Run: 2026-02-20-01KHXQ9C33CBXFATC3295DV3M1

The night air was thick with the scent of damp earth and something older, something wild. Rory adjusted the strap of her messenger bag, the Heartstone Pendant tucked safely beneath her shirt, its faint warmth a steady pulse against her skin. She had come to the Fae Grove for answers—not that she expected them to be kind. The standing stones loomed ahead, their gnarled oaks black against the indigo sky, their roots twisting like arthritic fingers into the soil. She hesitated at the boundary, her breath curling in the cold. The last time she’d been here, the grove had been alive with fireflies and the hum of unseen wings. Now, the silence was absolute, broken only by the distant hoot of an owl—too distant, as if the sound had been carried from another world. Rory stepped between the stones. The moment she crossed the threshold, the temperature dropped. Her breath came faster, fogging in front of her, and the wildflowers that usually carpeted the grove were gone, replaced by brittle, colorless stalks that crunched underfoot. The trees seemed to lean in, their branches knitting together overhead like skeletal fingers lacing tight. She swallowed hard. "Hello?" Her voice didn’t echo. It was swallowed whole, as if the grove itself had opened its mouth and inhaled. Rory’s fingers twitched toward the pendant, but she didn’t pull it free. Not yet. The last thing she needed was to draw attention to it—not here, not when the rules were already bending. She took another step forward, her boots sinking slightly into the damp earth. The ground was too soft, as if the grove had been rained on for days, though the sky above was clear. A sound. Not the wind. Not an animal. A whisper, so faint it might have been her own pulse in her ears. But then it came again—her name, stretched thin, like a voice speaking through water. *Rory.* She spun, her heart hammering. Nothing. Just the trees, their bark peeling in long, papery strips, revealing something dark and wet beneath. "Who’s there?" Her voice was steadier than she felt. Silence. Then, from the corner of her eye—a flicker of movement. A figure, pale and slender, darting between the trees. Rory’s breath hitched. She took a step toward it, then stopped. The figure was gone. Or had it ever been there at all? The pendant burned hotter against her skin. She yanked it free, the crimson stone glowing faintly in the dim light. The warmth spread through her fingers, up her arm, a slow, insistent throb. The grove seemed to recoil from it, the trees pulling back just enough to let her see the path ahead. Rory followed it. The deeper she went, the more the grove twisted. The standing stones at the edge had been ancient, but these trees were older, their trunks split with age, their roots coiling like serpents. The air smelled of copper and something sweet, like rotting fruit. Her stomach churned. A sound again—this time, unmistakably footsteps. Light, quick, circling her. She turned, but the path behind her was gone. The trees had shifted, the way closing in. The pendant pulsed faster, its glow flickering like a dying bulb. "Alright," Rory muttered, clenching her jaw. "Enough." She pressed the pendant to her lips, whispering the only word she knew that might help. "Dymas." The grove shuddered. The trees groaned, their branches creaking as they bent away from her, revealing a clearing ahead. In the center stood a figure—tall, cloaked, its face hidden in shadow. It raised a hand, beckoning. Rory’s pulse roared in her ears. She knew that gesture. Knew the way the air hummed around it, like a plucked wire. She didn’t move. The figure tilted its head. The shadows beneath its hood shifted, and for a heartbeat, she thought she saw eyes—too many eyes, blinking in the dark. Then it spoke, and its voice was the whisper from before, the one that had called her name. *"You shouldn’t have come back, little thief."* Rory’s blood turned to ice. She had never stolen anything in her life. But the grove had. And now it wanted its due.