Run: 2026-02-20-01KHY8845RBWA5HC4T1JX846PM

The last delivery bag thudded into the back of Yu-Fei’s rusted bike rack at 9:42 PM, Rory’s breath fogging the January air as she peeled off her Golden Empress delivery vest. Her left wrist itched, and she rubbed the crescent scar there—old, from falling out of her dad’s oak tree in Cardiff when she was seven, the day he’d missed her school play to prep a barrister’s brief. The itch wasn’t from the cold; it was the pendant. She unzipped her backpack and fished out the crimson Heartstone, its silver chain tangled around a half-eaten pork bun. The thumbnail-sized gem pulsed faintly, warmth seeping through her fingertips—stronger than it had been all week, when it had only stirred during late-night deliveries to empty London terraces. The unknown benefactor’s note, folded in the pendant’s velvet pouch, burned a hole in her memory: If the pulse climbs beyond a hum, find the oak standing stones in Richmond’s hidden grove. Do not stay long. Rory’s cool-headedness kicked in, but she couldn’t ignore the way the pendant’s glow had deepened that evening, as if it was pulling her toward something she couldn’t name. She hopped on her bike, the frost on the pavement crunching under her tires, and rode to the Richmond Park tube stop, her mind wandering to Eva—her childhood friend who’d begged her to flee Evan, the abusive ex she’d left in Cardiff six months prior. Eva was out of town for work, or Rory would have called her; but the pendant’s pulse was a steady drum now, and she couldn’t wait. The walk from the tube to the grove’s boundary felt longer than usual. Richmond Park’s woods were bare in January, frost coating the dead brambles, the only sound the distant hoot of an owl. But when she rounded a bend and spotted the oak standing stones—their bark gnarled, their branches clawing at the moon—her breath caught. Between the stones, a clearing glowed with wildflowers: scarlet poppies, white daisies, clover thick enough to cushion a fall. In January. That was the first wrongness. She stepped through the stones, and the cold vanished. The air was warm, cloying with the sweet scent of jasmine and clover, so thick she could almost taste it. She pulled out her phone to check the time: 10:17 PM. She stuffed it back in her pocket, running a hand over the pendant’s chain around her neck, and knelt to touch a poppy. Its petals were velvety, vibrant, as if it had been watered that morning. No frost, no wilt—just perfect, unseasonable life. The standing stones’ bark wasn’t just gnarled—it was etched with tiny, twisted carvings she’d missed in the dark: shapes that looked like wings, but broken; eyes that seemed to follow her when she glanced away. She ran a finger over one, and the bark was hot to the touch, as if it had been left in the sun for hours. A bee buzzed past her ear—another wrongness, because bees didn’t fly in January—and she swatted at it, her boot crushing a clover patch. A minute later, she checked her phone again. 10:32 PM. She frowned, rubbing her left wrist scar harder—this was the same tight, anxious tingle she’d felt when Evan had hidden her phone so she couldn’t call her mom. She checked again: 10:09 PM. Time moves differently, a voice whispered in her head—though she couldn’t tell if it was her own logic or something the grove was planting there. She stood, scanning the clearing, and realized her bike keys were gone—she’d had them in her pocket when she entered, but now they were missing. She patted her pockets, panicking a little, and took a step back, tripping over a standing stone’s root. She hit the ground hard, the pendant digging into her chest. The warmth flared, and she looked up to see bluebells winding through the poppies, their scent mixing with the jasmine until it was sickening. A child’s laugh cut through the stillness—high, tinkling, but with no source. She logicized it: a fox, maybe, its cry distorted by the grove’s weird acoustics. But then she heard it again, closer this time, fading into a guttural growl before she could pinpoint where it came from. Something moved at the edge of her vision. She turned quickly, her elbow knocking a daisy from its stem. A shadow stretched across the wildflowers, taller than any tree in the grove, its edges blurry as if it was made of smoke. When she blinked, it was gone—only the poppies, their petals now turned toward her, as if they’d been watching