Run: 2026-02-19-01KHTXS50THYPN1ZBBNBZJ3PSM

Frost coated the tumbledown brick of the Richmond Park perimeter wall, stinging Rory's palms as she hastened her climb. She hooked a leg over the coping, rubber sole slipping against damp moss, and vaulted into the abyssal gloom of the park. Her landing crunched loud and violent in the stillness, the sound of boots hitting dead leaves echoing like a gunshot. She crouched, lungs burning from the bike ride over from the Golden Empress. The smell of stale lo mein and fryer grease clung to her jacket, a mundane anchor to the reality she had just left behind. Here, the air tasted of wet earth and decay. Rory scanned the tree line. Nothing moved. She stood, brushing dirt from her jeans. The silver chain around her neck felt heavy, the Heartstone pendant beneath her layers radiating a feverish heat against her sternum. It had started pulsing an hour ago, a rhythmic throb that synced uncomfortable with her heartbeat, forcing her out of her warm flat above Silas’ bar and into the freezing London night. "Alright. I'm here. Stop burning a hole in my chest." The pendant didn't listen. It flared hotter, urging her forward. She clicked on her torch. The beam cut a weak, milky cone through the mist rising from the bracken. Richmond Park at night wasn't just a closed public space; it was a yawning void in the middle of the city, ancient and indifferent. Rory marched off the path, wading into the knee-high grass. The pendant’s heat intensified with every step toward the dense cluster of oaks in the distance. The wind died the moment she stepped past the first line of gnarled trees. The distant, comforting hum of the A3 traffic vanished, severed as if someone had cut a wire. Silence pressed against her ears, thick and physical. She adjusted her grip on the torch, the metal slick in her sweating hand. The crescent scar on her left wrist itched, phantom nerve pain flaring in the cold. It always did that when the pressure dropped. The trees here grew wrong. Branches twisted at acute angles, resembling broken fingers snapping back toward the trunk. The bark looked slick, wet with something darker than rain. "Isolde?" Her voice sounded distinct, foreign in the vacuum. It didn't travel; the mist swallowed the sound instantly. No answer. Rory pushed deeper. The ground beneath her boots changed from firm mulch to something spongy, yielding too much. The scent of ozone and rot gave way to a sickly-sweet perfume. Heavy. Floral. The beam of her light swept across the ground and caught a splash of color. Violacious blues, blood-reds, bright yellows. Wildflowers. Thousands of them, blooming in the dead of a British winter, their petals wide and eager in the dark. She stepped over a patch of foxgloves that stood taller than her waist. The Heartstone seared her skin now, a steady, demanding burn. This was the spot. The boundary. Ancient oak standing stones loomed out of the fog, ragged pillars of wood that mocked the concept of decay. They hadn't rotted; they had petrified into grey iron-hard sentinels. Rory entered the circle. "I didn't come for a nature walk. If you have something to say, say it." The silence stretched, turning elastic. Then, a sound. *Snap.* Behind her. Not a twig breaking under a hoof, but the wet, distinct crack of weight shifting on bone. Rory spun, swinging the light. Shadows lengthened and retracted between the trees, dancing in the peripheral spill of the beam. A majestic stag stood twenty yards away, its antlers a chaotic bramble against the grey mist. She exhaled, shoulders dropping an inch. "Just a deer. Jesus, Rory. Get a grip." The stag didn't move. It didn't graze. It didn't twitch an ear. It stared directly at her light, its eyes reflecting nothing. No retinas flared back in the LED beam. Just empty, matte black sockets. A cold prickle started at the base of her spine. The stag took a step. It moved silently, hoof striking the ground without a sound, defying the physics of the dry leaves littering the floor. Rory took a step back. "Go on. Shoo." The stag tilted its head. The neck bent too far, twisting past the point of bone structure, until the snout pointed almost vertically at the sky, the black eyes still locked on her. Its jaw unhinged, dropping open to reveal rows of flat, human teeth. Rory didn't scream. Her brain switched gears, the analytical part of her mind that dissected legal briefs and escape routes taking the wheel. Fear was useless; action was survival. She backed away, keeping the light trained on the thing. She didn't turn to run. You don't turn your back on a predator. The creature didn't give chase. It melted. The form lost cohesion, the fur dissolving into the mist, the antlers turning back into low-hanging branches. It hadn't been there. Or it had, and it chose to become the forest again. Her breath hitched, coming in sharp, shallow rattles. Hallucination. The gases in these pockets of reality messed with perception. Silas had warned her about the bleed-through. She retreated toward the edge of the stone circle, her boots tangling in vines that hadn't been there a moment ago. The vines felt warm. Something brushed her ear. A strand of hair? A cobweb? She swatted it away. *“Aurora.”