Run: 2026-02-19-01KHTXX2DF4FQJNMW27QN73YEB

London’s relentless hum died a mile back, swallowed by the thickening fog of Richmond Park. Aurora Carter killed the engine of her delivery moped. Silence rushed in, heavy and absolute. The oak standing stones of the Fae Grove loomed through the grey soup like jagged teeth. She checked her watch. Ten minutes until midnight. A silver chain bit into the skin of her neck. Beneath her layers of waterproof nylon, the Heartstone Pendant thrummed. It wasn't the steady, comforting beat of a heart, but the frantic vibration of a trapped insect. Heat radiated from the crimson gem, searing a small circle of flesh just above her collarbone. "Yu-Fei is going to kill me for taking the long way." The words fell flat. No echo returned from the trees. Rory unlatched her helmet. The air smelled of crushed mint and copper. It was too sweet, cloying like rot hidden under perfume. She swung her leg over the bike, her boots crunching on frosted grass that shouldn't exist in late September. Every step toward the center of the Grove felt like wading through deep water. A twig snapped behind her. Rory spun. The fog swirled, thick and curdled. Nothing stood there but the leaning shadows of the oaks. Her breath came in short, jagged plumes. She gripped the handlebars of the moped, knuckles white, eyes scanning the perimeter of the standing stones. "Isolde?" The name felt dangerous on her tongue. No one answered. A breeze rattled the dry leaves, but the sound was wrong. It didn't whistle or sigh; it rattled like dry bone against dry bone. The trees didn't sway. They remained stiff, black fingers scratching at a moonless sky. The pendant surged with heat. Rory gasped, hand flying to her chest. The metal burned through her shirt. She pulled the Heartstone out, letting it dangle. The deep crimson facets pulsed with a rhythmic, sickly light. It cast long, jerky shadows across the clearing—shadows that didn't match the stationary stones. Movement flickered at the edge of her vision. Something tall and spindly retreated behind a trunk the moment she looked. "I have the delivery. Leave it on the stone, right?" She reached into the insulated bag strapped to the back of the bike. Her fingers brushed the plastic containers of the Golden Empress. The heat from the food was gone. The bag felt like it was filled with ice. Rory pulled out the paper bag. It was soaked through with a dark, viscous fluid that smelled of iron. She dropped it. The bag hit the ground with a wet thud, spilling noodles into the grass. The noodles didn't look like grain; they writhed, pale and translucent as maggots, before going still. "Right. Not hungry then." She backed away from the bike. Her crescent-shaped scar on her left wrist began to itch, a dull throb echoing the pendant’s pulse. The fog drew closer, hemmed in by the oaks. The clearing felt smaller. The standing stones seemed to have shifted a few feet inward while she wasn't looking. A low whistle drifted from the canopy. It was a three-note melody, sharp and mocking. "Evan? If this is some sick joke..." The thought died. Evan was miles away, locked in a past she’d fled. This wasn't a man's prank. The trees groaned, a deep, tectonic sound that vibrated through the soles of her boots. Something wet dripped onto her shoulder. Rory didn't look up. She felt the cold moisture soak through her jacket. She reached up, wiped her fingers across the fabric, and brought them to her eyes. Black bile, thick as tar, coated her skin. A soft, rhythmic scraping sound started up to her left. *Scritch. Scritch. Scritch.* It sounded like fingernails on bark. Or bone on stone. Rory pivoted, the Heartstone swinging wildly. The glow illuminated a face—or the suggestion of one. It hung ten feet in the air, stripped of features, pale as a peeled root. It vanished into the mist before her brain could register eyes or a mouth. "I'm leaving now. Keep the change." She lunged for the moped. Her fingers grasped the throttle, but the bike felt different. The metal was warm, yielding. The leather seat felt like skin. When she squeezed the brake lever, it groaned with a human vocalization—a dry, raspy wheeze. Rory shrieked, recoiling. She fell back into the center of the Grove. The standing stones were definitely closer now. The circle had halved in diameter. The ancient oaks leaned inward, their branches weaving together to form a canopy of interlocking thorns. The exit to the park was gone, replaced by a wall of grey vapor and tangled wood. The pendant went white-hot. "Stop it! Just let me through!" The scraping sound intensified. It came from every direction. *Scritch. Scritch. Scritch.