Run: 2026-02-20-01KHXPPK9BW8MM0TZT1PYKAMD5

The air smelled wrong the moment Rory stepped past the standing stones. Not *bad*, exactly—just thick, like the scent of damp earth after rain, but too sweet, cloying. The kind of smell that clung to the back of her throat. She hesitated, fingers brushing the crimson pendant beneath her shirt. Its usual faint warmth had sharpened, pulsing against her skin like a second heartbeat. *Too late now.* She exhaled, watching her breath fog in the unnaturally cold air, and stepped deeper into the grove. Richmond Park was miles behind her, its distant hum of traffic and late-night joggers swallowed by the unnatural quiet here. The trees loomed, their gnarled branches knitting together overhead, blocking out the moon. Only the wildflowers glowed—pale blue and silver, their petals unfurling as she passed, as if waking to her presence. Rory’s boots sank into the loam, the dampness seeping through the worn leather. She should’ve brought a torch. Should’ve told Silas where she was going. But Silas would’ve stopped her, and she couldn’t afford to be stopped. A twig snapped. Rory froze. The sound had come from her left, near the cluster of rowan trees with their blood-red berries. She turned slowly, scanning the undergrowth. Nothing moved. Just the flowers, swaying gently, though there was no wind. “Hello?” Her voice sounded too loud. It bounced off the trees and died. No answer. Of course not. She was being jumpy. The grove had always been… *odd*, but never dangerous. Eva had brought her here once, years ago, when they were still teenagers sneaking out to drink cider and whisper about boys. They’d laughed at how the time slipped, how they’d emerge hours later to find only minutes had passed in the real world. A fae trick, Eva had called it. Harmless. Rory adjusted the strap of her bag, the leather creaking. The pendant’s pulse quickened. She was close. That was all this was—the artifact reacting to the Hel portal Isolde had told her about. That was why she’d come. To find it. To *use* it. Another sound. A whisper of fabric, the faintest rustle of leaves. Rory spun, heart hammering. The grove stretched empty behind her, the standing stones a distant smudge in the dark. She was alone. She *had* to be alone. Then the flowers bent. Not from wind. Not from an animal. They *folded*, petals curling inward like fingers recoiling from a flame. The movement rippled outward from her feet, a wave of silver-blue retreating into the shadows. Rory’s breath hitched. The pendant burned against her collarbone. “Okay,” she muttered. “New plan.” She reached into her bag, fingers closing around the cold metal of her bike multi-tool. Not much, but better than nothing. Gripping it like a knife, she turned in a slow circle. The grove held its breath. A shadow shifted. Near the oldest oak, where the roots twisted like serpents from the earth, something moved. A flicker—taller than her, slender, its edges blurring into the dark. Rory’s pulse roared in her ears. She didn’t blink. Didn’t breathe. The shape stepped forward. Not a person. Not *quite*. It had the outline of one—a woman, maybe—but its limbs were too long, its movements too fluid, like ink spilled into water. The air around it shimmered, warping the scant moonlight. Rory’s stomach twisted. She’d seen fae before, in the corners of her vision, flitting through the grove like half-remembered dreams. But never like *this*. Never so *solid*. The thing tilted its head. Rory caught the glint of eyes—too many, clustered like stars in its elongated face. It raised one spindly arm, fingers unfolding like the petals of the flowers, and pointed *past* her. Rory didn’t turn. She couldn’t. Her body had locked, muscles rigid with the certainty that if she moved, if she *breathed*, the thing would lunge. The pendant’s heat seared through her shirt. The multi-tool trembled in her grip. A voice slithered into her mind. Not words. A *feeling*. A pressure behind her temples, like fingers pressing against the inside of her skull. *You shouldn’t be here.* Rory swallowed. “I—I’m looking for the portal.” The pressure intensified. The thing took another step closer. The flowers at its feet withered, their glow dimming to embers. *Portals are doors. Doors open both ways.