Run: 2026-02-20-01KHXPMGX5SZQ1YCR5BJAAXSND

The air smelled wrong the moment Rory stepped past the standing stones. Not *bad*, exactly—just thick, like the breath of something old and patient, exhaling through the leaves. The usual damp earth and wildflowers of the Grove were there, but beneath it, a metallic tang, sharp as a blade’s edge. She hesitated, fingers brushing the crescent scar on her left wrist. The skin prickled. *Too late now.* She’d already crossed the threshold. Moonlight bled through the canopy in silver streaks, painting the ground in shifting patterns. The oaks loomed, their gnarled roots twisting like sleeping serpents. Rory adjusted the strap of her bag, the weight of the Heartstone pendant a steady pulse against her sternum. It had been warm when she left Silas’s flat—unnaturally so, as if it knew where she was headed. Now, it hummed, a low vibration against her bones. She shouldn’t have come alone. Eva would’ve laughed in her face if she’d asked. *"You? Sneaking into a fae grove at midnight because some dodgy note told you to? Have you lost your bloody mind?"* And she’d be right. But the note had been slipped under Rory’s door with no signature, no postmark, just three words in ink that smelled faintly of crushed violets: *They’re watching you.* Below it, a sketch of the pendant—her pendant—dripping something dark and viscous. Rory exhaled, her breath fogging in the unnaturally cold air. The Grove had never felt like this before. The times she’d come with Eva, it had been golden, drowsy, the kind of place where time stretched like taffy. Now, the silence pressed in, thick as wool. No owls. No rustling hedgehogs. Not even the whisper of wind through the leaves. Her torch flickered. She tapped it twice—batteries were fresh, damn it—and the beam steadied, carving a pale path through the undergrowth. The wildflowers were still in bloom, their petals too bright, too *wet*, as if they’d just unfurled from the earth. She crouched, brushing her fingers over a foxglove. The stem bent, then snapped back with a sound like a drawn breath. A twig cracked behind her. Rory spun, torch jerking upward. The beam caught nothing but trunk and shadow, the gnarled bark of the oaks swallowing the light. Her pulse hammered in her throat. *"Just a deer,"* she told herself. *"Or a fox."* But the Grove had never had deer. And foxes didn’t hold their breath. She stood too fast, her boot catching on a root. The torch clattered to the ground, rolling into the dark. The beam wavered, then died with a final, defeated click. *Brilliant.* Rory crouched, groping blindly. Her fingers found damp earth, crushed petals, something smooth and cold—*bone?*—before closing around the torch. She shook it. Nothing. The darkness wasn’t absolute; moonlight still bled through the trees, but it was thin, watery, as if something were drinking it. The pendant pulsed, hot as a brand. She clenched her jaw and kept moving. The clearing should’ve been just ahead, where the standing stones formed a broken circle. Isolde had shown her once, years ago, back when Eva still talked to the fae woman and Rory had been too busy drowning in law textbooks to care. *"Some doors only open at night,"* Isolde had murmured, her voice like honeyed thorns. *"And some should never open at all."* Rory’s fingers twitched toward the pendant again. The crimson gemstone was brighter now, its inner glow seeping through the fabric of her shirt. She pulled it free, the silver chain cool against her skin. The stone throbbed, a slow, rhythmic beat, like a heart counting down. A whisper slithered through the trees. Not words. Not quite. A sound like fingers dragging over silk, or a knife being whetted on a stone. It came from everywhere, from nowhere, wrapping around her skull until her teeth ached. *"Hello?"* Her voice sounded too loud, too human. The whispering stopped. The silence that followed was worse. It *pressed*, a physical weight against her eardrums. She swallowed, tasting copper. The pendant’s glow flared, casting jagged shadows at her feet. Then—the snap of a branch. Rory whirled. Twenty feet away, half-hidden by the undergrowth, something moved. A shape, tall and slender, its edges blurring into the dark. Not an animal. Not *quite* human. The moonlight caught the glint of eyes—too many eyes—and a smile that stretched too wide. Her breath hitched. The thing tilted its head. The movement was wrong, jointed like a spider’s, limbs bending in ways that made her stomach clench. It had no face, not really—just a smooth expanse of pale skin, and that *smile*, a gash of black where a mouth should be. Rory stumbled back. A root snagged her ankle, and she went down hard, her palm slamming into the damp earth. The impact jarred up her arm, but the pain was distant, muffled, as if her body had already decided to shut down everything but fear. The thing didn’t move. It didn’t need to. It was *waiting*. She scrambled upright, her bag slipping from her shoulder. The pendant swung wildly, its light casting wild, leaping shadows. The thing’s head tracked the movement, its too-long fingers twitching. *"You shouldn’t be here,"* it said. The voice wasn’t a voice. It was the sound of teeth scraping bone, of wet leaves rotting in the dark. It vibrated in her skull, her ribs, her *teeth*. Rory’s throat locked. She forced air through her nose, her lungs burning. *"I—I was told to come."