Run: 2026-02-19-01KHTYJ9N81Q5ACRCPTXAYW3GP

The taxi driver had looked at her with the same wary expression he usually reserved for drunks and junkies. The meter ticked over into the triple digits before he’d even cleared the perimeter of Kensington. "You can't go back there, love. It's too dark." She’d slid the card through the plastic reader before he could restart the engine. "Now where do you think you’re going?" he’d grunted. "Nowhere you need to worry about." She’d pulled her collar up, ignored the question, and stepped out into the biting chill of the November night. The rain hadn’t started yet, but the air was thick with the smell of wet fur and wet earth. The cab had peeled away instantly, tires hissing on the wet asphalt. She stood alone on the edge of King Henry’s Mound, the hum of the city traffic fading into a distant, muffled roar. The map on her phone had been glitching for the last ten minutes, the compass needle spinning violently before settling on a direction that pointed straight into the dense, ancient woods of Richmond Park. She wasn’t supposed to be here. The Golden Empress didn’t deliver into the middle of a nature reserve at two in the morning. But Silas had insisted. The address on the package had been vague—a single name written in an erratic hand on a slip of paper he’d shoved into her hand with a greasy £20 tip. *“Gold, bright crimson. Know what it looks like. Find it.”* She shifted her weight, the gravel crunched loudly under her boots. She shoved the phone back into her pocket. The signal bar dipped to zero. Figures. She pulled the silver chain from beneath her coat. The Heartstone pendant hung heavy against her collarbone. It was supposed to lead her to something, or warn her away from something. So far, it was doing neither. It felt like a piece of cold, dead metal, dull and indifferent to the looming oaks and twisting branches that clawed at the twilight sky. She walked. The path twisted left, then right, disappearing under a canopy of skeletal branches that blocked out most of the moonlight. Her breath formed white clouds in the frigid air. She kept her hands in her pockets, gripping the pendant hard enough to bruise. Stop. Wait. She froze. Her heart hammered a frantic rhythm against her ribs. Something moved in the brush to her right. A footstep? No. The leaves didn't rustle. They didn't crunch. They simply... slid. A dry, slick sound, like skin dragging over coarse bark. She held her breath, the air tasting metallic. She focused on the shadowed periphery of her vision. There was a tree with a gnarled, almost humanoid shape. As she stared, the shadows on its trunk elongated. They didn't stretch with the slant of the light; they stood up. Three distinct shapes detached themselves from the bark, hovering an inch off the surface. Her throat clicked. She didn't run. She didn't turn to look at them. Rory had left Evan, and she’d left the safety of the flat above Silas’s bar. Fear was a luxury she couldn't afford. She just walked faster. The woods were unnervingly quiet. In the city, at night, the sound of sirens, distant shouting, and car alarms was a constant companion. Here, there was only the wind. And the wind didn't just blow; it seemed to whisper, moving through the tree trunks like a breath exhaling into a giant's chest. It was a low, melodic susurrus, a language she almost understood, its vowels tasting like copper. She checked the map again. Dead screen. She was lost. The path had vanished completely, replaced by a carpet of moss that seemed to shift color as she looked at it—shifting from deep green to a bruised purple. The pendant suddenly yanked against her neck. It was a violent, jarring sensation. Not a vibration, but a tug, as if a string tied to her chest were being pulled taut. She gasped, her hand flying up to fumble with the chain. The silver chain was cold enough to burn. The stone itself was humming now, a low, resonant thrum that vibrated in her fingertips. The Grove. The memory of the stories Silas had half-jokingly told her floated to the surface. *“Beware the standing stones, Rory. Time doesn't play nice there. Don't step past the oak line.”