Run: 2026-02-20-01KHY7HBVJP96RZ2BMYSF2ZJQV

Rory slung her Golden Empress delivery bag over her opposite shoulder, the crinkle of leftover spring roll wrappers rubbing against the worn cuff of her uniform shirt—stained with soy sauce from a mid-shift spill at a Soho flat. She slipped through Richmond Park’s locked side gate, the metal jangling soft against her left wrist—where the crescent scar throbbed, a faint warning she’d ignored since Eva’s 2 a.m. text. The winter air bit at her cheeks, snow dusting the park’s usual underbrush, but when she rounded the gnarled oak copse Eva had described, the snow vanished. Ancient oak standing stones marked the clearing’s edge, their bark cracked with grooves that looked like faded runes she couldn’t place—runes her Welsh teacher mother had once pointed out in a Cardiff museum, calling them fae markers. She paused, her scuffed delivery boots sinking into moss that stayed green despite the December frost, the same moss her mother had collected for a classroom project when Rory was 10. She reached for the silver chain around her neck, tugging the Heartstone Pendant free. The crimson gem, thumbnail-sized, glowed faint in the moon’s thin light. Its surface caught the faint wildflower scent drifting from the clearing, turning the glow into a tangled web of red and gold. What did Eva even know about this place? She tucked the pendant back under her shirt, its warmth seeping through the uniform fabric. She’d left her abusive ex Evan’s Cardiff flat for London at Eva’s plea, taken the Golden Empress delivery job to pay rent for her flat above Silas’ bar—where she’d listened to Silas’ late-night rants about fae-touched spots in Richmond more times than she could count—and found the pendant tucked in her delivery bag three weeks prior—no note, no name, just the cold silver chain looped around a spring roll container labeled with Yu-Fei Cheung’s handwriting. Eva’s text had claimed the Richmond grove held a clue to the benefactor, that the pendant’s pulse tied to something hidden there, something that could explain why Evan had never found her in London despite his frantic texts. She stepped across the standing stones’ invisible boundary. Wildflowers bloomed at her feet—bluebells, daisies, poppies—all out of season, their petals glossy as polished glass. She’d delivered to a floral shop in Kensington earlier that day, had listened to the owner complain about how winter killed every bloom, so the sight made her stomach twist. She checked her phone, the screen flickering when she tapped the time. 11:27 PM, it read. She glanced at her wristwatch, a hand-me-down from her barrister father—brass band, scratched face, a gift for her 18th birthday when she’d started pre-law at Cardiff: 12:15 AM. Time’s already playing games. She stuffed her phone into her uniform pocket, the device’s static hum fading when she turned her gaze to the clearing’s center. A single oak stood taller than the rest, its branches weaving a canopy that blocked the moon’s light in patches. Rustling sounded from its base—too sharp, too deliberate to be wind. She tensed, her delivery bag slipping further down her arm. She’d made late-night deliveries to rough London estates, had faced Evan’s raised voice more times than she could count, had once hidden in a Cardiff alley for two hours to avoid his rage, but this rustling held a weight she couldn’t name—like someone was dragging a heavy object through the moss, slow and steady. She took a step forward. The crescent scar on her left wrist throbbed harder, and she rubbed it with her right hand—her fingers brushing the pendant’s chain through her shirt. The gem pulsed once, warmer than before, the heat matching the burn she’d felt when Evan had grabbed her wrist during their final fight in Cardiff. Eva better not have sent me on a wild goose chase. A child’s laugh echoed through the clearing. She spun, her boots kicking a poppy across the moss. No child stood there—only the wildflowers, their petals twisting slightly as if they’d heard the sound too. She scanned the edge of her vision, catching a shadow that stretched longer than her own, its shape blurring when she stared directly at it. It had no feet, no hands, just a long, dark line that curved around a standing stone. That’s not a branch. She reached into her delivery bag, pulling out a crumpled fortune cookie wrapper from the Golden Empress—her last delivery of the night, a regular at a Richmond flat who’d left a £5 tip tucked in the wrapper, saying she’d looked like she needed it. She crumpled it tighter, the paper’s crackle cutting through the silence. The shadow vanished. She dropped the wrapper, its white paper contrasting with the green moss and red poppies. She checked her phone again—this time, the screen was black, no amount of tapping bringing it back. Her watch’s hands had stopped moving, stuck at 12:15 AM. She’d fixed the watch’s mechanism with her father’s old tools last month, had tested it against the Golden Empress’ kitchen clock every morning for a week, so the stillness made her breath catch. I should leave. She turned to the standing stones, but their positions had shifted—what had been a straight line now curved into a circle, blocking her exit. She stepped toward one, her hand pressing against its rough bark. A jolt shot up her arm, making