Run: 2026-02-20-01KHY8KC5AVS1EAZK8TRS7RQQB

Aurora Carter 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 heavy with the scent of damp earth and something sweeter, like overripe fruit left to ferment under a relentless sun. She shouldn't be here, not at this hour, but the pendant around her neck had tugged at her all evening, its faint warmth blooming into a insistent pulse that synced with her heartbeat. It had started as a curiosity—a gift from some anonymous sender slipped under the door of her flat above Silas's bar—but now it felt like a summons. Hel portals, the note had whispered in hurried scrawl. Places where the worlds thinned. And this grove, Isolde's hidden corner, was one of them. Rory needed answers, about the dreams that clawed at her sleep, about the shadows that lingered too long in her periphery since she'd fled Cardiff. Quick thinking had gotten her this far; now it dragged her into the dark. The ancient oaks loomed ahead, their trunks twisted into shapes that suggested faces frozen mid-scream. She paused at the boundary, the standing stones marking the threshold like silent sentinels. They weren't stone at all, she realized as her light played over them—bark-fused monoliths, roots coiling upward in defiance of gravity. The park's distant hum of traffic faded abruptly, swallowed by an unnatural quiet. No crickets, no rustle of leaves in the breeze that had nipped at her heels on the path. Just the crunch of her boots on frost-kissed grass as she stepped across. Inside the grove, the world tilted. Wildflowers carpeted the clearing, petals unfurling in defiant color against the night—crimson poppies nodding like blood drops, luminous blues that glowed faintly under moonlight. It was November, for God's sake; nothing should bloom here. Rory's breath fogged the air, but the cold felt distant, muffled, as if she'd crossed into a greenhouse sealed against winter. She swept the torch around the perimeter, the light bouncing off dew-slick petals that shimmered unnaturally, like eyes reflecting from afar. The pendant warmed against her collarbone, a steady thrum now, not quite painful but insistent, urging her deeper. She'd come for clarity, or so she told herself. The dreams had intensified since London: Evan’s face twisting into something feral, his hands not bruising but dissolving into smoke that seeped into her skin. And the note—delivered with the pendant—had mentioned Hel, not the goddess but the rifts, places where the Fae-touched bled into the mortal coil. Rory wasn't one for fairy tales; her life had been barrister fathers and pre-law lectures, not enchanted woods. But the scar on her left wrist itched tonight, the crescent from that childhood fall suddenly alive with phantom pricks, as if the old wound remembered something she didn't. The clearing spanned maybe fifty feet, a perfect circle hemmed by those oak guardians. At its center stood a low slab of weathered granite, etched with runes that her light couldn't quite decipher—swirls that might have been thorns or veins. Rory approached it cautiously, her pulse matching the pendant's rhythm. The air thickened, pressing against her eardrums like water. She knelt, fingers brushing the stone's edge. Cold. Real. But the flowers around it... they quivered, not from wind, but as if breathing in tandem with her. A sound broke the hush—a soft snap, like a twig underfoot, but from the treeline behind her. Rory froze, torch beam whipping around. Nothing. Just shadows pooling between the oaks, deeper than they should be. Her mind raced: deer, maybe, or a fox scavenging the park. Richmond was wild enough for that. But the snap came again, closer this time, from the left. She stood slowly, heart kicking up a notch, scanning the gloom. The flowers nearest the sound swayed, petals curling inward as if shrinking from an unseen touch. "It's just the park," she muttered to herself, voice swallowed by the stillness. Cool-headed, that's what Eva always said. Think it through. But her thoughts snagged on the unnatural bloom, the way time seemed to stretch—the glance at her watch showed only minutes passed since entry, yet her legs ached as if she'd hiked for hours. The pendant pulsed hotter, a warning or a lure; she couldn't tell. She circled the slab, torch held high. The runes caught the light differently now, almost pulsing in echo of the gem at her throat. Deep crimson, thumbnail-sized, it had seemed innocuous at first, a cheap bauble on silver chain. Now it glowed faintly from beneath her jacket, casting ruddy shadows across her knuckles. Rory touched it, wincing at the heat. That's when the whispers started. Faint at first, like wind through dry grass, but words slithered into them—fragments, not English. Her name? Rory? No, something older, Laila maybe, an alias she'd toyed with in London to shake Evan's ghost. She shook her head, blue eyes narrowing against the dark. Imagination. Stress from deliveries dodging late-night drunks, from the flat's creaking floors that