* A hand emerged from the fog. It was too long, with too many knuckles, the skin translucent and stretched over grey veins. It didn't reach for her; it reached for the Heartstone. Rory tucked the gem into her fist, the heat blistering her palm. She didn't feel the pain, only the electric surge of adrenaline. She turned and ran toward the smallest gap between the stones. The grass elongated, green blades turning into thin, wiry fingers that snagged at her boot laces. She stumbled, hands hitting the dirt. The ground was soft, like a peat bog, and it hummed. A low, subterranean vibration that rattled her teeth. *Aurora.* A voice didn't speak the name; it echoed inside her skull, sounding like her mother’s voice filtered through a wind tunnel. "I'm not here. I'm in London. I'm above the bar. Silas is downstairs." She scrambled up, her breathing a series of panicked whimpers. The fog parted for a second. In the hollow of an oak, she saw a collection of items. A bicycle wheel. A child’s shoe. A delivery cap from the Golden Empress, faded and caked in moss. The scraping stopped. The silence that followed was worse. It was the silence of a predator holding its breath. Rory stood dead center in the Grove. The Heartstone was now the only light. The crimson glow seeped into the fog, turning the world the color of a fresh bruise. A shadow detached itself from the nearest stone. It was thin, charcoal-black, and moved with a jerky, flickering motion, like a film reel skipping frames. It had no face, only a vertical slit that ran from the top of its head to its chest. It stepped into the red light. "You aren't Isolde." The creature tilted its head. The slit in its chest widened, revealing rows of needle-thin teeth, all made of the same white oak as the trees. It didn't breathe. It didn't hiss. It simply existed, an anatomical impossibility standing in the London mist. Rory backed away, her heel catching on a root. The root tightened around her ankle. "Let go." She kicked, but the wood was firm. More roots snaked out from the undergrowth, pale and blind, sensing the heat of her blood. They coiled around her calves, prickling her skin through her jeans. The tall thing stepped closer. Its limbs moved with the sound of grinding stones. Rory reached into her pocket, fingers closing around her keys. She gripped the heaviest one—the key to her flat—between her knuckles. It was a pathetic defense, but it was all she had. The creature reached out. Its fingers were cold. Even before they touched her, Rory felt the temperature drop, the moisture in the air turning to frost on her eyelashes. "I am a delivery person. That is all." The slit in the creature's torso began to vibrate. A sound emerged—a perfect mimicry of her moped’s engine. Then, it shifted. It became the sound of her own voice, screaming from a week ago, a month ago, a year ago. *Please, Evan, don't.* Rory froze. The trauma she’d buried in the move to London roared back, sharp and jagged. The creature leaned down, the void of its chest inches from her face. The Heartstone Pendant flared. A blinding burst of crimson light scorched the clearing. The creature shrieked—a sound like a violin string snapping. It recoiled, its form blurring into smoke. The roots around her legs slackened. Rory didn't wait. She tore her legs free, skin barking against the wood. She ran blindly, the pendant acting as a compass, pulling her toward the thinness in the air. The fog became a physical weight. She pushed through it, her muscles burning, her lungs screaming for oxygen that wasn't flavored with rot. Behind her, the Grove began to laugh. It was a chorus of voices, all of them hers, all of them shouting different orders. *Run left! Turn back! Help me!* She ignored them. She focused on the weight of the stone against her chest. The trees thinned. The ground transitioned from the unnaturally soft moss to gravel and dead grass. She burst through a final veil of mist and tumbled onto the tarmac of the park road. The engine of a distant car hummed. The orange glow of a streetlight a hundred yards away felt like the most beautiful thing she’d ever seen. Rory lay on the pavement, gasping, her chest heaving. She reached up and grabbed the pendant. It was cold now. Dead. She looked back at the Grove. The fog was gone. The standing stones were just old oaks, silent and still under the moon. There was no red light. No tall, eyeless thing. Then she saw the bike. Her moped sat exactly where she’d left it. But the delivery bag was gone. In its place, sitting perfectly centered on the leather seat, was a single, fresh