Run: 2026-02-20-01KHY883VWTWYA090Y6X80E4EG

The air in Richmond Park was thick with the damp weight of an autumn that refused to let go. Rory Carter pulled her jacket tighter around herself, the collar turned up against the chill that seeped into her bones. She shouldn’t have come here tonight. Not alone. Not after what she’d seen in the bar earlier—Silas’ face pale as he’d slid the map across the counter, his fingers trembling just enough to make the parchment ripple. *"You’re sure you want to do this?"* he’d asked, voice low, like the words themselves might draw something unwanted. She’d nodded, of course. She always nodded when the alternative was sitting in her flat above the bar, staring at the Heartstone pendant tucked beneath her pillow, its faint glow pulsing like a second heartbeat. The standing stones loomed ahead, their gnarled oaks twisting upward like skeletal fingers against the bruised twilight sky. The Grove. Isolde’s Grove. Rory had read enough to know the legends—hidden doorways, time that bent like wet paper, the occasional fool who wandered in and never came out. But she wasn’t a fool. She was here for a reason. The pendant had been warm all day, its crimson core throbbing against her skin like a warning. Or a promise. She stepped between the stones. The world didn’t rip apart. There was no flash of light, no disorienting lurch—just a soft *shift*, like the air itself had exhaled. One moment she was in the park, the next she was standing in a clearing bathed in an eerie, golden light. Wildflowers bloomed in riotous colors, their petals too perfect, too *luminous*, as if backlit by something just beyond sight. The air smelled of honey and damp earth, thick with the scent of something sweet and rotting beneath it. Rory’s breath fogged in front of her, but the temperature hadn’t dropped. If anything, it was warmer here. Too warm. She turned slowly, her boots crunching on petals that shouldn’t have been so brittle underfoot. The Grove stretched wider than she’d expected—no path, no sign of the park’s usual trails. Just open space, swallowed by the encroaching dark of the trees. The sky above was the same bruised purple as outside, but the stars here were wrong. Too many. Too *close*. She could almost reach out and pluck them. A twig snapped. Rory froze. The sound hadn’t come from the trees. It had come from *behind* her. She turned, heart hammering, but there was nothing there. Just the flowers, the trees, the unnatural stillness. Her fingers twitched toward the pendant beneath her shirt, the one thing she hadn’t been able to leave behind. The warmth of it seeped through the fabric, steady and unnerving. A compass. A warning. She wasn’t sure which. Another sound. This time, it was a whisper—so faint she almost missed it. A voice, or the ghost of one, brushing against the edge of her hearing like a finger dragged across a windowpane. *"You’re not supposed to be here."* Rory’s breath hitched. The words weren’t in English. Or if they were, they’d been twisted into something else entirely, the syllables stretching and snapping like dry kindling. She spun, scanning the trees, but the Grove remained empty. Too empty. Then she saw it. A figure. Not a person. Not exactly. Tall, too tall, its limbs elongated like a marionette’s, its movements jerky and unnatural. It stood at the edge of the clearing, half-hidden by the trunk of an oak, its skin the color of bark, its eyes—if they were eyes—glowing faintly, like embers in a dying fire. It didn’t move toward her. It didn’t need to. The way it *looked* at her made her skin crawl, made the hairs on the back of her neck stand on end. Rory’s pulse roared in her ears. She should run. She should *run*. But her feet were rooted to the spot, her body locked in place by something older than fear. The thing tilted its head. A sound escaped it—something between a sigh and a laugh, wet and guttural. *"Lost, little thief."* Rory’s breath came in short, sharp gasps. *Thief?* She hadn’t stolen anything. Had she? Then she remembered the pendant. The way it had pulsed when she’d first touched it, the way it had *called* to her. The unknown benefactor who’d pressed it into her palm in the alley behind the bar, their gloved fingers cold, their voice a rasp. *"For when you’re ready."* She hadn’t been ready then. She wasn’t ready now. The figure took a step forward. The ground beneath Rory’s boots *shifted*, the petals beneath her feet wilting into dust as if something unseen was breathing on them. The air grew heavier, pressing down on her like a physical weight. *"You took what wasn’t yours,"* the thing said, its voice dripping with something like amusement. *"And now it wants you back."