Run: 2026-02-20-01KHXQEQVETYATH9D9EGFP2BRN

The oak standing stones loomed like jagged teeth against the indigo sky, their gnarled roots twisting deep into the earth. Rory’s breath misted in the cold air as she stepped between them, the soles of her boots sinking into damp moss. The Fae Grove didn’t so much welcome her as it *allowed* her entry—a distinction she’d learned the hard way. She shouldn’t have come at night. The thought skittered through her mind, sharp and unwelcome, but she shoved it down. The pendant around her neck had pulsed all afternoon, warm against her collarbone, insistent. That meant a Hel portal was near. And if there was a portal, there was a chance—however slim—of finding answers. The wildflowers here never slept. They swayed in a breeze that didn’t exist, petals brushing her wrists as she moved deeper into the clearing. The air smelled of wet earth and something older, something metallic and faintly sweet, like rust and overripe fruit. Her fingers twitched toward the pendant, but she didn’t touch it. Not yet. A twig snapped behind her. Rory froze. The sound was too deliberate, too *loud* for the soft ground. She turned slowly, scanning the shadows between the trees. Nothing moved. Just the flowers, nodding in their silent rhythm. “Right. Just the wind.” Her voice came out thinner than she intended. She cleared her throat and kept walking. The deeper she went, the heavier the air became, pressing against her skin like damp wool. The pendant’s glow seeped through her shirt, casting a faint red halo on the fabric. She could feel it now—the portal. Close. Maybe twenty feet ahead, near the cluster of birch trees with their peeling bark like sun-bleached bones. Another sound. This time, a whisper of fabric, the faintest *shush* of movement. Rory spun. The clearing was empty. “Okay, this is getting old.” She exhaled through her nose, forced her shoulders to relax. The Grove played tricks. That’s what Eva had warned her. *Time slips. Shadows breathe. Don’t trust what you see.* But this wasn’t shadows. This was something else. A low hum vibrated in her skull, just at the edge of hearing. Not an insect, not the wind—something deeper, like a tuning fork struck against bone. The pendant flared hot against her sternum. She yanked it free of her shirt, the silver chain cold between her fingers. The crimson gem pulsed in time with the hum, its inner light flickering like a dying ember. “There you are.” The portal wasn’t a door or a tear in the air. It was a *absence*—a patch of darkness between the birches that drank the light around it. No stars reflected in its depths. No wind stirred its edges. Just a void, waiting. Rory’s pulse hammered in her throat. She took a step forward. A branch creaked above her. She ducked on instinct, arms flying up to shield her head. Nothing fell. When she looked, the birch branches were still, their leaves trembling only when she exhaled. “Stop it,” she muttered. The hum swelled, pressing against her eardrums. The pendant’s glow brightened, casting long, wavering shadows across the ground. Shadows that didn’t quite match the shapes of the trees. One of them twitched. Rory’s breath hitched. The shadow—long, spindly, *wrong*—detached itself from the base of an oak and slithered toward her. Not like a person. Not like anything with bones. It moved like ink in water, rippling, stretching. Her fingers clenched around the pendant. The heat of it bordered on pain. “You’re not real.” The shadow paused. Then it *laughed*. A wet, clicking sound, like a throat full of phlegm. Rory stumbled back. The portal was right there, a black maw between the trees. She could run. She could— The shadow lunged. She barely dodged, her boot catching on a root. She went down hard, palms slapping into the damp earth. The pendant flew from her grip, the chain snapping. It landed near the portal, the gem’s glow now a frantic stutter, like a heartbeat. The shadow coiled above her, its edges fraying into tendrils. One brushed her cheek—cold, clammy, like a slug’s belly. She recoiled, scrambling backward on her hands and heels. “What the *hell* are you?” It didn’t answer. It didn’t need to. The way it *leaned* toward her, the way its form shifted—sometimes tall, sometimes squat, sometimes stretching long and thin like a starving thing—told her enough. The pendant’s light dimmed. The hum faded. The portal was closing. Rory dove. Her fingers closed around the chain just as the shadow’s tendrils wrapped around her ankle. Ice seared her skin where it touched. She kicked, twisted, and the thing *screamed*—a sound like tearing silk, like a thousand voices whispering at once. The portal swallowed her whole. Cold. Darkness. The sensation of falling without moving. Then— Silence. Rory gasped, her lungs burning. She was on her hands and knees in the Grove again, the pendant clutched in her fist. The shadow was gone. The portal was gone. The only light came from the stars above, sharp and indifferent. Her wrist throbbed. She turned her hand over. Three thin, blackened lines scored her skin above the old crescent scar. Like burns. Like something had *marked* her. She swallowed hard. The Grove was still. Too still. Something was watching.