Run: 2026-02-20-01KHY7QZYK4ECE5KM8ZJXYEV8K

Aurora Carter pushed through the underbrush at the edge of Richmond Park, the chill of the autumn night seeping through her thin jacket. The pendant hung heavy against her chest, its crimson gem pulsing with that faint, insistent warmth she'd first noticed earlier that evening. It had drawn her here, like a compass needle twitching toward true north, ever since the anonymous package arrived at her flat above Silas' bar. No note, just the silver chain and the thumbnail-sized stone, glowing softly in the dim light of her room. She'd come seeking answers—about the pendant, about the strange dreams that had plagued her since fleeing Cardiff, dreams of shadowed figures and voices whispering her name. Laila, they called her sometimes, a name she'd never used. The grove, hidden in the park's depths, was a rumor she'd overheard at the Golden Empress, Yu-Fei Cheung muttering about a place where time bent and the air hummed with secrets. If anywhere could explain this artifact, it was here. The city sounds faded behind her—distant traffic, the occasional siren—replaced by the rustle of leaves underfoot. Her boots crunched on fallen acorns as she navigated by the pendant's glow, her bright blue eyes scanning the darkness. At 5'6", she felt small against the towering oaks, her straight black hair brushing her shoulders like a shroud. The small crescent scar on her left wrist itched faintly, a reminder of childhood clumsiness, but she ignored it, focusing on the path ahead. There—a circle of ancient oak standing stones, their bark twisted into shapes that mimicked human forms, arms outstretched as if in eternal supplication. The boundary, she thought, stepping between two of them. The air shifted, grew thicker, warmer, like stepping into a greenhouse. Wildflowers bloomed underfoot, impossible in the October chill: vibrant poppies and daisies nodding in a breeze she couldn't feel on her skin. The grove unfolded before her, a hidden clearing bathed in moonlight that seemed too bright, too silver, casting long shadows that danced without wind. She paused, heart quickening. Something felt off already, a subtle wrongness like a note played slightly flat in a symphony. The pendant warmed against her sternum, its inner glow intensifying, but the warmth didn't comfort her. It felt... watchful. Rory shook her head, chiding herself. Cool-headed, that's what Eva always called her. Intelligent, quick-thinking. She wouldn't spook at shadows. She moved deeper into the grove, the grass soft and springy beneath her feet, releasing a sweet, cloying scent that reminded her of overripe fruit. Her reason for coming sharpened in her mind: the pendant had been given to her by an unknown benefactor, or so the codex-like note in the package claimed—origins in some place called Dymas, behavior tied to portals. Hel portals, whatever that meant. She'd laughed it off at first, but the dreams persisted, and tonight, delivering takeout for Yu-Fei, the stone had throbbed hot against her skin as she passed near the park. It wanted her here. Needed her here. To understand, to uncover whatever truth hid in her fractured past—her abusive ex Evan, the flight from Cardiff, the nagging sense that her life was a puzzle missing pieces. The grove was silent at first, unnaturally so. No crickets, no rustling wildlife. Just her breathing, steady but louder than it should be. She circled the clearing, eyes drawn to the center where a low mound rose, covered in those eternal wildflowers. The moonlight painted everything in monochrome, but the flowers retained their colors—reds and yellows vivid as blood and sunlight. She knelt, fingers brushing petals that felt velvety, almost alive under her touch. The pendant pulsed again, syncing with her heartbeat. Then, a sound. Faint, like a sigh carried on the wind. Rory froze, head tilting. It came from the edges of the grove, beyond the standing stones. Not wind—too deliberate, too human. She straightened, scanning the shadows. Nothing. Just the oaks, their bark etched with patterns that now looked like eyes, watching. She rubbed her scar absentmindedly, a habit from stress, and took a step back. "Hello?" Her voice emerged steady, but it echoed strangely, as if the grove swallowed it and spat it back distorted. No answer. She shook off the unease, reminding herself why she was