sounded like footsteps. But the whispers layered, overlapping, a chorus from the oaks themselves. Branches creaked, not in breeze, but shifting, as if the trees leaned in to listen. At the edge of vision, movement flickered—a shadow darting between trunks, too tall for an animal, too fluid. Rory spun, torch beam lancing the spot. Empty. Just bark and bramble. Her scar burned now, a line of fire up her arm. She rubbed it absently, breath shallow. Keep moving. Find the portal, whatever that meant. The note had said the pendant would guide her; perhaps this slab was it. She knelt again, tracing the runes with trembling fingers. They felt tacky, like sap, but warmer, alive. Another sound: a low hum, rising from the ground. Not mechanical, but organic, like roots grinding beneath soil. The flowers trembled en masse, petals unfurling to release a pollen that hung in the air, sparkling faintly. Rory coughed, waving it away, but it clung, sweet and cloying, seeping into her lungs. The whispers sharpened—Malphora, a voice hissed, close enough to brush her ear. She whirled, stumbling back. No one. But the certainty settled in her gut like lead: she wasn't alone. The oaks loomed taller now, their crowns blending into a canopy that blotted the stars. Time warped further; her watch hands spun lazily, minutes bleeding into nothing. How long had she been here? The park's distant lights should pierce the gloom, but the grove sealed itself, a pocket unto itself. Rory backed toward the boundary stones, torch shaking in her grip. At the corner of her eye, shapes stirred—elongated forms slinking along the treeline, not quite humanoid, limbs too many, too sinuous. They vanished when she looked full, but the impression lingered, a pressure on her skin like fingers trailing just out of reach. The pendant scalded now, forcing a gasp from her lips. She yanked at the chain, but it held fast, the silver biting into her neck. Heat radiated down her chest, syncing with the hum from the slab. The whispers coalesced: Come closer, Aurora. See what waits. Her full name, spoken with a lilt that echoed her mother's Welsh cadence, but twisted, hungry. She bolted for the stones, boots pounding the flower-strewn earth. Petals crushed beneath her, releasing that pollen in puffs that stung her eyes. The sounds pursued—snaps multiplying into a rustle, like a dozen footfalls shadowing her own. A branch whipped her cheek, unbidden by wind; she tasted blood, metallic and sharp. The oaks seemed to bend, bark splitting to reveal hollows that exhaled cold breath, fogging her vision. At the boundary, she hesitated. The stones pulsed with the same crimson glow as the pendant, their bark-veins throbbing. Beyond them, the park should reappear—the familiar paths, the sodium glow of lamps. But as she crossed, the world didn't snap back. Instead, the underbrush thickened, vines snaking across her path like awakened serpents. The whispers followed, no longer confined: Rory, stay. Laila, join us. She ran, torch beam flailing, illuminating glimpses— a hand? Pale and elongated, retreating into shadow. Eyes, multitude, winking from the flowers' depths. The grove expanded, or perhaps she shrank; distance stretched, her breaths coming in ragged bursts that echoed too loudly, as if amplified by unseen walls. Panic clawed at her cool-headed facade. Think, damn it. The pendant— it had brought her here. She clutched it, willing it to cool, to guide her out. But it burned brighter, the glow illuminating her scar, which wept a thin line of something darker than blood. The movements closed in, peripheral now constant: silhouettes pacing her, matching her stride, their forms flickering like faulty projections. Not aggressive, not yet—just there, a presence multiplying, breathing the same tainted air. Rory slammed into a tree, bark rough under her palms. It vibrated, humming the whispers directly into her bones: Carter, Malphora, come home. Her father's name, her mother's maiden—tied to this? The grove knew her, or something wearing her history like a skin. She pushed off, veering toward what she prayed was the exit. The flowers parted reluctantly, stems whipping at her ankles, slowing her. Sounds layered into a symphony of wrongness: laughter like breaking glass, sighs that mimicked her own exhales. Finally, a gap in the oaks— the park's edge, real this time, traffic murmuring faintly. She tumbled through, collapsing onto the path, torch rolling away to gutter in the dirt. The pendant cooled instantly, glow fading to dormancy. She lay there, chest heaving, staring at the stars wheeling overhead. Minutes? Hours? Her watch read 12:17, same as entry. But the scar throbbed, and in the quiet of her mind, the whispers lingered, a promise of return. Rory staggered to her feet, glancing back. The grove's boundary shimmered, then sealed, innocent oaks in moonlight. But she felt it—the pull, the eyes watching from within. Whatever waited in that pocket between worlds hadn't finished with her. Not by a long shot.