Run: 2026-02-20-01KHY7NKDPW6RZB1D3PNZKVMAF

The night air bit into Aurora’s cheeks as she shouldered her messenger bag, the Golden Empress’ logo still crisp on the fabric. The Heartstone pendant thudded against her ribs, warm as a fist, notching its rhythm into her pulse. A minute ago, she’d been counting traffic along the A3, sweat slicking her palms, but now the engine of the hired van sputtered and died, left idling at the edge of Richmond Park. “Bloody thing,” she muttered, yanking the keys from the ignition. The van’s shadow bled into the inky grass, and she stepped into the dark, the pendant’s warmth flaring sharp enough to sting her vision. She’d come for the portal. Eva, back in London, had sent the coordinates at 3 a.m., voice cracking over the encrypted line. *“It’s there. The Grove. The stone altar. You have to—”* The line went dead. Aurora hadn’t trusted premonitions, not since her ex-boyfriend, Evan, had broken her wrist with a pipe, but the Heartstone had started pulsing three days prior, brighter than ever, and when she’d held it to the light, she’d seen a flicker: roots coiled around a stone arch, a glow like embers beyond. Fae-touched, the codex had called it. *A pocket between Earth and the other realm.* She’d Googled the Grove—no results, just a few blurry photos from 2012, captioned *“abandoned grove, don’t go.”* The park was silent. No owls, no crickets. Just the *thump* of her boots on gravel and the distant hoot of a lost owl, which cut off mid-call. Aurora paused, hand drifting to the utility knife in her bag—Evan’s birthday present, now a relic—and gripped it. The pendant burned hotter, and she saw the standing stones: ancient oaks, their trunks gnarled like bones, ringed in shadow. She’d passed a sign an hour ago, *No Entry After Dusk*, but the stones loomed, a perimeter fence of living wood. Through the gap between two trunks, she spied the Grove: a clearing, its air shimmering, as if the grass and ferns were underwater. Wildflowers bloomed in neon hues—purple, gold, a blue that wasn’t sky—but they didn’t move, not even when a breeze (there *should* be no breeze) rippled them. The pendant’s warmth turned to fire, and she stumbled forward, into the Grove. Time unraveled. One second, she stood in the dark, the stone trunks a wall behind her. The next, the trees were ten paces away, and the air smelled of iron and honey. The flowers were closer now—she could see their petals, soft as silk, but the scent hit her first, cloying. The pendant’s glow flared, and she realized the Grove was *alive*. The earth beneath her boots pulsed, a slow, regular beat, like a heart. She fumbled with her phone, turned the screen on—no signal, of course, but the light revealed something odd: her reflection in the glass wasn’t hers. It had black eyes, a mouth stretched too wide, and its hand was raised, pointing behind her. She dropped the phone, and when she looked up, the reflection was gone. A twig snapped. Not under her boot. Behind her. Aurora spun. The stones still stood, their branches creaking, but no nothing moved between them. The Grove was empty. *Relax*, she told herself. *It’s just the wind. Last week, I heard a fox—* “Rory.” The voice was low, slurred, like it had been spoken through a fog. Aurora flinched. She’d changed her name five years ago, left Cardiff, moved to London, told everyone but Eva that “Rory” was a phase, a silly nickname from childhood. No one called her that anymore. Not out loud. “C’mere, love,” the voice said, and this time, Aurora saw the shadow: a figure hunched in the ferns, its back to her. It wore a coat too big, sleeves dragging in the dirt. “Don’t be scared. We’ve been waitin’.” Aurora inched back, her boot crunching on a dry leaf. The pendant burned, searing through her shirt. “Who are you?” “Does it matter?” The shadow stood, and Aurora saw its hair: black, matted, sticking to the back of its neck. “Eva said you’d come. Said you’d need the stone. But she lied, didn’t she? Said you’d bring the light, but you just… *run*.” It took a step forward, and Aurora saw its face: gaunt, cheeks hollow, eyes milky white. “She’s not here, Rory. She never was.” “*Eva*?” Aurora’s throat went dry. “What did you do to her?” The shadow laughed, a sound like rocks grinding. “We *kept* her. She’s… *quiet* now. Better than she was. Screamin’ all the time. So loud.” It took another step, and Aurora noticed its hands: long, fingers ending in black nails, knuckles cracked. “You should’ve stayed in London, love. The city’s *ugly*, but at least it’s *familiar*. Here… here, we *see* you. All the parts you left behind.” Aurora turned and ran. The trees blurred. The flowers swirled. The pendant burned so hot she thought it might melt through her skin. She couldn’t see the path, couldn’t distinguish left from right, but she knew the stones were behind her—she could feel them, a pressure in her chest, like a hand closing around her heart. The voice followed, closer now, breath hot on her neck. “You think you can hide? The Grove *remembers*. It *hungers*. And you… you *taste* like blood.” Aurora skidded to a halt. The clearing was ahead, but it wasn’t empty. A stone altar rose at its center, smooth and weathered, carved with runes she couldn’t read but recognized—*old magic*, the codex had said, *dangerous magic*. The pendant screamed in her hand, its glow so bright she had to squint. And on the altar: a portal. Not a bright light, but a black hole, pulsing, sucking in the air. Leaves spiraled into it, never to emerge. “*Stop*,” Aurora whispered. She reached into her bag, grabbed the utility knife, and held it out. The voice was beside her now, inches away, and she could feel its breath—cold, like a corpse’s. “You can’t leave. The Heartstone… it *chooses* you. Just like it chose Eva. Just like it chose—” It stopped. Aurora turned. The shadow was gone. In its place, a woman stood. She was tall, taller than Aurora, with straight black hair that reached her hips. Her eyes were bright blue—*so* bright, like the Icelandic glaciers. A small crescent scar ran across her left wrist, fresh, oozing blood. “You’re not real,” Aurora said, voice shaking. The woman smiled. “Neither are you.” She took a step forward, and Aurora saw her clothes: a linen dress, stained with dirt, a silver chain around her neck. “I’m the one who gave you the Heartstone. Remember? Five years ago, in a alley in London. You were crying, Evan had just left. I said, ‘You’re stronger than him. You just don’t know it yet.’” She reached up, touched the pendant. “It’s still warm. Good. It needs to work.” Aurora’s hands began to shake. “Why are you here? What do you want?” “To finish what we started.” The woman’s smile widened, and her eyes turned black, entirely. “You ran from Evan. From Cardiff. From yourself. But the Grove… it doesn’t let you run. It *remembers* every lie, every fear. And it *hungers* for the parts you think you’ve buried.” She raised a hand, and the portal on the altar flared, blackness spilling out—* voices*, indistinct, wailing. “Eva tried to run, too. But we kept her. Now you can stay. *Be* us. The Grove will take good care of you.” Aurora backed away, the utility knife clattering to the grass. The portal expanded, swallowing the light, and the air thickened, heavy, like wet wool. The woman stepped closer, her scar oozing more blood, and Aurora saw her fingers stretching, growing longer, nails turning to claws. “It’s time to stop hiding, Rory,” the woman said, and her voice was no longer a voice—it was a chorus, a thousand voices screaming in her head. “The Grove has been waiting for you.” Aurora turned and ran. This time, she didn’t look back. The pendant burned, but it didn’t hurt anymore—just *urged* her forward. The trees blurred, the flowers faded, and the air lightened, as if the shadow of the Grove was lifting. She could hear the van, its engine sputtering to life, and she ran toward it, the stones fading behind her, the voice fading, too, into a low, distant hum. She reached the van, threw open the door, and collapsed inside. The engine roared to life, and she fumbled with the keys, driving forward, away from the park, away from the Grove, away from the woman who looked like her. The pendant lay in her lap, now cool, its glow dim. Aurora stared at it, at the crimson gemstone, and saw a flash—*Evan, laughing, the pipe in his hand*, *Eva, screaming, the portal behind her*, *the woman with her wrist, the scar*, *the Grove, pulsing, hungry*. She gripped the wheel, her left wrist throbbing, and drove. Somewhere in the distance, a whimper echoed.