her yank her hand back. The jolt’s intensity matched the shock she’d felt when she’d found Evan’s fist through her Cardiff flat’s window the day she left. The pendant pulsed again, this time in quick, staccato beats, its crimson glow seeping through her shirt. The benefactor knew this would happen. She tugged the pendant free again, holding it up to the faint light filtering through the canopy. The gem’s glow brightened, and she noticed a tiny crack running down its center—one she hadn’t seen before, a crack that looked like the split in her father’s old law book, the one Evan had thrown at her during a fight. Her left wrist’s scar tingled, and she traced the crescent shape with her thumb, remembering the childhood accident that had made it: she’d climbed a Cardiff oak with Eva, slipped, and cut her wrist on a broken branch. Eva had wrapped it with a handkerchief from her Welsh teacher mother’s purse, the fabric printed with daffodils that had faded over time. Eva’s always been tied to this. Another rustling sounded, this time from behind her. She spun, catching a glimpse of a shadow that had no source—no branch, no rock, just a dark shape that darted toward the wildflowers. A poppy’s petal snapped off when the shadow brushed it, the petal falling to the moss and melting into a black puddle. The puddle spread slowly, eating through the moss and leaving a bare patch of dirt in its wake. That’s not natural. She took a step back, her boot hitting the fortune cookie wrapper. She bent to pick it up, her fingers brushing the moss. The moss felt sticky, like dried honey, and she pulled her hand back quickly. The pendant’s pulses grew stronger, warmth spreading up her neck and into her cheeks. She realized the pulses matched the thud of her heart, each beat making her scar tingle more. She’d learned to control her breathing during Evan’s rages, to count the beats of her heart until he left, but here the counting did nothing—each pulse made the world feel smaller, the standing stones’ circle tighter. What’s the pendant trying to show me? A soft hum filled the clearing, coming from the tall oak’s base. She stepped toward it, her delivery bag’s spring roll wrappers crinkling louder with each step. The hum grew louder, and she noticed a small crack in the oak’s trunk—its shape matching the crescent scar on her wrist. She pressed her left wrist against the crack. The pendant’s glow flared, and the hum turned into a whisper—too faint to make out, but familiar, like the voice of someone she’d known as a child, someone who’d sung Welsh lullabies to her when her mother was grading papers. I know that voice. She leaned closer, her ear pressing against the oak’s bark. The whisper cleared, turning into a single word: Hel. She jolted back, her delivery bag falling off her arm and spilling its contents—spring roll wrappers, a soy sauce packet, a crumpled menu from Golden Empress with Yu-Fei’s note scrawled on the back (Don’t work too late), a small toy car she’d found in a delivery bag for a child’s birthday. The Heartstone Pendant slipped from her hand, clattering to the moss. She bent to pick it up, and when she looked up, a shadow stood at the edge of her vision—taller than any human, its arms stretching toward her, its fingers ending in sharp points that glinted like broken glass. Don’t look directly at it. She grabbed the pendant, tucking it back under her shirt. The shadow vanished when she stood, but the wildflowers around her had started to wilt, their glossy petals turning brown and crumbling into dust. The standing stones’ circle had tightened, their bark now oozing a black liquid that seeped into the moss. She turned to the clearing’s entrance, but the snow outside the boundary had vanished, replaced by a blank white wall of light—no trees, no gate, no sign of the Richmond Park she’d entered. I can’t get out. She pressed her hand against her left wrist, the crescent scar now burning like a brand. The pendant’s warmth turning into a searing heat, making her gasp. She looked at the tall oak’s trunk, the crescent crack now glowing the same crimson as the pendant. Rustling sounded again, this time from every direction, and she realized the rustling was not from branches but from hundreds of tiny shadows, all darting toward her from the wildflowers’ remains. Each shadow was the size of her thumb, each moving with the same deliberate speed as the first rustling she’d heard. They’re coming. She backed toward the tall oak, her delivery bag’s spilled toy car crunching under her boot. She grabbed the oak’s bark, her fingers sinking into the sticky moss, and tried to pull herself up—anything to get away from the approaching shadows. The pendant’s heat flared again, and she felt a jolt run from her left wrist to her shoulder, a jolt that made her see a flash of the benefactor’s hand—pale, with a scar on the knuckle—looping the silver chain around her spring roll container. I saw them. She blinked the flash away, but the shadows were closer now, their tiny points scraping against the moss. She traced the crescent scar on her wrist, the same shape as the oak’s crack, the same shape as the pendant’s crack, and realized the three were tied—her scar, the pendant, the grove—all part of something the benefactor had planned from the start. This isn’t a clue. It’s a trap.