Run: 2026-02-20-01KHXPBCF4QWW1ZXPH2NMVJR7Y

The oak trees loomed like sentinels, their gnarled branches twisting into a lattice against the bruised indigo of the sky. Rory’s breath fogged in the cold air as she stepped over the first of the standing stones, her boots sinking into damp earth. The boundary hummed—just faintly, like a plucked violin string left to vibrate in the dark. She didn’t need the pendant to tell her she’d crossed over. The air itself tasted different here, thick with the scent of crushed petals and something older, something metallic beneath the sweetness. She shouldn’t have come at night. The thought slithered in, unwelcome, but she shoved it down. The note had been clear: *Midnight. Alone. The stones will guide you.* No signature, no explanation, just the same precise handwriting as the last three messages slipped under her door. And the pendant—warm now against her collarbone, pulsing in time with her quickened heartbeat—had all but dragged her here. A twig snapped. Rory froze. The sound had come from behind her, just past the last of the standing stones. She turned slowly, fingers flexing at her sides. The grove stretched empty, the wildflowers swaying as if stirred by a breath she hadn’t felt. Moonlight bled through the canopy, painting everything in silver and shadow. “Hello?” Her voice sounded too loud. The flowers stilled. Nothing answered. She exhaled through her nose and adjusted the strap of her bag. *Get a grip. It’s just the wind.* But the wind didn’t explain the way the hair on her arms had risen, or the prickling at the back of her neck, like someone had traced a fingertip along her spine. The pendant’s glow flickered. Rory frowned and pinched the crimson stone between her thumb and forefinger. The warmth had spread, seeping into her bones. It wasn’t uncomfortable—just *wrong*, like standing too close to a fire and feeling the heat sink into your skin instead of singeing it. A whisper rustled through the leaves. Not words. Not quite. More like a sigh, drawn out and breathy, curling around the edges of her hearing. Rory’s pulse jumped. She spun, scanning the tree line. The grove was too still. No owls. No scuttling of small animals. Just the slow, deliberate *drip* of water from somewhere unseen, each drop landing with a wet *plink* that echoed too long. “Right. Enough of this.” She reached into her bag, fingers closing around the torch she’d brought. The beam cut through the dark as she switched it on, carving a harsh yellow path ahead. The flowers recoiled from the light, their petals furling tight as if burned. That wasn’t normal. Rory swallowed. The torch trembled in her grip. A shadow moved. Not hers. Too tall, too *wrong*—a smear of darkness detaching itself from the trunk of an oak twenty feet away. It didn’t walk so much as *unfold*, elongating upward until it brushed the lower branches. Rory’s breath hitched. The torchlight skittered over it, but the beam passed *through*, as if the thing were made of smoke. Then it *laughed*. A sound like dry leaves skittering over stone, like nails dragged down a windowpane. Rory’s skin crawled. She took a step back, then another, her boot catching on a root. The shadow tilted its head—if it *had* a head—and the darkness *deepened*, as if it had leaned closer. “You’re not supposed to be here.” The voice didn’t come from the shadow. It came from *everywhere*, vibrating in her ribs, her teeth, the marrow of her bones. Rory clapped her hands over her ears, but it did no good. The words slithered in, slick and cold. “This isn’t your time.” The pendant burned against her sternum. She gasped, stumbling back until her shoulders hit the rough bark of another oak. The torch slipped from her fingers, the beam wild as it swept across the grove. The flowers were *moving*. Not swaying. Not bending. *Crawling*. Petals peeling back from stems that writhed like fingers, inching toward her ankles. Rory kicked out, her boot connecting with something soft and yielding. A wet *squelch* answered her. She didn’t look down. The shadow stretched longer, its edges fraying like tattered silk. The laughter came again, closer now, and this time she *felt* it—the vibration of something vast and hungry coiling around her, testing her edges. “You carry the scent of the other place,” it murmured. “The broken one. The one who *owes*.” Rory’s throat locked. *Evan.* The name clawed up her spine, but she forced it back down. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” A lie. A stupid, transparent lie. The thing *knew*. It knew, and it was savoring the way her pulse hammered in her throat, the way her fingers dug crescents into her palms. The pendant’s glow flared, crimson bleeding through the fabric of her shirt. The shadow hissed, recoiling as if scalded. The pressure in the air shifted—just for a second, just enough for Rory to suck in a ragged breath. She ran. Branches whipped at her face, tearing at her hair, her skin. The standing stones loomed ahead, their jagged outlines a promise of escape. She didn’t dare look back. Didn’t dare check if the thing was following. The ground sloped upward, roots snaring her ankles, but she forced herself faster, lungs burning. A hand closed around her wrist. Rory screamed, twisting free, but the grip was iron, yanking her off balance. She crashed to her knees, gravel biting through the fabric of her jeans. The torch lay a few feet away, its beam flickering weakly. “Easy, easy—it’s me!” The voice was human. Rough. Familiar. Rory blinked up. A man crouched beside her, his face half-lit by the dying torch. Dark stubble. A scar cutting through one eyebrow. Silas. Relief hit her so hard her vision blurred. “What the *hell*—?” “No time.” His grip tightened, hauling her to her feet. “We’ve got about three seconds before that thing decides you’re worth the trouble. Move.” He didn’t wait for an answer. Yanking her after him, he lunged for the standing stones. Rory barely kept her footing as they stumbled through the gap, the air resistance popping like a soap bubble breaking. The grove vanished behind them. Silence. Then— “What,” Rory panted, doubling over, hands on her knees, “the *actual fuck*—?”