Run: 2026-02-20-01KHY7ZCT8PVXTQBPJPW07X1C6

Aurora Carter gripped the steering wheel of her battered Fiat as she navigated the winding paths of Richmond Park, the city's lights fading into a distant smear behind her. It was past midnight, and the summer night hung heavy, the kind of humid dark that clung to your skin like a second layer. She'd come here on a whim—or what felt like one—after the Heartstone Pendant had started thrumming against her chest two nights ago, a steady warmth that pulled her eastward like a compass needle. Eva had texted her about the old stories, the hidden groves in Richmond where time bent and the world thinned. "Check it out," her friend had urged. "Might be nothing, but after what happened with Evan... better to know what's out there." Rory hadn't argued. Anything to keep moving, to outrun the shadows that followed her from Cardiff. She parked at the edge of the deer park, killing the engine with a flick of her wrist. The silence rushed in immediately, thick and unbroken except for the faint rustle of leaves in the breeze. Rory stepped out, her trainers sinking slightly into the dew-slick grass. At 5'6", she moved with the quiet efficiency of someone used to late-night deliveries for the Golden Empress—back straight, eyes scanning the treeline. Her straight, shoulder-length black hair caught the moonlight as she slung her backpack over one shoulder, the pendant's silver chain cool against her collarbone despite the night's warmth. She glanced at her left wrist, tracing the small crescent scar with her thumb out of habit, a reminder of simpler falls from bicycles, not the deeper cuts life had since inflicted. The map on her phone led her deeper into the park, away from the paved paths where joggers might linger even at this hour. Ancient oaks loomed like sentinels, their branches twisting into shapes that suggested faces if she stared too long. Rory shook off the thought—too many ghost stories from her mother's Welsh tales—and pressed on. The air grew cooler as she walked, carrying a scent of wildflowers that shouldn't bloom in July's heat, let alone at night. Up ahead, the ground sloped downward, and there they were: the standing stones. Not the jagged monoliths of legend, but oaks grown impossibly straight and tall, their trunks etched with knots that formed runes under the faint glow of her phone's flashlight. The boundary, Eva had called it. The Fae Grove. Rory hesitated at the threshold, her bright blue eyes narrowing. The pendant warmed against her skin, not the faint pulse she'd felt before, but a steady throb, like a heartbeat syncing with her own. She crossed anyway, stepping into the clearing. It unfolded before her like a secret unfurled—a pocket of green velvet amid the park's wild sprawl. Wildflowers carpeted the ground in defiant bursts of color: lavender and foxglove nodding in the breeze, petals luminescent under the stars. No paths here, just soft earth that muffled her steps. In the center, a cluster of moss-covered boulders formed a natural altar, and beyond that, the trees encircled the space like a living wall, their leaves whispering secrets she couldn't quite catch. She'd come to see if the pendant's pull meant something real, something that might explain the nightmares that had chased her from London flat to flat since fleeing Evan. Silas's bar below her apartment was a safe haven, but the dreams—of eyes in the dark, hands that weren't his—lingered. Maybe this place held answers, or at least a distraction. Rory set her backpack down near the boulders and sat cross-legged, pulling out a thermos of tea from Yu-Fei's restaurant. The steam curled up, carrying the sharp tang of jasmine. She sipped, letting the warmth settle her nerves. The grove felt... peaceful, almost. Too peaceful. No crickets chirping, no distant traffic hum from the A307. Just the flowers and the trees. Minutes passed—or were they minutes? Rory checked her phone: 12:47 AM when she arrived, now still 12:47. She frowned, tapping the screen. No signal, but the clock hadn't budged. A glitch, probably. She pocketed it and stood, stretching her legs. The air tasted sweeter here, laced with honey she couldn't place. Walking the perimeter, she traced the standing oaks with her fingers, the bark rough and alive under her touch, as if it breathed in time with her. The pendant's glow began then—a faint crimson light seeping from beneath her shirt, illuminating the scar on her wrist like a tiny moon. She tugged it free, holding the thumbnail-sized gem up. It pulsed softly, syncing with the subtle sway of the branches overhead. That's when the first sound came. Not a crackle or snap, but a sigh. Long and drawn out, like wind through hollow reeds, but there was no wind. Rory froze, her head tilting toward the source—a thicket of brambles at the grove's edge, where shadows pooled deeper than they should. She waited, breath held, but the sigh didn't repeat. Imagination, she told herself, the cool-headed logic that had gotten her through law lectures and Evan's rages. She was alone; the park was empty at this hour. Still, she circled