Run: 2026-02-20-01KHY8EQRNNQAWB756TPRTDWWM

Rory pushed through the underbrush at the edge of Richmond Park, the beam of her torch slicing erratic paths through the midnight gloom. The air hung thick and heavy, laced with the scent of damp earth and something sweeter—honeysuckle, maybe, though it was far too late in the year for that. She'd parked her battered scooter a good half-mile back, near the main road, after the pendant had started its insistent thrum against her chest. It had begun that morning, a faint warmth during her delivery shift at the Golden Empress, growing hotter as she navigated London's snarling traffic. By evening, it pulsed like a second heartbeat, urging her westward. Eva had mentioned the grove once, in a hushed phone call two nights ago—something about old stories from her Welsh gran, a place where the world thinned and secrets bled through. Rory hadn't planned on coming alone, but Silas had been swamped at the bar below her flat, and the pull was too strong to ignore. The ancient oaks loomed like sentinels as she neared the boundary, their trunks twisted into shapes that suggested faces if she stared too long. The standing stones—more like massive roots sculpted by time or something older—jutted from the soil in a rough circle, their bark etched with patterns that caught the torchlight and seemed to shift when she blinked. She stepped over the threshold, and the world muted. The distant hum of the city vanished, swallowed by the grove's embrace. Wildflowers dotted the clearing in defiance of November's chill, their petals unfurling in shades of violet and gold, glowing faintly under the sliver of moon overhead. It was beautiful, in a way that made her skin prickle. Too perfect. Too still. She switched off the torch to save the battery, letting her eyes adjust. The pendant warmed further, a deep crimson glow seeping through her shirt, casting ruddy shadows on the grass. Whatever this place was, it resonated with... something. Hel portals, Dymas had implied in that cryptic note left with the pendant months ago, but this felt different—wilder, less infernal. Fae-touched, Eva had called it. Rory rubbed the small crescent scar on her left wrist, a childhood remnant that itched in strange places like this. She was here to understand, to see if the artifact could point her toward answers about Evan, or the shadows that still lingered in her dreams since fleeing Cardiff. Quick thinking had gotten her this far; she'd scout, note what she could, and leave before dawn. The first hint of wrongness came as a whisper on the wind—or what passed for wind in this pocket of stillness. It rustled the leaves overhead, but not in the natural sway she expected. The sound was too deliberate, like fingers trailing over silk, starting low and building to a sigh that mimicked her name. Rory. Soft, almost affectionate. She froze, heart kicking against her ribs. The grove was isolated, miles from any trail, and she'd told no one her exact route. Just her imagination, amplified by the dark. She shook it off, stepping deeper into the clearing, boots sinking slightly into the mossy turf. The flowers brushed her ankles, their petals cool and damp, releasing a fragrance that cloyed in her throat. Minutes stretched as she circled the center stone, a gnarled oak stump wider than her arm span. The pendant's pulse quickened, syncing with her breath, and she knelt to examine the ground. No obvious runes, no hidden latch—just earth rich with roots that curled like veins. The air grew cooler, nipping at her exposed neck, though her watch insisted only ten minutes had passed since entry. Odd. She glanced up at the moon; it hung lower now, or was that her eyes playing tricks? Pushing to her feet, she paced the perimeter, noting how the standing stones seemed to lean inward, enclosing her more tightly than before. Then, a flicker at the edge of her vision. To the left, beyond the oaks—a shadow darted, quick as a fox but too upright, too humanoid. Rory whipped her head around, torch flicking on again. The beam swept empty underbrush, illuminating nothing but tangled brambles and those eternal wildflowers. Her pulse thrummed in her ears. "Hello?" The word escaped before she could stop it, swallowed by the grove's hush. No echo, no answer. Just the faint rustle again, circling now, from behind. She spun, the light catching a low branch that swayed gently, though no breeze stirred the air. Paranoia, she told herself. The park was full of deer, rabbits—night creatures. But the certainty gnawed at her: this wasn't the park anymore. The boundary had shifted; the oaks pressed closer, their branches interlacing