here. Answers. The pendant had led her, and she wouldn't bolt like some frightened girl. Evan had called her that once—frightened, weak—and she'd proven him wrong by leaving. She paced the mound, examining the flowers more closely. They bloomed year-round, the rumors said, in this pocket between worlds. Earth and Fae-touched, whatever that entailed. Time moved differently here; an hour inside could be minutes or days outside. She checked her watch—11:47 PM. Fine. She'd give it ten minutes, explore, then head back to her flat, maybe text Eva about the weirdness. Another sound, this time a soft rustle, like fabric brushing against leaves. From her left, at the periphery of her vision. She whipped her head around, but the shadows remained still, the standing stones unmoving sentinels. Her pulse quickened, the pendant's warmth spreading like a flush across her chest. Not alone. The thought crept in unbidden, but she pushed it down. Paranoia, that's all. The isolation of the place, the night pressing in. She moved toward the sound, boots silent on the grass, her delivery-person instincts kicking in—quick, out-of-the-box thinking, navigating unfamiliar terrain. The rustle came again, closer now, from behind one of the oaks. She circled it slowly, breath held. Nothing there but more flowers, their petals trembling slightly. As if something had just passed. She reached out, touching the bark. Rough, ancient, but warm—too warm for night. Like the pendant. A chill skittered down her spine despite the warmth. Whispers next. Indistinct, murmuring voices overlapping, too low to make out words. They seemed to emanate from the ground itself, or the air, surrounding her. Rory spun, eyes darting. The grove felt smaller suddenly, the standing stones closer together, as if the boundary had constricted. "Who's there?" she called, voice sharper now, echoing back with a faint mockery: there... there... Her mind raced. Not imagination. Something was here, toying with her. The wrongness built, layer by layer—a pressure in her ears, like descending in an elevator, the air thickening. She glanced at her watch: 11:49 PM. Only two minutes? It felt like longer. Time bending, she thought, stomach twisting. The whispers grew, resolving into fragments: Rory... Laila... Carter... Her aliases, her names, whispered like secrets shared in the dark. Movement at the edge of vision again—a flicker, shadow detaching from shadow, slipping behind a stone. She pursued, heart hammering, but found only empty space, flowers crushed as if by footsteps not her own. The pendant glowed brighter, its crimson light casting eerie reflections on the petals, making them look like they were bleeding color into the night. She wasn't alone. The certainty settled like ice in her veins. Eyes on her, multiple, watching from the gloom. The whispers intensified, calling her deeper, toward the mound. Something waited there, she knew it now—not answers, but a presence, ancient and hungry. The grove's flora seemed to lean toward her, petals unfurling like grasping fingers. Another rustle, this time from all sides, encircling. Panic clawed at her cool-headed facade. She backed toward the standing stones, but they loomed taller, their twisted forms now unmistakably humanoid, branches like limbs reaching. The moonlight dimmed, or perhaps the shadows deepened, swallowing the glow. Her watch: still 11:49. Time had stalled, trapping her. A shape materialized at the mound's crest—amorphous, shifting, not quite solid. It didn't approach, but it watched, and the whispers coalesced into a single voice, soft and insistent: Stay... belong... Rory bolted, legs pumping, but the grove stretched, the boundary receding. The pendant burned against her skin, not warmth now but heat, branding her. Shadows flickered everywhere, brushing her ankles, her hair, intangible yet real. She stumbled over roots that hadn't been there before, scar throbbing as if freshly cut. The standing stones finally neared, but as she lunged between them, a hand—not a hand, a tendril of shadow—grazed her wrist, cold and clinging. She wrenched free, bursting into the park proper, the city noise crashing back like a wave. But the whispers followed, faint in her mind: Come back... Laila... She ran, pendant still pulsing, the grove's wrongness clinging to her like dew. The night had only begun its unraveling. (Word count: 1247)