* A cold sweat prickled down Rory’s spine. The multi-tool felt useless now. She was out of her depth. She *knew* she was out of her depth. But she’d come this far. She couldn’t leave empty-handed. Not when Evan was still out there. Not when the police had done *nothing*. She lifted her chin. “I need to get to Hel.” The thing’s mouth opened. Too wide. Too many teeth, needle-thin and glinting. It didn’t speak. It didn’t need to. The pressure in Rory’s skull became a *voice*, slick and honeyed and wrong. *Hel is not for mortals, little thief. Not even ones who steal from the dead.* Rory’s breath stuttered. *Steal from the dead?* The pendant wasn’t stolen. It had been *given* to her. Left on her doorstep with a note in a hand she didn’t recognize: *For when you’re ready to fight back.* She’d assumed it was from Eva. Or Silas. Or even Isolde, though the fae woman had never been particularly fond of her. But the thing in front of her smiled, its teeth clicking together like wind chimes. *Liar, liar, heart on fire.* The pendant *burned*. Rory gasped, clutching at it through her shirt. The pain lanced up her neck, down her arm, settling in the old scar on her wrist—the one Evan had given her when she’d tried to leave the first time. The memory flashed behind her eyes: his fingers tightening around her arm, the knife slipping, the way he’d *laughed* as she bled. The grove tilted. Rory staggered, vision swimming. The thing was closer now. She could smell it—ozone and rotting honey. Its fingers brushed her cheek, too cold, too smooth, like polished bone. *Give it back,* the voice crooned. *Give it back, and we’ll let you leave.* Rory’s fingers closed around the pendant. The metal bit into her palm. She thought of Evan’s hands on her. His voice in her ear. *You’ll never get away from me.* She thought of the police report, the way the officer had patted her shoulder like she was a child throwing a tantrum. *These things are hard to prove, love.* She bared her teeth. “It’s *mine*.” The thing hissed. The sound filled the grove, vibrating in Rory’s bones. The trees groaned, their branches twisting as if in pain. The flowers blackened, their glow snuffed out like candles. Darkness pressed in, thick and suffocating. Rory turned and *ran*. She didn’t know which way was out. The standing stones were gone. The path had vanished. The grove had become a maze of gnarled trunks and grasping roots, the air so cold it burned her lungs. She crashed through the undergrowth, branches whipping at her face. The pendant’s heat was a brand now, searing through her shirt, her skin. She could feel it *pulling* her, tugging her deeper into the dark. A root snagged her ankle. Rory went down hard, her palms slamming into the damp earth. Pain flared up her wrists. She scrambled up, but the grove had shifted again. The oak with the serpent roots loomed before her. The thing was there, waiting. Its form had changed—taller, its limbs elongating, its face stretching into a grin that split its skull. *No escape, little thief.* Rory’s back hit something solid. She whirled. A wall of vines, thick and thorned, blocked her path. They pulsed, alive, coiling tighter together. Trapping her. The thing reached for her. Its fingers elongated, sharpening into claws. Rory screamed. Not in fear. In *rage*. She ripped the pendant from her neck. The chain snapped, the metal biting into her fingers. The thing recoiled, hissing as the crimson gem flared, its light cutting through the dark like a blade. The grove *screamed*—a sound like tearing fabric, like a thousand voices wailing at once. The vines withered. The trees shuddered. And then, silence. The thing was gone. The grove stood still. The flowers bloomed again, their silver glow painting the clearing in eerie light. Rory’s chest heaved. Her hands shook. The pendant lay in her palm, its glow steady now, its warmth gentle against her skin. She was alone. Rory didn’t move for a long time. The grove held its breath around her, waiting. She could still feel the echo of the thing’s voice in her skull, the phantom press of its fingers on her skin. But the portal—she could *feel* it now. A pull, deep in her gut. A promise. She slipped the pendant into her pocket, the metal heavy against her thigh. Then she walked forward, into the dark.