Run: 2026-02-20-01KHXPETR7569W7MVBAEEH68P8

The air smelled wrong the moment Rory stepped past the standing stones. Not rotten, not sour—just *off*, like the scent of rain on hot pavement when no storm had come. She paused, fingers brushing the crimson pendant at her throat. Its usual faint warmth had sharpened into a pulse, steady as a second heartbeat. The wildflowers underfoot should’ve been crushed by her boots, but they sprang back unharmed, petals glistening with something that wasn’t dew. She exhaled through her nose. "Stupid. You’ve been here before." But not at night. The Grove had always been a refuge, a place where the hum of London faded into the rustle of leaves and the distant chime of unseen things. Now, the silence pressed too hard, like a hand clamped over her ears. No owls. No wind. Just the creak of ancient oaks, their gnarled roots twisting into shapes that looked almost deliberate. Rory adjusted the strap of her bag, knuckles white. The torch beam cut a ragged path ahead, illuminating patches of moss that shifted when she wasn’t looking directly at them. She swallowed. "Focus. In and out. Grab the damn thing and leave." The *thing* in question was a book—Eva’s book, stolen by someone who shouldn’t have been able to find this place, let alone take anything from it. Rory had traced it here, the pendant’s pull unmistakable. But the Grove wasn’t behaving. The path that should’ve been straight now coiled, trees leaning in as if listening. A snap of a twig. She spun, torchlight skittering over the undergrowth. Nothing. Just the flowers, too still, their colours too bright in the dark. Her breath fogged in the cold air, though the pendant against her skin burned hotter. "Right. Moving." She forced her legs forward, boots sinking into soil that gave too easily, like wet sponge. The deeper she went, the more the air thickened, each inhale laced with the taste of iron and something sweet, cloying. The torch flickered. Not from a breeze—there wasn’t one—but as if something had passed *through* the light. Rory’s scar itched. She scratched at it absently, the crescent-shaped mark flaring white under her fingertips. The pendant’s glow bled through her shirt, casting ruddy shadows on the bark ahead. Then she saw it. The book lay open on a flat stone, pages splayed like wings. Eva’s handwriting curled across the parchment, ink shimmering as though still wet. Rory reached for it— A whisper slithered past her ear. Not words. Not quite. A sound like fingers dragging over glass, slow and deliberate. She jerked back, torch swinging wild. The beam caught movement—a shift in the dark, something tall and too thin stepping behind a tree. The bark there was *wrong*, the grooves forming a pattern that looked like a face, lips parted in a silent scream. Rory’s lungs locked. "Who’s there?" No answer. Just the creak of branches, the rustle of leaves that hadn’t been there a second ago. She snatched the book, shoving it into her bag. The moment her fingers left the pages, the torch died. Darkness swallowed her whole. The pendant’s glow was the only light now, a dull crimson pulse against her chest. Rory turned in a slow circle, skin prickling. The trees had moved. The path behind her was gone, replaced by a wall of roots knitted together like a gate. The air hummed, a low vibration that resonated in her teeth. Something laughed. Not a human sound. More like the crack of ice on a frozen lake, sharp and brittle. Rory’s breath hitched. "Eva’s gonna kill me for this." She took a step. The ground didn’t just give—it *pulled*, soil clinging to her boots like tar. The pendant’s heat bordered on pain now, its glow casting long, writhing shadows that didn’t match the shapes around her. A shadow detached from the others. Taller than the trees, its edges blurred as if smudged by an unsteady hand. It didn’t walk. It *flowed*, seeping across the ground toward her. Rory stumbled back, fingers scrambling for the torch—useless, dead weight. The thing had no face, just a darker void where one should’ve been, and when it raised an arm, the branches above twisted in response, forming a cage of thorns. Rory’s pulse hammered in her throat. "Yeah, no. Not today." She bolted. The Grove shifted around her, paths twisting mid-step. The standing stones should’ve been just ahead, but the pendant’s pull yanked her left, then right, then left again, like a fishhook caught in her ribs. The thing behind her didn’t chase. It didn’t need to. The trees did it for her, roots snaking across her path, vines lashing at her ankles. A hand—*cold*, too many fingers—brushed her shoulder. Rory screamed, whirling. Nothing there. But the air *tasted* like it, like copper and spoiled honey. The pendant seared her skin. She ripped it off, hurling it into the dark. The moment it left her hand, the world *screamed*. The trees split open, bark peeling back like flesh, revealing glistening black hollows where sap should’ve been. The ground heaved, wildflowers bursting into rot mid-bloom. And the thing—*it*—unfolded, its form stretching, elongating, until it filled the space between the trees, its void-face tilting as if curious. Rory’s back hit something solid. The standing stones. The boundary. She didn’t think. She *lunged*, fingers clawing at the moss-slick surface. The moment she crossed, the Grove’s scream cut off like a severed breath. Silence. Then— Laughter. Soft. Human. Rory collapsed to her knees, gasping. The pendant lay in the dirt at her feet, its glow faded to a dull ember. She snatched it up, chain burning her palm. A twig snapped. She looked up. Eva stood at the edge of the tree line, arms crossed, one eyebrow arched. "Took you long enough."