* The whisper came from inside her ear canal, wet and intimate. Rory whirled, swinging the flashlight in a frantic arc. Empty air. The heavy scent of flowers clogged her throat, tasting like funeral lilies. She checked her watch. The hands spun wildly, the second hand ticking backward, then vibrating in place. "Okay. Message received. I'm leaving." She turned to where the path should be. A wall of brambles blocked the way. Thorns the size of shark teeth interlocked in a rigid, impenetrable weave. "That wasn't there." She checked behind her. The stone markers were gone. The wildflowers had closed, their heads drooping like sleeping bats. The clearing had shrunk, the tree line crowding in, suffocating the open space. Rory gripped the flashlight like a club. She approached the bramble wall. "Move." She kicked the thickest root. It didn't budge, but a shudder ran through the entire thicket, leaves rustling in a wave of agitation. From the darkness to her left, the crunch of footsteps returned. Two-legged footsteps. Heavy. Deliberate. They paced her, staying just outside the reach of her light. She shifted her stance, pivoting to track the sound. *Crunch. Crunch. Crunch.* It stopped when she faced it. She waited. *Crunch.* It was behind her now. She spun again. Nothing but the grey trunks of the oaks, looking more like solidified smoke than wood. "Show yourself!" A laugh drifted through the grove. It wasn't menacing; it was worse. It was polite. A soft, muffled chuckle, like someone amused by a child's mistake. Rory’s heart hammered a frantic rhythm against her ribs. The pendant had gone cold, dragging down her neck like a block of ice. The guidance was gone. The trap had sprung. She looked for a gap in the canopy, a star, a reference point. The branches above had woven together into a solid ceiling of black lattice. The footsteps started again, faster this time. Closing the distance. She ran. She bolted toward a thinner patch of darkness between two massive yews, shielded her face with her forearm. Brambles tore at her jeans, snagging the fabric, slicing skin. She didn't feel it. She burst through the gap and slammed into something hard. Rory recoiled, beam flashing up. It was a tree. But it felt like warm leather. She stumbled back, lungs heaving. The bark pulsed under her hand before she pulled away. A heartbeat. The tree had a heartbeat. The damp fog thickened, swirling around her ankles, rising to her knees. It felt substantial, heavy as water. She needed a weapon. The flashlight wasn't enough. She patted her jacket pockets, fingers grazing her house keys. Useless. Review. Assess. Think. The Grove responded to intent. It was Fae-touched. It fed on panic. Rory forced herself to stop. She planted her feet, ignoring the frantic urge to sprint blindly into the dark. She closed her eyes, shutting out the shifting shadows. "I am not playing." She opened her eyes. The darkness ten feet in front of her coalesced. The mist gathered, twisting, densifying until it formed a silhouette. It was tall, impossibly thin, wearing the shape of a man like a loose suit. "You have something of ours," a voice said. It didn't come from the figure; it vibrated up through the soles of her feet. Rory’s hand went to the pendant. The metal bit into her palm with its icy chill. "Come and take it." The figure elongated, limbs stretching, joints popping with the sound of snapping timber. It stepped into the light. It had no face. Just a smooth surface of pale, polished wood where features should be. But she could feel it smiling. More shapes peeled away from the trees behind it. Three. Four. They moved firmly, boxing her in, blocking the exits that didn't exist anymore. Rory shone the light in the leader’s face. The beam passed right through the head, illuminating the trunk behind it. The figure wasn't solid. It was a projection. A lure. The real threat was the cold breath she suddenly felt on the back of her neck. Slowly, Rory lowered the flashlight. The air pressure plunged, popping her ears. The silence that followed was absolute, erasing even the sound of her own blood rushing in her head. A hand, long-fingered and cold as the grave, settled on her shoulder.