the shadow too. She stood, brushing wildflower petals off her jeans, and pulled the pendant from under her shirt. Its crimson gem was glowing brightly now, the pulse so strong she could feel it in her fingertips. She remembered the benefactor’s note, the line she’d skimmed: The Heartstone repels those tied to Hel. Use its glow. She held the pendant up, and the glow intensified, casting a red hue over the wildflowers. The hum grew louder, vibrating in her teeth, and she could feel something watching her now—something that wasn’t a fox, wasn’t a child, wasn’t anything from Earth. She walked toward the center of the grove, the wildflowers seeming to part for her until she stopped, and then close back in behind her, their petals brushing her ankles. A faint crimson glow flickered there—fainter than the pendant, but unmistakably there. The hum grew louder, and she could see a small crack in the ground beneath the glow, no bigger than her thumbnail. She knelt to look at it, and she could hear a faint gurgling sound coming from it—like water, but thicker, darker. The pendant’s pulse spiked, and she pulled her hand back, as if she’d been burned. A shadow stretched across the crack, and she looked up to see the tall shadow again, this time closer, its form shifting into something that looked like a hand with too many fingers. She scrambled back, tripping over a bluebell patch, and the pendant’s glow flared. The shadow’s hand-like form vanished, and she stood, holding the pendant up again. She could hear the child’s laugh once more, but this time it was laced with fear, as if the shadow was hurting it. She tried to call out, but her voice was caught in her throat, the cloying scent of wildflowers making it hard to breathe. The shadow emerged from the center of the grove—taller than she’d thought, its form shifting, no face, no limbs, just a mass of darkness that seemed to absorb the light around it. It hesitated when the pendant’s glow hit it, and Rory took a step forward, her heart racing. Another shadow flickered at the edge of her vision—smaller, quicker, and she turned, her pendant’s glow sweeping over it. The smaller shadow vanished, and she realized the standing stones had shifted again—there was a crack between two of them, a path she hadn’t seen before, leading back to the cold, bare woods of Richmond Park. She backed toward the crack, the tall shadow following her slowly, its hum growing faint again when the pendant’s glow hit it. She stepped through the crack, and the warmth vanished, replaced by the cold January air. She turned to look back, but the standing stones were just gnarled oak, no wildflowers, no glow, no shadow. She pulled out her phone—its screen flickered to life, showing 3:00 AM. She’d been inside the grove for what felt like an hour, but four hours had passed. Her left wrist ached, and she rubbed the crescent scar, looking down at the pendant. It was pulsing faintly again, the warmth gone, but the glow still there—faint, but steady. She got back on her bike, the frost crunching under her tires, and rode toward her flat above Silas’ bar. The ride was quiet, but she couldn’t shake the feeling that the grove hadn’t let her go—not really. She could still smell the cloying scent of wildflowers in her hair, still hear the child’s fear-laced laugh in her ears, still feel the shadow’s cold gaze on her back. When she reached her flat, she leaned against the door, her breath coming in short gasps, and pulled the pendant from under her shirt. Its crimson gem was still glowing faintly, and she knew the Hel portal was still there, hidden in the grove’s center. The unknown benefactor had given her the pendant for a reason, and she knew she’d have to go back—if not for herself, then for the child’s laugh she’d heard, the one that had sounded so much like her own seven-year-old self, crying after falling from her dad’s oak tree. She sat on her couch, rubbing her left wrist scar, and pulled out the benefactor’s note. She’d read it a dozen times, but now she noticed a line she’d missed at the bottom: The portal will open wider at the next full moon. You cannot let them through. The words made her chest tight, and she looked out her window at the moon, which was half-full. She had two weeks. She tucked the note back in the pendant’s pouch, then held the gem to her chest, its faint pulse a steady reminder that the grove’s darkness was waiting.