back to the boulders, her trainers whispering over the flowers, crushing petals that released a cloying perfume. Settling again, Rory closed her eyes, trying to attune to whatever the pendant wanted. Her mind drifted to Cardiff, to her father's stern lectures in the study, her mother's soft voice reading tales of the Tylwyth Teg. Fair folk who stole time, lured the unwary. Children's stories. But the warmth in her chest spread, lulling her into a half-doze. When her eyes snapped open, the stars had shifted—not the slow wheel of night, but a sudden lurch, as if the sky had blinked. Her phone: still 12:47. An hour had passed in her reverie; she felt it in the stiffness of her limbs. Impossible. A rustle then, from the trees. Soft, like silk dragged over stone. Rory's pulse quickened, her blue eyes darting to the encircling oaks. Nothing. Just leaves settling. She stood slowly, the pendant now hot against her skin, its glow brighter, casting erratic shadows on the boulders. The flowers seemed taller, their blooms unfurling further, petals brushing her calves as she moved. Another sound—a murmur, low and indistinct, like voices underwater. Not words, but the cadence of conversation, drifting from the brambles. Rory spun toward it, heart hammering. "Hello?" Her voice cracked the silence, too loud, echoing oddly back at her from the trees. No answer. But the murmurs persisted, weaving through the air like smoke. She took a step forward, then another, drawn despite the chill crawling up her spine. The standing stones loomed closer now, their trunks seeming to lean inward, branches intertwining overhead to form a canopy that blocked the stars. Time, she remembered—Eva's warning about time moving differently. What felt like minutes inside could be... She shook her head, focusing on the pendant. It guided her here; it would guide her out. But as she reached the brambles, a flicker at the edge of her vision: a shape, pale and elongated, slipping behind an oak. Not a deer—too fluid, too deliberate. Rory whipped around, her hair swinging across her face. Empty grove. Just flowers and stones. The certainty settled then, heavy as fog: she was not alone. It started as a prickle at the nape of her neck, then bloomed into a full-body awareness, like eyes boring into her from every shadow. The murmurs grew bolder, fragments emerging—her name? Rory? No, softer, like Laila, an alias she'd used once in London to vanish from Evan's reach. How? The air thickened, pressing against her ears, muffling her own breaths. She backed away from the brambles, toward the boulders, but the ground felt uneven now, the flowers coiling slightly underfoot, as if alive. Another flicker: to her left, a hand? No, just a branch swaying. But the pendant burned, its crimson light pulsing in warning, or invitation—she couldn't tell. Rory's mind raced, out-of-the-box solutions flashing: climb a tree for vantage, mark the stones to track her path out. But the grove had no edges anymore; the oaks encircled tighter, their whispers syncing with the murmurs. A laugh, faint and tinkling, like glass chimes in a storm. Not hers. She clutched the pendant, willing it to cool, to point the way home. The scar on her wrist itched, as if reopening. Sweat beaded on her forehead despite the chill, her delivery jacket feeling too thin, too mortal. Then, movement—real this time. At the periphery, where the flowers met the trees, forms shifted. Not solid, but outlines: slender figures, elongated limbs folding and unfolding like paper puppets. They didn't approach, just... watched. Rory's breath came in shallow bursts, her intelligent mind grappling for rationality. Hallucination from the tea? Exhaustion? But the pendant's glow affirmed it, illuminating glimpses: eyes, bright as her own but wrong, too many colors swirling. The murmurs resolved into a chorus, pulling at her—stay, Rory, see what we see. Her mother's stories flooded back: the fae who stole the curious, twisting time until you forgot the outside world. She bolted for the standing stones, the boundary. Petals clung to her jeans, thorns from nowhere snagging her sleeve. The figures flickered closer, their laughter a cascade now, echoing her own stifled gasp. Time warped visibly—the stars wheeled overhead in seconds, the flowers blooming and wilting in pulses. Her phone slipped from her pocket, screen frozen at 12:47, but the date had jumped: tomorrow? Yesterday? Panic clawed at her throat as she reached the oaks, fingers scraping bark that yielded like flesh. A hand—cold, not quite solid—brushed her arm. Rory jerked away, stumbling into the open park beyond. The grove snapped shut behind her, stones straightening as if never bent. She ran, legs burning, the pendant cooling to a dull warmth. The park paths reappeared, lit by distant lamps, the hum of traffic a lifeline. Gasping, she checked her phone: 1:15 AM. Twenty-eight minutes gone, but her body ached like hours. The figures' laughter faded into the wind, but the certainty lingered—she'd been seen, marked. The Fae Grove had tasted her, and now, wherever she went, the whispers would follow.