Run: 2026-02-20-01KHY8VRWKE5ZA0Q33V17YDR9Y

The Grove smelled wrong. Rory Carter stepped through the oak standing stones, her boots sinking into damp earth that clung to her soles like it didn’t want to let go. The air was thick, humid, the kind of heat that pressed against skin instead of caressing it. She exhaled slowly, watching her breath hang in the twilight like a ghost refusing to fade. No fireflies. No crickets. No rustle of leaves. Just silence. She’d been here before—briefly, years ago, when Eva dragged her through the Grove for some half-remembered dare. But that had been daylight, laughter cutting through the trees, the world bright and alive. Now, the trees loomed like sentinels, their branches knitting together overhead to block out the stars. The wildflowers that should have been in bloom stood still, their petals unruffled by wind. Rory adjusted the silver chain beneath her shirt, fingers brushing the Heartstone pendant. It was warm against her skin, pulsing faintly, like a heartbeat too slow to be hers. The pendant had led her here—had *pulled* her, really, ever since she’d found it tucked inside the pocket of her old coat, the one she’d left behind in Cardiff. No note. No explanation. Just the weight of it, cold and heavy, whispering promises she didn’t understand. She’d followed the pull, of course. What else was she supposed to do? The standing stones loomed behind her now, their rough surfaces slick with moisture. She turned, half-expecting to see them already crumbling, the boundary between worlds dissolving like mist. But they stood firm, ancient and unyielding. The Grove was real. And she was inside it. “Hello?” Her voice cracked. Too loud. Too sharp. Nothing answered. Rory swallowed, her throat dry. She should have brought the knife. Should have told Eva where she was going. But the Grove wasn’t on any map, and the pendant had been clear: *Come alone.* A twig snapped. She froze. The sound came from the left—no, wait, no, it was behind her. Rory spun, heart hammering, but the trees were still. Too still. The Grove held its breath. “Who’s there?” She didn’t wait for an answer. Didn’t want one. Her fingers tightened around the pendant. The warmth flared, just for a second, like a warning. The air shifted. A whisper of movement at the edge of her vision. Rory’s head snapped toward it, but the undergrowth was empty. Just ferns. Just shadows. Then—footsteps. Not hers. Not the crunch of leaves under her boots. Something lighter. Something that didn’t belong. She backed up, slow, deliberate, until her heels hit the standing stones. The cold stone pressed against her spine, grounding her. For now. “Show yourself,” she said, voice steady. Too steady. She sounded like she was in control. A laugh, soft and wet, like bubbles popping in mud. Rory’s breath hitched. The sound came from the trees. From the flowers. From the *ground* beneath her feet. She didn’t move. Didn’t dare. The laughter stopped. Silence again. Thicker this time. Choking. Then—a voice, barely more than a breath. *“You shouldn’t have come.”* Rory’s blood turned to ice. The voice wasn’t human. It slithered, too many syllables twisting together, like words spoken through teeth that weren’t quite right. She pressed her back harder against the stone. “Who said that?” No answer. Just the pulse of the pendant, faster now, like it was trying to tell her something. Something moved in the darkness. Not a person. Not an animal. Something *wrong.* A shape that wasn’t quite a shape, shifting between the trees like smoke given form. Tall. Too tall. Its limbs didn’t bend right, joints angling in ways that made Rory’s stomach lurch. She didn’t scream. Didn’t run. Instead, she reached for the pendant, her fingers closing around the crimson stone. The warmth exploded against her palm, searing her skin—but she didn’t let go. The thing in the trees tilted its head. Its face—if it had one—was a void, a dark hole where features should have been. But its *mouth* was there, stretched too wide, too many teeth glinting in the dim light. *“You don’t belong here,”* it whispered. Rory’s voice was steel. “Neither do you.” The thing laughed again, the sound vibrating through the Grove, through her bones. The flowers trembled. The standing stones groaned. And then— A *crack.* Not thunder. Not wind. Something deeper. The air itself splitting. Rory’s breath came fast now. The pendant burned. The thing in the trees was coming closer, its movements jerky, unnatural, like a marionette with cut strings. She didn’t look away. “What do you want?” she demanded. The thing stopped. The void of its face tilted toward her, and for a second, she thought she saw something flicker in that darkness. A memory. A name. *“The stone,”* it rasped. *“Give it to me.”* Rory’s grip tightened. “No.” The thing lunged. Not at her. Not yet. At the standing stones. Its fingers—long, too many of them—clawed at the ancient oak, nails scraping against bark. The stones *screamed.* A sound like tearing fabric, like the world itself unraveling. Rory stumbled back, her heels slipping on the damp earth. The pendant’s heat was unbearable now, searing her flesh, but she didn’t drop it. Couldn’t. The thing turned, its body twisting in ways that made her stomach heave. Its mouth opened wider, wider, until it was a black maw, a void that shouldn’t exist. *“You don’t understand,”* it hissed. *“This place is *hungry.*”* Rory’s pulse roared in her ears. She could run. Could bolt for the stones, shove through the boundary before it was too late. But the pendant was still warm, still *alive.* It was calling her deeper, not out. She swallowed hard. “What’s your name?” The thing hesitated. The void of its face flickered again, and for a heartbeat, she thought she saw a girl there. Young. Familiar. *“Isolde,”* it whispered. Rory’s breath caught. The name was wrong. Too old. Too *broken.* But it was a name. A thread. She took a step forward. The pendant flared, blinding her for a second. When her vision cleared, the thing—Isolde—was closer. Its breath reeked of rotting flowers. *“You don’t know what you’re doing,”* it snarled. Rory met its gaze. “Then tell me.” Silence. The Grove held its breath. And then— The standing stones *shattered.*