* Rory’s fingers closed around the pendant, yanking it free from her shirt. The moment it broke the fabric, the glow inside it flared, bright and sudden, casting jagged shadows across the Grove. The thing hissed, recoiling as if burned, its ember-eyes narrowing. *"No,"* Rory whispered. She didn’t know what she was doing. She didn’t know if she could fight whatever this was. But she knew one thing: she wasn’t leaving without answers. She turned and ran. The Grove twisted around her. Paths that hadn’t been there before snaked between the trees, the standing stones now distant and shifting, as if the land itself was laughing at her. The air hummed with a low, droning sound, like a swarm of insects trapped beneath glass. She didn’t dare look back. A branch lashed out, whipping past her cheek. She ducked, stumbling, and when she looked up, the trees had closed in. The clearing was gone. In its place was a narrow corridor of trunks, their bark blackened and peeling, their branches knotted like arthritic fingers. The pendant burned against her palm, its heat searing through her skin. *"You can’t hide,"* the voice slithered from the dark. *"The Grove always takes what it’s owed."* Rory’s breath came in ragged bursts. She could feel it now—the thing wasn’t just behind her. It was *everywhere*, pressing in from all sides, its presence a living weight. She skidded around a bend, her boot catching on something soft. She looked down. A hand. Pale. Too pale. The fingers were curled, the nails blackened, as if the skin had been left too long in the dark. Rory’s stomach lurched. She didn’t want to know whose hand it was. She didn’t want to know what had happened here. A sound ahead—a rustle, a shift in the undergrowth. Rory’s blood turned to ice. She backed up, her heel catching on something else. This time, she didn’t look down. She ran. The trees thinned. Ahead, she could see the standing stones again, their outlines sharp against the twilight. She was almost there. Almost out. Then the ground gave way. Rory screamed as her ankle twisted, her body pitching forward into the dark. She hit something soft—moss, maybe, or rotting leaves—and rolled, scrambling to her feet just as the thing lunged. It moved faster than she thought possible, its limbs a blur of motion. Rory barely had time to raise her arms before it crashed into her, sending her sprawling. The pendant flew from her grip, skittering across the damp earth. The thing loomed over her, its breath hot and foul, its voice a chorus of whispers. *"Give it back."* Rory’s fingers scrabbled in the dirt. The pendant was just out of reach, its glow flickering weakly. She couldn’t lose it. She *wouldn’t*. She rolled, twisting away from the thing’s grasp, and lunged for the pendant. Her fingers closed around it just as the Grove *shuddered*. A gust of wind howled through the trees, so strong it nearly knocked her off her feet. The standing stones groaned, their roots tearing free of the earth. The thing shrieked, its form unraveling like smoke in the wind. Rory didn’t wait to see more. She ran. The moment she stepped through the stones, the world snapped back into place. The park was quiet. Too quiet. The air was cold, the stars distant and indifferent. Rory collapsed to her knees, her hands trembling as she clutched the pendant to her chest. It was still warm, still pulsing, but the glow had dimmed to a faint, steady light. She didn’t know how long she stayed there, gasping like a landed fish, her body wracked with adrenaline. When she finally looked up, the park was empty. No figures lurking in the shadows. No whispers on the wind. Just her. And the knowledge that she would never forget the way the Grove had felt. The way it had *hungered*. Rory stood slowly, her legs unsteady. She needed to get back to the flat. She needed to tell Silas what had happened. She needed— A sound. Not from the trees this time. From *behind* her. Rory turned. A woman stood there. Tall, her dark hair streaked with silver, her eyes the same bright blue as Rory’s own. She wore a long coat that seemed to drink in the light, her gloved fingers resting on the hilt of a knife at her belt. *"You shouldn’t have come back,"* the woman said, her voice smooth, almost amused. *"But I suppose I should have known you’d be stubborn."* Rory’s breath caught. *"Who—?"* The woman smiled. *"Isolde. Though I doubt you’ll remember that name by morning."* Rory’s blood turned to ice. Because the woman was already moving, and the last thing Rory saw before the world went dark was the flash of the knife—and the way the Heartstone pendant went cold against her skin.