* Ahead of her, a break in the tree line revealed a clearing. In the center, four massive oak trunks stood like pillars of the earth, their branches intertwined to form a natural archway. They were the standing stones. Or the standing oaks. She couldn't tell which. She stepped toward the opening. As soon as she crossed the invisible boundary, the temperature plummeted. The rain finally broke, heavy, freezing droplets slapping against her face. But the darkness wasn't the problem. The flora was. Wildflowers bloomed in a chaotic swirl around the perimeter of the clearing. They were impossible. Petals the color of burnt blood and viscous black swirled together, defying the season. The scent hit her next—sweet, cloying, and rotting all at once. It smelled like a bouquet found in a graveyard. She stepped onto the grass. It felt spongy, almost wet. It sucked at her boots with each step, reluctant to let her go. The Heartstone was burning now. It was radiating heat through the chain, searing the skin on her neck. It wasn't just a glow anymore; the deep crimson gemstone was pulsing, sending ripples of light through the clearing. *Look.* The thought wasn't in her head. It was in the air, vibrating in her teeth. *Look.* She looked down at the flower bed closest to her. A dark spot had formed in the center of a ring of black lilies. It was throbbing. A heartbeat. *Thump. Thump.* The flowers weren't just plants. They were alive. She spun around, scanning the dark treeline. "Who's there?" Her voice didn't echo. The silence of the Grove swallowed it whole. It was heavier than the silence in the city. It felt like a physical weight pressing down on her shoulders, squeezing the air out of her lungs. A twig snapped. This time, she reacted. She spun toward the sound, her hand going to the coat pocket, but her fingers brushed nothing but the fabric. She froze. The snap had come from *behind* her. She slowly turned. There was nothing there. Just a pair of large, dark eyes reflecting the crimson pulse of the pendant from deep within the brush. "Show yourself," she commanded. Her voice was steadier than she felt. The cold hands in her pockets were trembling, but her face remained a mask of indifferent calculation. The eyes moved. They didn't blink. Then, the light shifted. The crimson glow of the pendant pulsed harder, drowning out the moonlight. In the sudden burst of scarlet illumination, the shadows in the clearing detached themselves from the trees. They weren't silhouettes. They were shapes—overly elongated limbs, faces with no features, composed entirely of shifting leaves and thorns. They began to emerge from the gloom, shuffling toward her. They weren't running. They didn't need to. They were merely... appearing. One of them passed between the ancient oaks, stepping out of the dark like stepping out of a dream. It was tall, unnaturally so, and it held something in its hands—something wrapped in golden paper. "Silas was right," she whispered, backing up until her heels hit the thick, roots of an oak tree. "The time." She looked at her watch. The hands weren't moving. She tried to rub her eyes, but her hands wouldn't obey her commands. They just hung there at her sides, useless, trapped by the cold grip of the grove. The Heartstone was scorching her skin now, leaving a red mark on her neck. It pulsed in time with the thing in front of her. The thing in front of her held up the package. It grinned—a jagged tear in the wrapping. "You're late, Carter." The voice didn't come from the creature's mouth. It came from everywhere at once, a chorus of whispers that mimicked the sound of Evan’s voice, then her mother's, then Silas’s, then her own. "Give it back." The thing tossed the package. It sailed through the air, landing softly at her feet. Before she could touch it, the creature reached out a hand made of twigs and grasped her wrist. The skin was as cold as ice, hard as wood. "It belongs to the Grove now." She looked at the package. It was already starting to mold, the gold paper turning to ash. "No," she hissed, yanking her arm back. Her hand slipped free, but the creature didn't stumble. It just loomed over her, the leaves on its head rustling in a wind that didn't exist. She could feel it now. The wrongness. The heavy, humid air that tasted of pine and copper pressing against her skin. The images of leaves and branches began to crawl over her vision, blurring her perception of the world. The creature raised its other hand, and the ground beneath her began to tremble. Not an earthquake, but a subtle vibration, like a drumbeat emanating from deep underground. The pendant stopped pulsing. It went dark. And in the sudden, absolute blackness that swallowed the clearing, Rory heard the first human footsteps of the night coming from the path she had just left.