overhead like a cage. She pressed on, drawn by the pendant's heat, which bordered on uncomfortable now, a coal against her skin. It led her toward the far side of the clearing, where the flora thickened into a wall of blooming vines. Parting them with her free hand, she squeezed through, thorns snagging her jacket but drawing no blood. The path—if it could be called that—narrowed, time bending further. Her watch read quarter past, but the moon dipped perilously low, stars wheeling in unnatural haste. Inside, an hour could be minutes outside, or days. The thought slithered through her mind, unbidden. What if she emerged to find London changed, her deliveries overdue, Silas wondering where she'd vanished to? The whispers returned, clearer this time. Not her name, but fragments—Laila, a alias she'd buried with her old life in Cardiff. The voice was layered, like multiple throats speaking at once, threading through the vines. Rory halted, breath shallow. "Who's there?" No response, but the air thickened, carrying a chill that seeped into her bones. She shone the torch ahead; the beam fractured on dew-kissed petals, but in the periphery, movement again. A shape, tall and slender, resolved for a split second—pale limbs twisting amid the flowers—before vanishing. Her mind raced, piecing together out-of-the-box escapes: backtrack to the stones, mark the path with her knife from the delivery bag. But the vines behind her rustled, closing the gap she'd forced open. Isolation clawed at her. No signal on her phone, of course—this place was a dead zone, a pocket between worlds. She was alone, truly, with only the pendant's glow for company. It flared brighter, illuminating the ground at her feet: footprints, not hers. Delicate, elongated, pressed into the moss as if made by bare feet that lingered too long. They led forward, into the denser thicket. Rory's cool-headedness frayed at the edges; she followed, compelled by the artifact's pull, telling herself it was evidence, a clue to whatever benefactor had gifted it. The whispers grew insistent, weaving tales in a tongue she half-recognized—Welsh lilt mixed with something older, Gaelic perhaps, from her mother's stories. Isolde's grove, Eva had said. A place of bargains and forgettings. Deeper in, the flora warped. Wildflowers climbed the trunks, their blooms pulsing in rhythm with the pendant, casting erratic light that danced like fireflies. Shadows elongated, stretching toward her like seeking fingers. She heard it then—a soft footfall, mirroring her own, just out of sync. Stop. It stopped. Step. Echo. Rory's scar burned, a phantom itch spreading up her arm. The certainty solidified: eyes on her, not from one direction but all, watching from the oaks, the vines, the very flowers. Something ancient and amused lingered here, toying with her intrusion. The air hummed with it, a low vibration that set her teeth on edge. She emerged into a smaller glade, ringed by the standing stones now twisted into arches. The moon overhead was wrong—full and bloated, though she'd entered under a crescent. Time's treachery. The pendant scorched, and she yanked it free, the silver chain biting into her fingers. Its crimson core throbbed, illuminating carvings on the central stone: spirals that moved when she stared, coiling inward like a trap. The whispers coalesced into laughter, light and tinkling, from no source she could pinpoint. Branches creaked overhead, bending without wind, leaves whispering secrets. At the corner of her eye, figures flitted—ethereal, cloaked in petal and shadow, gone when she turned. Panic simmered, but Rory clamped it down. Think. The boundary stones—disrupt them? She approached the nearest, torch revealing bark that split like skin, oozing sap that smelled of honey and decay. As her hand brushed it, the wood yielded, warm and pulsing. A gasp escaped the tree, or seemed to, and the ground trembled faintly. Footsteps now, circling the glade, soft pads on moss. Not alone. Never alone. The shapes multiplied at the edges: tall forms with elongated limbs, faces obscured by flowering crowns, their eyes— if eyes they had—gleaming with starlight malice. She backed away, pendant clutched like a talisman, its heat a warning or a beacon. The laughter swelled, enveloping her, and the vines stirred, reaching. Time outside—minutes? Days? Her flat above the bar, empty. Eva's calls unanswered. The wrongness peaked, a suffocating weight, as the grove closed in, whispering promises of eternal bloom, eternal watch. Rory ran, torch beam bouncing wildly, but the path twisted, stones shifting to bar her way. Alone, yet surrounded, in a night that stretched into forever.