* The thing’s smile widened. *"By whom?"* She didn’t know. The note had been unsigned. But the pendant—*someone* had known she had it. *"A friend."* A laugh, if a laugh could be the sound of a neck snapping. *"Friends don’t send lambs to the wolf, little human."* The trees seemed to lean in, their branches knitting together like fingers. The air thickened, sweet and cloying, like the scent of overripe fruit. Rory’s vision swam. The pendant was a furnace against her skin, its glow painting the world in crimson. The thing took a step forward. Then another. Rory’s legs finally unlocked. She turned and ran. Branches whipped at her arms, her face, tearing at her clothes like grasping hands. The Grove had always been small—a pocket, Isolde had called it—but now the trees stretched endlessly, the standing stones nowhere in sight. Her boots pounded the earth, her breath ragged in her throat. The thing didn’t chase her. It didn’t need to. The Grove itself was herding her, funneling her deeper, into the dark. A sound cut through the silence—a sob, high and broken. Rory skidded to a halt. To her left, half-hidden behind a curtain of ivy, a figure crouched. A woman. Her dark hair was matted with leaves, her dress—no, her *robe*—torn at the hem. She rocked back and forth, her hands clutched over her ears, her mouth moving soundlessly. *"Hey!"* Rory’s voice cracked. *"Hey, are you—"* The woman’s head snapped up. Her eyes were gone. Not closed. Not blind. *Gone.* Just smooth, unbroken skin where her sockets should have been. Her mouth stretched open, and a sound crawled out—a keening, wordless scream that clawed up Rory’s spine and locked her muscles in place. The thing from before stepped out of the shadows behind the woman, its too-long fingers resting on her shoulder. *"She didn’t listen either,"* it murmured. The woman’s screaming stopped. Her head lolled, her body going limp. The thing let her crumple to the ground like a discarded doll. Rory’s stomach heaved. She backed away, her boots slipping on the damp earth. The pendant was a white-hot brand against her chest, its light flickering like a dying star. The thing tilted its head. *"You’re different,"* it said. *"You carry the scent of the Between. The scent of *him*."* Rory’s blood turned to ice. *"Him?"* The thing’s smile split wider. *"The one who gave you that pretty stone. The one who *watches*."* The pendant’s glow flared, so bright it seared her eyes. The thing hissed, recoiling, its limbs twisting as if burned. The Grove itself seemed to shudder, the trees groaning, the earth trembling beneath Rory’s feet. And then— A voice. Not the thing’s voice. Not the woman’s. A voice like wind through dead leaves, like a name whispered in the dark. *"Run, Aurora."* The command cracked through her like a whip. Rory turned and ran, her lungs screaming, her legs burning. The trees blurred past her, their branches snapping back as if in pain. The standing stones loomed ahead, their ancient oak surfaces slick with something dark and glistening. She didn’t look back. She hurled herself through the gap, her shoulder slamming into the stone. The impact knocked the breath from her lungs, sent her sprawling onto the damp grass of Richmond Park. The night air was cool, *normal*, the scent of cut grass and distant traffic washing over her like a baptism. Behind her, the Grove was silent. The standing stones stood motionless, their surfaces dry, untouched. As if nothing had happened. As if she’d imagined it all. Rory rolled onto her back, her chest heaving. The pendant had gone dark, its gemstone dull as a scrap of glass. She clutched it, her fingers trembling. A shadow fell over her. She screamed, scrambling back, but it was just a tree—a normal, *human* tree, its leaves rustling in the breeze. Laughter bubbled up in her throat, hysterical and sharp. She pressed her palms to her eyes, her body shaking. When she lowered her hands, the note was there. Tucked into the neck of her shirt, as if it had always been there. The paper was damp, the ink smudged, as if it had been written in haste. Or in blood. Three words, in that same violet-scented script: *Now you see.*