Run: 2026-02-20-01KHY83F0XHRBE4EYK57CQYWA0

The Grove smelled wrong. Rory stepped through the standing stones, her boots sinking into damp earth that clung to her soles like it didn’t want to let go. The air was thick, heavy with the scent of damp moss and something else—something metallic, like old blood. The pendant at her throat pulsed once, a faint warmth against her skin, before settling into its usual dull throb. She should’ve brought a torch. The trees here were different. Older. Their bark blackened at the edges, their branches twisting into shapes that made her stomach clench. The wildflowers that usually carpeted the Grove’s floor were sparse, their petals curled inward like they were hiding. The moon barely pierced the canopy, casting long, skeletal shadows that stretched and twisted unnaturally. Rory adjusted the strap of her bag, fingers brushing the worn leather. She’d come for answers. The pendant had led her here, after all—hadn’t it? The way it had reacted to the Hel portal in the alley behind Silas’ bar, the way it had *pulled* her toward the Grove when she’d passed it earlier that evening. She couldn’t ignore it anymore. A twig snapped. Rory froze. The sound came from the left, near the edge of the clearing. She turned slowly, scanning the undergrowth. Nothing moved. No rustle of leaves, no shift in the shadows. Just the oppressive stillness. “Hello?” Her voice sounded too loud in the quiet. Silence. She exhaled, forcing her shoulders to relax. Probably just an animal. A fox, maybe. Or one of the park’s stray cats, though they usually kept their distance from the Grove. Still, she should keep moving. The standing stones marked the boundary, and she didn’t want to get lost in this place. Another sound. This time, it wasn’t a snap. It was a whisper. Rory’s breath hitched. The wind hadn’t picked up. The trees weren’t swaying. And yet, the air itself seemed to hum, like a voice just out of reach. She took a step back, her heel catching on a root. The pendant flared against her skin, a sharp prickle of heat. Her pulse jumped. “Who’s there?” Her voice was steadier this time, but her fingers dug into the strap of her bag. The knife inside was small, useless against whatever was watching her. No answer. Just the whisper again, closer now. A breath against her ear. Rory spun, her heart hammering. The trees were still. The shadows didn’t move. But the air—God, the air—felt like it was pressing in on her, thick and suffocating. She backed up another step, then another. The standing stones were just ahead, the way out. She could make it. She *would* make it. A branch creaked. Not from the wind. Not from an animal. From something *else*. Rory didn’t wait. She broke into a run, her boots pounding against the uneven ground. The pendant burned now, a steady, insistent heat against her collarbone. She didn’t dare look back. The whisper followed her. It slithered through the trees, a voice without a mouth, a breath without a body. It coiled around her ankles, tried to trip her. She stumbled, caught herself, kept running. The standing stones loomed ahead, their gnarled roots twisting like fingers reaching for her. She lunged forward, her fingers brushing the rough bark of the first tree— —and the world *shifted*. The Grove blurred. The whispers sharpened into words, a chorus of voices that weren’t voices at all, but something older, something *hungry*. The standing stones groaned, their bark splitting open like mouths. Rory skidded to a halt, her breath ragged. The boundary wasn’t just a line. It was a *teeth*. She didn’t think. She turned and ran back the way she’d come, her pulse roaring in her ears. The trees were closing in, their branches lowering like they were reaching for her. The whispers became laughter, high and sharp, the sound of something that had been waiting for her. The pendant seared against her skin. Rory didn’t stop. She didn’t look back. She ran until her lungs burned, until her legs ached, until the standing stones were just a blur behind her. And then— She crashed through the boundary. Cold air hit her like a slap. The park’s normal night sounds rushed back in—the distant hum of traffic, the occasional owl’s call, the rustle of leaves that weren’t trying to strangle her. Rory collapsed onto her knees, gasping. Her hands trembled as she pressed them to her thighs, her fingers digging into the fabric of her jeans. The pendant was cold now. Dead. She didn’t move. Didn’t breathe. Just listened. The Grove was silent. But she knew. It was still watching.