Rory stepped between the stones. The air changed. Thicker. Honeyed. The distant sounds of Richmond—traffic on the A307, the occasional dog bark—cut off as though someone had slammed a door. Her trainers pressed into moss that shouldn't exist in October, shouldn't bloom with wildflowers that opened their petals as she passed. "Isolde?" Her voice fell flat. No echo. The Grove ate it. The clearing ahead looked wrong. She'd been here in daylight when the wildflowers made a riot of colour and the trees seemed almost friendly. Now the ancient oaks ringed the space like judges at a trial, their branches bare and reaching. Silver moonlight filtered through in strips that didn't quite illuminate anything properly, leaving gaps of shadow that sat too dark, too solid. Rory pulled her mobile from her jacket pocket. The screen showed 23:47 still. The seconds didn't tick over. She tapped it. Shook it. The time refused to change. "Bollocks." A sound behind her. Soft. Like fabric dragging across stone. Rory spun. The standing stones stood empty. The path she'd just walked showed no footprints in the moss, as though she'd never passed through at all. The Heartstone pulsed again. Not warm now. Cold. A spreading chill that made her breath catch. She moved into the clearing proper, scanning the tree line. "This isn't funny. If you're here, just show yourself." Something moved in her peripheral vision. Left side. When she turned her head, nothing. Just shadow between two oaks, except the shadow seemed to retreat, pulling back like a living thing. Her pulse kicked up. She touched the pendant through her jumper, felt the cold seeping outward. Wrong. This was wrong. The pendant had never gone cold before. Another sound. Closer. Breathing that wasn't hers. Low and steady, coming from everywhere and nowhere. "Isolde, I swear to God—" The wildflowers nearest her feet withered. Petals blackened and curled, stems collapsing in on themselves. The rot spread in a slow circle, creeping outward from where she stood. Rory backed up. Her heel caught on something and she stumbled, caught herself. When she looked down, she saw the moss had pulled away from a patch of earth. Bare soil, dark as old blood. And in the soil, pressed deep: a handprint. Too large. Too many fingers. The breathing grew louder. She looked up. The trees had moved. Not much. Just enough that the gaps between them had closed, the clearing shrinking by degrees. The moonlight shifted with them, leaving her in an expanding pool of darkness. "Not real." She said it aloud, heard the tremor in her voice and hated it. "Time moves differently here. It's just the Grove playing tricks." Except the Grove had never felt malicious before. Strange, yes. Otherworldly. But not hostile. Not hunting. A branch snapped. Behind her. Close enough she felt the vibration through the ground. Rory turned in a slow circle, scanning. Her hand found the pendant, gripped it through fabric. The cold bit into her palm. "If this is a test, I'm done. If something's gone wrong, tell me. Otherwise I'm leaving." No response. Just that breathing, steady and patient. And then she saw it. Between two oaks on the far side of the clearing. Not moving at the edge of her vision this time. Standing. Watching. Tall. Too tall. A silhouette that didn't quite resolve into a proper shape, as though the darkness had decided to stand upright and think. No features she could make out. No eyes. But she felt its attention like a physical weight, pressing against her chest. The pendant went ice-cold. Her breath misted in front of her face. "What are you?" The thing tilted its head. The movement fluid, boneless. Wrong. Then it took a step forward. Rory's body moved before her mind caught up. She ran. Not toward the standing stones—those had vanished, swallowed by the contracting tree line. She ran for the widest gap between oaks, the only path that still seemed to exist. The breathing followed. Not faster. Not slower. Patient. Her foot sank into soft earth and she pitched forward, caught herself on rough bark. Her palm came away sticky. She looked at her hand in the fractured moonlight and saw not sap but something darker, something that moved against her skin like it had a pulse. She wiped it on her jeans, pushed forward. The trees kept closing. The paths kept disappearing. Every direction looked the same now, just endless oaks and darkness and that steady, inevitable breathing. The pendant burned and froze in turns. A warning. A beacon. She didn't know which. A sound ahead. Different. Footsteps. Human footsteps. "Hello?" Rory's voice cracked. "Is someone there?" The footsteps stopped. Then started again. Coming toward her. Relief flooded through her. "Thank God. Listen, something's wrong with the Grove. We need to—" The figure emerged from between two trees. It wore Isolde's face. But the smile was wrong. Too wide. The eyes caught moonlight and reflected it back like an animal's. And when it spoke, the voice layered over itself, multiple tones speaking in unison. "You came." Rory backed up. Her spine hit a tree. "You're not Isolde." "No." The thing wearing Isolde's face stepped closer. "But you came anyway. Alone. Just as asked." The breathing surrounded her now. Coming from the trees, from the ground, from the not-Isolde standing three metres away. The pendant went dead-cold, and Rory finally understood. This wasn't the Grove anymore.