Run: 2026-02-20-01KHY9673S3D7G8HM6TB02Q6EW

The rain tasted like iron. Rory tilted her head back, letting the cold droplets plaster strands of black hair to her forehead. Richmond Park, usually a riot of green and gold, was submerged in a bruised purple twilight. The ancient oak standing stones, normally silent witnesses to the park’s rhythm, felt…watched. She’d been walking for nearly an hour, the path dissolving into a tangle of mud and ferns the deeper she went, until she’d stumbled upon it: The Fae Grove. It wasn’t a dramatic reveal, no shimmering curtain of light or booming heralds. Just a subtle shift in the air, a prickle on the skin, and the unsettling sense of having stepped through a membrane into somewhere else entirely. The Heartstone Pendant warmed against her chest, a low thrumming vibration against her ribs. It pulsed with a faint, insistent crimson glow, a heartbeat of its own that seemed to synchronize with the thickening dread settling in her stomach. She'd been told to come here, anonymously, by a voice on a burner phone – a voice that hadn’t revealed its own name, only a cryptic instruction: “Where the echoes bloom.” This place felt like an echo, distorted and amplified. She checked the small, worn map she’d printed, a painstakingly reconstructed route based on fragmented entries in a forgotten archive. It didn’t explain *why* she was here, only *where*. The purpose, the reason for this unsettling pilgrimage, remained a frustrating, amorphous weight in her chest. The rain intensified, drumming a frantic tattoo against the leaves, a chaotic percussion that seemed to mock her efforts to remain calm. She pulled her waterproof jacket tighter, the familiar scent of diesel and spilled noodles – a comforting reminder of her life above Silas’ bar – offering little solace. Everything was too still. Too quiet, punctuated only by the relentless rain and the rhythmic thrumming of the pendant. A rustle in the undergrowth. Not the casual shifting of small animals, but something deliberate, circling. Rory froze, her hand instinctively reaching for the small, multi-tool clipped to her belt. She hadn’t intended to come prepared for anything beyond a damp evening, but the unsettling atmosphere had compelled a tightening of her grip, a primal awareness she hadn't realized she possessed. “Hello?” Her voice sounded thin and reedy, swallowed by the rain and the vastness of the grove. Only silence answered. She started walking again, forcing herself to move, to analyze, to *do* something other than succumb to the rising tide of unease. The wildflowers, stubbornly blooming year-round, offered a bizarre, almost lurid beauty. Blood-red poppies, sapphire bluebells, and dazzling white daisies clustered amongst the moss-covered stones, their colors unnaturally vibrant against the gloom. They smelled faintly of something metallic, like old coins and something…else. Something faintly unclean. Another sound. This one closer. A snap of a twig. Rory stopped again, holding her breath. She swept her gaze across the deepening shadows, trying to pierce the gloom. Nothing. Just the rain, the stones, and the disconcerting feeling of being observed. The Heartstone Pendant pulsed stronger, the crimson glow intensifying, casting flickering shadows that danced around her like mocking spirits. It felt hot against her skin, almost painful. She rubbed it absently, attempting to ground herself, to regain some semblance of control. As she moved, she noticed patterns in the moss on the standing stones - not random growth, but deliberate arrangements, intricate spirals and geometric shapes. They felt…familiar, like something dredged from a half-remembered dream. And then she realized. They weren’t just patterns. They were symbols. Crude, almost childlike, but undeniably symbols. A single, spiraling eye. A crescent moon bisected by a jagged line. A hand, outstretched and incomplete. The rain stopped abruptly, leaving a thick, humid silence in its wake. Rory felt a cold dread grip her. The air grew noticeably colder, the scent of metal intensified. The Heartstone pulsed with a frantic, agitated rhythm. She wasn’t alone. She didn’t see anything, not exactly. But she *felt* it – a presence, a weight pressing down on her, a suffocating awareness of something vast and ancient lurking just beyond the reach of her vision. It wasn’t malevolent, not overtly, but profoundly, unsettlingly *other*. A whisper. Barely audible above the dripping rain, like the rustling of silk in a forgotten tomb. It seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere at once. It wasn’t a voice in her ears, but a sensation, a vibration in her bones. “Lost, little dove?” Rory didn’t turn. She couldn’t. Her muscles were locked, her breath caught in her throat. She simply stared into the dense shadows, trying to pinpoint the source of the voice, trying to convince herself it was a trick of the light, a delusion born of fear. The Heartstone pulsed violently, the crimson glow now almost blinding. A faint humming filled the air, rising in intensity, bathing the grove in an unsettling red luminescence. “You came seeking the bloom,” the voice continued, closer now, laced with a chilling amusement. “But some blooms are best left undisturbed.” A movement. This time, she saw it. A flicker of movement at the periphery of her vision. A tall, slender figure, partially obscured by the shadows beneath one of the standing stones. It was humanoid in shape, but impossibly thin, almost skeletal. Its limbs were elongated, its joints bent at unnatural angles. It wore a cloak of woven moss and shadow, and its face was hidden in darkness. Rory instinctively raised her multi-tool, her fingers tightening around the handle. She didn’t know what she was facing, but she knew she had to defend herself. “Who are you?” she managed to croak, her voice barely a whisper. The figure didn’t respond. It simply tilted its head, a slow, deliberate movement that sent a shiver down her spine. And then, it raised a hand. Not a threatening hand, not yet. Just a hand, pale and delicate, with impossibly long fingers. It reached toward her, slowly, deliberately, as if gathering a fallen blossom. As the hand approached, Rory noticed something embedded in its palm – a single, perfect crimson poppy. And within the poppy, nestled deep in its center, was a miniature, perfectly formed Heartstone Pendant. Identical to hers. The voice, now a clear, resonant whisper, echoed through the grove. “We have been waiting for you, Rory Carter. You are exactly as we envisioned.”