Run: 2026-02-20-01KHY908XTETWZK801WZ4JAFTM

Rory’s delivery bike crunched over frosted Richmond Park bracken, the chain clinking like a nervous tic. Winter’s breath fogged her helmet visor, and she pushed it up with a gloved hand, her left wrist brushing the crescent scar—old, from a childhood fall off her dad’s barrister’s bookcase, when she’d been reaching for a copy of his favorite poetry collection. The scar had throbbed then, too, a sharp pain that had made her dad carry her to the hospital, his barrister’s tie loose around his neck as he rambled about “stupid, beautiful curiosity.” Now, it tingled without cause, a faint prickle she couldn’t shake, a reminder that curiosity had always gotten her into trouble—like the time she’d followed Evan into that abandoned warehouse, like the time she’d fled Cardiff for London at Eva’s behest, like now, when she was chasing a pulse from a mysterious pendant. The Heartstone Pendant pressed against her chest under her Golden Empress delivery jacket, its deep crimson gem a thumbnail of hidden warmth. She’d found it tucked into her flat’s mail slot three weeks prior, no note except a scrawled symbol she’d googled to no avail; the unknown benefactor’s silence had gnawed at her cool-headed resolve until last night, when the pendant’s faint pulse had bloomed into a throb so hot it had woken her from a dream of oak stones and twisted laughter. The dream had been vivid: she’d been standing in a clearing of wildflowers, the oak stones rising around her, and a voice had whispered her name—Rory—through a mouth full of broken teeth. She’d woken screaming, her ex’s face flashing before her eyes: Evan’s cold smile, his hand clamped around her wrist, the way he’d said she’d never escape him. She’d lied to Yu-Fei about a family emergency to duck out mid-shift, her quick thinking weaving a story that had the restaurant owner pressing a steamed bun into her hand before she left. “Be careful, Rory,” Yu-Fei had said, her eyes sharp with worry. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.” Rory had smiled, a tight, fake smile, and promised she’d be back by dawn. Now, as she tied her bike to a gnarled ash tree—its branches bare, a contrast to the something she’d spotted through the trees—her phone buzzed. 1:17 AM, it read. She’d left the flat at 12:45; the ride should have taken 20 minutes, but she’d been pedaling for what felt like an hour. A flicker of unease pricked her, but she dismounted, tucking the bun into her pocket and unclasping her helmet. The oak standing stones rose ahead, their trunks hewn into rough pillars that marked the clearing’s boundary. Codex said they were ancient, and now she felt it—their bark was cold as tombstone marble, carved with lines she couldn’t parse in the moonlight, lines that seemed to shift when she blinked, lines that looked like the symbol on the pendant’s packaging. Between them, wildflowers bloomed: poppies, clover, forget-me-nots, their petals glowing like stolen summer in the winter dark. The smell hit her next—jasmine and honey, thick enough to taste, a scent that had no business in January, a scent that reminded her of Eva’s garden in Cardiff, the garden where they’d hidden from Evan after he’d yelled at her for forgetting their anniversary. She stepped through the stones, and the world shifted. The park’s distant traffic vanished. The wind died, leaving a silence so thick she could hear her own heartbeat. She checked her phone again: 1:19 AM. Two minutes had passed since she’d tied her bike, but it felt like a lifetime. This was the Fae Grove, she realized—she’d heard Eva mutter about it once, a hidden pocket between worlds, a place where time didn’t follow the rules, but she’d written it off as urban legend. Now, as she stepped deeper into the clearing, the wildflowers crunched under her boots like broken glass, a wrong sound for something so delicate. A laugh cut through the silence. High, tinkling, like a child’s, but twisted—too sharp, too long, as if it was being stretched through a crack in the earth. Rory spun, her hand flying to her wrist scar, but there was nothing there except wildflowers and oak trunks. She scanned the edge of the clearing, her bright blue eyes straining against the dark, and caught a flicker of movement: something small, darting between two stones, its form too thin to be a rabbit, too fast to be a bird, its fur the color of burnt ash. When she blinked, it was gone. The pendant’s warmth flared, and she pulled it from under her jacket, its silver chain cold against her fingers. The crimson gem glowed faintly, an inner light that pulsed in time with her heartbeat now, warmer than before. She didn’t know about Hel portals—didn’t know the artifact’s purpose beyond the benefactor’s vague implication that it would keep her safe—but now it felt like a warning. She turned to leave, but the oak stones had shifted. The gap she’d stepped through was gone, replaced by a wall of hewn trunk that looked identical to the others. Panic nipped at her, but she forced it down—cool-headed, intelligent, she reminded herself, and she began to circle the clearing, running her hand along each stone to find a