Run: 2026-02-20-01KHY85ZRA98ZW11P55QYSSP3D

The wrought iron gates of Richmond Park loomed, skeletal against the bruised twilight sky. Rory gripped the Heartstone Pendant beneath her jacket, its warmth a fragile comfort against the rising chill. She adjusted the strap of her delivery bag, the Golden Empress logo a stark reminder of her daytime life, a life that felt impossibly distant now. She pushed the gates open—a groan of rusted hinges—and stepped onto the gravel path. The park was deserted. Good. That’s what she wanted. Silas had grumbled about her going out so late, about needing to be sensible, but Rory hadn't the patience for his concern tonight. The air thickened immediately, a heavy, floral sweetness that clung to the back of her throat. Not the familiar scent of Richmond Park. Something…else. Something ripe and unsettling. She consulted the vague instructions scribbled on a scrap of paper—*Follow the old deer trail, past the Isabella Plantation, until you feel the shift*. She’d dismissed it as the ravings of a desperate old woman, but Eva insisted. Eva had always been drawn to the unusual, the forgotten. The path wound deeper, swallowed by ancient trees whose branches clawed at the fading light. Every rustle of leaves, every snap of a twig underfoot, felt amplified, deliberate. She told herself it was just the wind. Just the park settling in for the night. She passed the Isabella Plantation, its manicured beauty seeming grotesque under the oppressive sky – its usual riot of color muted, shadowed. Something about its stillness felt wrong, too perfect. The deer trail became less a path and more a suggestion, overgrown with thorny bushes and gnarled roots. Rory pushed through, ignoring the snag of branches against her skin, her gaze fixed on the deepening gloom ahead. The Heartstone pulsed against her chest, a subtle thrumming that grew stronger with each step. She resisted the urge to glance back. A sound. High pitched. Like wind chimes, maybe. But…wrong. Metal on metal, stretched thin, vibrating with an unnatural resonance. She stopped, every muscle coiled. Silence. Only the frantic hammering of her own blood in her ears. Then, again. Closer this time. “Hello?” she called out, her voice a breathless croak. The sound died immediately, absorbed by the suffocating quiet. She pressed on, the Heartstone now radiating a noticeable warmth. The trees grew denser, their trunks impossibly thick, their branches intertwined like grasping fingers. The sweet floral smell intensified, laced with a musky undertone she couldn’t quite place. Like wet earth and something…briny. She found them then. The standing stones. Ancient oaks, arranged in a ragged circle, their bark twisted and scarred with age. They weren’t marked on any map she’d ever seen. Their size defied sense – each one easily thirty feet tall, their crowns lost in the encroaching darkness. The Heartstone was singing now, a sustained, vibrant pulse against her skin. She was close. A movement at the periphery of her vision. A flicker. She spun around, heart leaping into her throat. Nothing. Just shadows playing tricks in the dim light. “Rory?” Her breath hitched. The voice. Childlike, whispery. Directly behind her. She didn’t turn. Didn’t dare. "Who's there?" Her voice trembled despite her best efforts. The voice giggled. It was a thin, brittle sound, like ice cracking. "Lost, little bird?" The hairs on her arms prickled. The Heartstone pulsed fiercely, almost burning against her skin. She could feel it, now—the shift. The air itself shimmered, distorting the shapes of the trees, bending the light into impossible angles. “I’m not lost,” she managed, her voice stronger this time, laced with a defiant edge. “I’m looking for something.” “Are you?” The voice was closer now, right beside her. She could feel a faint breath on her neck. Cold. She forced herself to turn. Slowly. There was nothing there. But the stones... they seemed different. The bark writhed with patterns, shifting and reforming like living things. The shadows around them deepened, coalescing into shapes that weren’t quite shapes, but felt…aware. Watching. Another sound. This time, not wind chimes. A shuffling. A dragging sound. Coming from within the circle of stones. She took a step back, her hand instinctively reaching for the Heartstone. The shuffling stopped. Then, a voice. Deep and resonant, unlike the childlike whisper. “She seeks the Weaver.” Rory scanned the darkness. Couldn’t see anything. “Who—who said that?” “We all did,” the voice replied, echoing from everywhere and nowhere. “The Grove remembers. The Grove *knows*.” Something brushed against her leg. She recoiled, stumbling backwards. It was soft. Like moss. But too… deliberate. She fumbled for her phone, her fingers clumsy with fear. No signal. Of course not. The floral scent intensified, almost overpowering now. She felt dizzy, nauseous. The ground beneath her feet seemed to warp, tilting at an unnatural angle. She heard a new sound, then. A rhythmic clicking. Like insects, but larger. Much larger. She turned, her gaze darting from shadow to shadow. And saw them. Not insects. Not exactly. They were…figures. Tall and gaunt, coalesced from the shadows. Their limbs were long and slender, their bodies draped in what looked like woven vines and leaves. They had no discernible faces, only smooth, featureless planes where eyes and mouths should be. And they were clicking. A complex, rhythmic clicking that seemed to vibrate within her bones. “The Weaver is patient,” one of the figures said, its voice a dry rustling of leaves. "But she grows weary of waiting.” Rory backed away, her breath catching in her throat. She stared at the figures, paralyzed by a cold, primal fear. The Heartstone pulsed frantically, a beacon of warmth in the encroaching darkness. “What do you want?” she whispered, her voice barely audible. The figures didn’t answer. They simply began to move, gliding silently through the shadows, their clicking growing louder, more insistent. They were circling her. Closing in. She closed her eyes, clutching the Heartstone tight, and waited.