Run: 2026-02-20-01KHXPF8TF5PQ4AT2GH3GTX465

The Heartstone Pendant lay heavy against Rory’s collarbone, its crimson glow bleeding through her shirt like a slow, stubborn ember. She adjusted the strap of her delivery bag—empty now, the last of Yu-Fei’s orders dropped off hours ago—and stepped past the standing stones. The air thickened the moment she crossed the boundary. Not like humidity, not like fog, but something denser, something that clung to her skin and made her breath shallow. The wildflowers at her feet should’ve been dormant this late in autumn, but they unfurled in the dim light, petals trembling without wind. She exhaled. "Right. Time to get this over with." Her voice didn’t carry. It died between one syllable and the next, swallowed by the grove. Rory had come for answers. The pendant had led her here—pulsing, insistent, its warmth seeping into her sternum like a second heartbeat. She’d ignored it for weeks, chalking it up to static or bad wiring in the flat. But last night, it had burned. Not like fire, not like pain, but like a brand pressed too close, too deep. And then the dreams started. Not dreams. Memories that weren’t hers. A woman’s voice, whispering in a language that made her teeth ache. *Find the gate before the gate finds you.* She didn’t believe in gates. Or Fae. Or whatever the hell this place was. The trees here grew too straight, their bark too smooth, like polished bone. No underbrush, no fallen branches, just a carpet of moss that muffled her steps. The silence wasn’t quiet. It hummed. A low, subsonic vibration that rattled her ribs. Rory stopped. Listened. A twig snapped. She spun. Nothing. Just the trees, their branches knitting together overhead like fingers lacing tight. The pendant flared against her skin, a sudden spike of heat. She yanked it out from under her shirt. The crimson stone pulsed once, twice, then dimmed to a sullen glow. "Okay," she muttered. "That’s not ominous at all." She kept walking. The grove stretched. That was the only way to describe it. Every step should’ve brought her closer to the center—wherever the hell that was—but the trees just... multiplied. The path behind her vanished. The path ahead split, then split again, each fork identical. Rory’s pulse thudded in her throat. She flexed her fingers, shook out her wrists. "Not lost. Just... disoriented." A laugh bubbled up from somewhere to her left. High. Childlike. It cut off mid-note. She froze. "Hello?" No answer. The moss drank her voice. Then, from the right: a whisper. Too close. Too wet. Like lips brushing her ear. *"Aurora."* She whirled. Nothing. Just the trees, the flowers, the endless damn moss. The pendant burned. Rory clutched it, her breath coming fast. "Who’s there?" Silence. Then, from behind her: a giggle. Not a child’s. Something older. Something that had forgotten how to laugh right. She didn’t turn this time. She walked faster. The trees thinned. Ahead, a clearing. Moonlight—too bright, too white—spilled over a ring of mushrooms, their caps glistening like wet teeth. In the center, a stone. Flat. Smooth. Like an altar. The pendant seared her palm. Rory approached. The stone wasn’t empty. Something lay on it. A bundle. Cloth, maybe. Or skin. She reached out. The bundle moved. Rory jerked back. The cloth—no, the *thing*—unfolded. Limbs. Too many limbs. Too long. Too jointed. It sat up with a sound like tearing paper. She stumbled, her heel catching on a root. She went down hard, her tailbone cracking against the moss. The thing on the stone tilted its head. No face. Just a smooth stretch of skin where features should’ve been. The pendant blazed. Rory scrambled back, her fingers digging into the earth. The thing stood. It didn’t walk so much as *flow*, its limbs bending in ways that made her stomach lurch. It took a step. Then another. She bolted. Branches lashed her arms, her face. The grove twisted, the path narrowing, the trees pressing in like walls. Behind her, the thing made no sound. No footsteps. No breath. Just the wet, tearing noise of its body moving. The pendant was a brand against her chest. Rory burst into another clearing. This one smaller. A dead end. The trees here were black, their bark peeling like burnt flesh. In the center, a well. Stone. Ancient. The water inside was still. Too still. She skidded to a stop. The thing was behind her. She could feel it. Not hear it. Not see it. But it was there, in the way the air thickened, in the way the pendant screamed against her skin. She turned. Nothing. The well gurgled. Rory backed up until her spine hit the trees. The water in the well rippled. Something surfaced. A hand. Pale. Too long. Fingers brushing the stone. Then another hand. And another. The thing from the altar stepped into the clearing. Rory’s breath hitched. She pressed herself against the tree, her nails splintering against the bark. The thing’s head tilted. The smooth expanse of its face split. A mouth. Too wide. Too many teeth. The hands in the well reached up. Grabbed the edge. Pulled. A head emerged. Another faceless thing. Then another. And another. The pendant burned so hot Rory thought it might melt into her skin. The first thing took a step toward her. She didn’t think. She ran. The grove blurred. The trees bent, their branches reaching, their roots snaking across the path. The pendant was a live coal in her fist. She clutched it, her breath ragged, her legs burning. A sound. Not behind her. Not beside her. Above. Rory looked up. The trees were full of them. Dozens. Hundreds. Faceless things, their limbs tangled in the branches, their bodies swaying like wind chimes. One detached. Dropped. Landed in a crouch in front of her. She screamed. The thing lunged. The pendant flared white-hot. Rory’s vision whited out. A sound like a thousand voices screaming at once filled her skull. The thing recoiled, its body writhing, its limbs twisting in on themselves. Then silence. Rory blinked. The grove was still. The trees stood straight. The moss was just moss. The wildflowers drooped, their petals brown at the edges. The pendant was cold. She didn’t wait. She ran. The standing stones loomed ahead, the boundary between here and there, between real and not. She didn’t look back. She didn’t breathe. She crossed. The air lightened. The hum of the grove faded. Rory collapsed onto the damp grass of Richmond Park, her chest heaving, her hands shaking. The pendant lay dull against her skin. She didn’t know what had just happened. She didn’t want to know. But the dreams would come back. She knew that now. And next time, the pendant might not save her.