crack, a mark, anything that would lead her out. As she circled, time slipped again. She counted ten stones, then eleven, then ten again. A petal fell from a poppy, spinning toward the ground, but instead of landing, it melted into the dirt, leaving a dark stain that smelled like burnt metal. She stopped, staring at the stain, and her scar tingled again, this time so strongly she had to rub it with her glove. A whisper brushed her ear—“Rory”—and she jumped, spinning around. No one was there, but the voice had been guttural, like it was being dragged through stone, not the soft lilt of Eva or the gruff concern of Silas, the bar owner whose flat she lived above. It sounded like Evan, but wrong—like Evan’s voice had been dipped in tar and left to rot. She pulled the steamed bun from her pocket, its warmth long gone, and took a bite to steady her nerves. The dough was dry, but it gave her something to focus on as she continued to circle. The wildflowers’ scent had turned cloying, almost choking, and she could feel sweat beading on her forehead despite the winter cold. The pendant’s glow brightened, and she noticed a faint hum coming from it, a sound that matched the thrumming in her bones. She pressed it harder against her chest, as if it could shield her from the something that was watching her, the something that had made the stones shift. Then she saw it: a shadow at the edge of the clearing, too tall to be human, its form shifting like smoke. It had no face, just a blank stretch of darkness where its head should be, and its hands were gnarled branches, tipped with thorns that glinted in the moonlight. Rory froze, her breath catching in her throat, as the shadow took a step forward. The pendant’s pulse burned her chest, and she realized with a jolt that the warmth was a warning—this thing was tied to whatever the Hel portal was, whatever the benefactor had sent her to stop. She thought of Evan, of the way he’d told her she was his, of the way he’d broken her favorite mug when she’d tried to leave, and a surge of anger cut through her fear. Her quick thinking kicked in. She ducked behind the nearest oak stone, pressing her back against its cold surface, and clamped a hand over her mouth to muffle her breathing. The shadow stopped, its head turning as if it could smell her, and Rory’s scar tingled so strongly she thought it might split open. She could hear it now, a low rumble that vibrated through the ground, a sound that felt like it was eating away at the clearing’s silence. She closed her eyes, focusing on the pendant’s pulse, on the memory of her dad’s poetry, on anything that wasn’t the shadow’s rumble. A minute passed, or an hour—she couldn’t tell. The shadow took another step, then another, and Rory could see its thorns brushing a wildflower. The flower wilted instantly, its petals turning to ash. Then, the pendant’s pulse weakened, and the shadow paused, its head turning toward the center of the clearing. A low whine escaped it, a sound that made Rory’s teeth ache, and it retreated, darting between the stones and vanishing into the dark. Rory waited, her body still tense, until she was sure it was gone. Then she stepped from behind the stone, her legs wobbly, and checked her phone. The screen was black, dead. She couldn’t remember how long she’d been there—minutes, hours, days? The wildflowers still bloomed, their scent now faded to a faint memory, and the oak stones still shifted when she blinked. The pendant’s pulse was faint again, but it was still there, a warm thumbnail against her chest. She sat on the ground, her back against the stone, and stared at the dark center of the clearing. She’d come here for answers, but all she’d found was a pocket of world that didn’t follow the rules, a shadow that wanted her gone, and a pendant that held more questions than answers. Her cool-headed resolve was fraying, but she knew she couldn’t stay here forever. She reached into her pocket, pulling out the remains of the steamed bun, and took another dry bite. Then she stood, brushing dirt from her jeans, and began to circle the stones again, her eyes scanning for a crack, a mark, anything that would lead her out—all the while knowing that the shadow was still out there, waiting, and that the pendant’s next pulse would be a warning she might not be able to outrun. She touched her wrist scar, the crescent mark a reminder of her childhood curiosity, and vowed that this time, she’d outthink the thing that was hunting her. The oak stones shifted once more, and a single wildflower pushed through the dirt at her feet—its petals black, not the bright hues of the others. It pulsed in time with the pendant, a dark mirror of the warmth against her chest. Rory froze, her breath catching. She’d thought the shadow was the worst of it, but now she saw it: the clearing itself was alive, feeding on the time it stole, on the fear it stoked. She didn’t know what the Hel portal was, or why the benefactor had sent her here, but she knew one thing: if she didn’t find a way out soon, the grove would swallow her whole, turning her curiosity into a memory that would fade like the scent of summer wildflowers in winter.