wildflower. Its petals were the color of a bruised vein, and it bled a slow, black sap onto the upholstery. The silence of the park returned, but it wasn't the silence of the city. It was the silence of something waiting for her to come back. Rory stood up, her legs shaking so hard she nearly folded. She approached the bike, her eyes fixed on the flower. A soft *scritch* echoed from the trees behind her. She didn't look back. She swiped the flower off the seat—it felt like cold slime against her palm—and threw her leg over the bike. She fumbled with the keys, her fingers clumsy and numb. The engine sputtered. It coughed once. Twice. From the darkness of the oaks, a figure stepped into the periphery of the streetlamp’s reach. It was tall. It was thin. It wore a Golden Empress delivery cap, lopsided and filthy. The engine roared to life. Rory slammed the bike into gear and twisted the throttle. The tires spun on the gravel before catching, launching her forward. She didn't check her mirrors. She didn't look at the trees. She rode with her eyes locked on the exit gates, the wind whipping her hair into a frenzy. She reached the main road, the amber lights of the suburbs drenching the world in normalcy. She slowed down, her heart still hammering a frantic rhythm against her ribs. She pulled over under a bright LED streetlamp near the park exit. She needed to breathe. She needed to convince herself the world was solid. She looked down at her left hand. The flower sap had dried. It wasn't black anymore. It had stained her skin in the exact shape of a thumbprint, right over the crescent scar on her wrist. Rory rubbed at it, but the stain didn't budge. It felt like it was underneath the skin, a permanent bruise. She reached for her phone to call Silas, to hear a human voice, but her hand stopped. The Heartstone Pendant began to vibrate again. It wasn't a warning this time. It was a purr. Rory looked into the rearview mirror. The road behind her was empty, stretched out like a black ribbon under the orange lamps. But as she watched, a single bank of fog began to roll out from the park gates, crawling across the asphalt with unnatural speed. It didn't look like weather. It looked like fingers, reaching out to reclaim a lost item. She kicked the bike back into motion, the engine screaming as she pushed it to its limit. The city was ahead, but the park felt like it was stretching, the distance between the streetlamps growing longer with every second. She passed a sign that should have led to the A3. The sign was blank. Rory blinked, her vision blurring. She wiped her eyes, but when she looked again, the sign didn't just have no text—it was made of oak. The streetlamps flickered. One by one, they died behind her, plunging the road into a vacuum of shadow. "I'm out. I'm out of the park," she whispered. She looked at her watch. The hands were spinning backward, the ticking sound replaced by the rhythmic scraping of bone on stone. *Scritch. Scritch. Scritch.* The sound was coming from inside her helmet. Rory ripped the helmet off and threw it. It bounced away into the darkness. She didn't stop. She couldn't stop. The road felt narrow now, the hedges on either side tall and thorns-choked. The smell of crushed mint and copper returned, stronger than before, filling her nose and mouth. The pendant was no longer hot or cold. It felt heavy. It pulled at her neck, dragging her chin toward the handlebars. A shape appeared in the road ahead. It was a moped, tipped on its side. A figure in a nylon jacket lay sprawled next to it, unmoving. Rory swerved, her heart jumping into her throat. As she passed, the figure on the ground turned its head. It was her. Rory didn't scream. She didn't have the breath for it. She kept her eyes forward, her knuckles raw from gripping the throttle. The city lights appeared again in the distance, but they looked wrong. They weren't the sharp, white and yellow lights of London. They were flickering, emerald green and deep violet, dancing like foxfire above a marsh. The road beneath her tires turned to soft, humming peat. She checked the pendant one last time. The crimson gem had turned a dull, matte grey. Rory looked at her hands. The black thumbprint on her wrist was spreading, thin veins of ink-colored shadow creeping up her arm toward her heart. The engine died. The momentum of the bike carried her forward into the deepening mist. The silence returned, absolute and heavy. "Yu-Fei is going to kill me," she whispered. The voice that answered her was her own, but it came from the darkness behind her shoulder. "She already did, Rory. A long time ago."