Run: 2026-02-19-01KHTXG8VCPFK7W9J9Y3NS1ENG

The standing stones rose against the night sky like broken teeth, their ancient oak surfaces silvered by a moon that seemed too large, too close. Aurora Carter tightened her jacket around herself and checked her phone for the third time. 11:47 PM. The text message had been clear enough: *Come to the grove. Midnight. Come alone. I have answers about your pendant.* No name. No number she recognised. Just those words, and the location pin that had led her to this corner of Richmond Park. She shouldn't have come. Every instinct she'd honed growing up with an overprotective father, every survival mechanism she'd built after Evan — all of it screamed at her to turn around, go back to the flat above Silas' bar, and pretend she'd never received the message. But the pendant had grown warm against her chest on the walk here, and that warmth meant something. Yu-Fei had told her as much, though the old woman had been frustratingly vague about what. The grass crunched beneath her boots as she stepped between two of the standing stones. A strange hush fell over the world, as though someone had muted the city's ambient hum. No distant traffic. No plane trails overhead. Even the wind seemed to hold its breath. Wildflowers carpeted the clearing in impossible abundance — bluebells and foxgloves and flowers she couldn't name, all blooming in direct defiance of the season. Rory crouched and touched a petal. Real enough. The scent of them filled her head, sweet and faintly decayed, like honey left too long in the sun. "Hello?" Her voice fell flat, absorbed by the darkness pooling between the trees that ringed the clearing. She counted them. Seven oaks, arranged in a perfect circle, their branches interlaced overhead to form a natural cathedral. The moonlight that filtered through was tinged amber, casting long shadows that stretched toward her across the wildflowers. The pendant pulsed. Rory's hand flew to her chest, fingers closing around the Heartstone through the fabric of her shirt. The gemstone throbbed with heat, quick and urgent, like a second heartbeat trying to synchronise with her own. She pulled the chain over her head and held the pendant up to the strange amber light. The deep crimson stone glowed from within, brighter than she'd ever seen it. "Okay. That's new." She turned in a slow circle, scanning the perimeter of the grove. The shadows between the trees had deepened while she'd been examining the pendant. Or had they? The light hadn't changed. The moon hung in the same position overhead, caught in the branches like something snared. A sound came from her left. Soft. Deliberate. Footsteps. Rory spun, but the space between two oaks stood empty. Just shadow and the pale columns of birch trunks beyond the grove's boundary. She waited, listening. Her breath plumed in the air — when had it grown so cold? "Who's there? You brought me here. Show yourself." Silence. Then, from her right this time, the unmistakable crack of a twig snapping underfoot. She whirled again. Nothing. The wildflowers swayed in a breeze she couldn't feel, their petals catching the amber light like tiny pale faces turned toward her. A prickle crawled up the back of her neck, the same sensation she used to get as a child when she'd wandered too far into her grandmother's overgrown garden and felt the weight of something ancient watching from the brambles. The pendant grew hotter. She shoved it into her jacket pocket and took a step backward, her heel grinding into something that crunched. Bone. Not a flower stem. Rory looked down. The wildflowers had thinned here, exposing soil that was too dark, too rich. Scattered across it were small white fragments that could have been bird bones, except they were too long, too delicate, arranged in patterns that her mind refused to interpret. Another sound. Closer now. The soft whisper of something moving through grass. She backed away, her eyes darting between the seven oaks. Which way had she come in? The standing stones should have been visible from anywhere in the clearing, but the shadows had grown so thick she could barely see three feet beyond the wildflower border. "I'm leaving. Whatever you wanted, you can tell me over the phone like a normal person." Her voice came out steadier than she felt. Small mercies. She chose a direction at random and walked toward it, quickening her pace as the shadows seemed to lean inward. The pendant burned against her thigh through her pocket, pulsing faster now, a desperate warning. The trees ahead shifted. No — the light shifted. The amber glow flickered like a candle in wind, casting the grove into momentary darkness before flaring back to life. The figure stood between her and the exit. Rory stopped so abruptly she stumbled, catching herself before she could fall. The figure was tall and thin, wrapped in something dark that moved independent of any wind. Its face hid in shadow, but she could feel its attention fixed on her, pressing against her skin like fever heat. "You came." The voice came from everywhere and nowhere, layered over itself like a chorus speaking in perfect unison. Not male. Not female. Something older, something that scraped against her eardrums like dry leaves on stone. Rory's hand found the pendant in her pocket. The stone seared her palm, but she didn't let go. That heat meant protection — Yu-Fei had been clear about that much. "Someone sent me a message. Was that you?" The figure tilted its head. A slow, deliberate movement, like a bird of prey considering something it had pinned. "A message. Yes. Words on your small bright screen. Words that brought you here." It took a step toward her. The wildflowers crumpled beneath its feet, but when it lifted its foot again, they were whole, unbent, as though the ground itself had healed at its touch. "Why? What do you want with me?" The pendant's pulse quickened, or maybe that was her own heart, beating so hard she could feel it in her throat. She took another step backward, but something pressed against her shoulders — the air itself, thick and heavy, holding her in place. The figure moved closer. Close enough that Rory could see its face, or what should have been its face. Smooth. Blank. No eyes, no mouth, no features at all. Just a pale oval of skin stretched over something that was definitely not a skull. "You have something that does not belong to you." Its hand — if it could be called a hand — extended toward her pocket. The fingers were too long, too jointed, bending in places where fingers shouldn't bend. "The Heartstone." The pendant blazed. Rory cried out as the heat became unbearable, yanking her hand from her pocket. The figure recoiled, its featureless face twisting in what might have been pain or rage. The shadows screamed. Not the figure — the shadows themselves, the darkness between the trees, the void pooling beneath the oaks. They writhed and stretched, reaching for her with hands that weren't there, whispering in voices that crawled inside her ears and nested in her thoughts. Rory ran. She didn't think, didn't plan — she just ran, straight through the wildflowers that grabbed at her ankles, straight toward the gap between two oaks where the standing stones should be. Behind her, the figure's layered voice rose in something that might have been a command or a curse. The shadows chased, cold and hungry, nipping at her heels. The pendant's glow illuminated her path, that crimson light cutting through the amber darkness like a blade. She could see the stones now — five feet, three feet, close enough to touch — She burst through the boundary and stumbled onto the grass of Richmond Park. Real grass. Real darkness, lit by a moon that hung small and distant overhead. The sounds of the city rushed back in a flood — traffic, distant sirens, the hum of a plane crossing the sky. Rory collapsed to her knees, gasping. Her hand still clutched the pendant, the stone cooling rapidly now, its glow fading to a faint shimmer. Behind her, the standing stones stood silent. No wildflowers. No amber light. No figure with a blank face and too-jointed fingers. But when she lifted her hand, she saw the marks on her palm — four thin crescents pressed into her skin, perfectly spaced, as though something had almost, almost managed to take hold.