Run: 2026-02-20-01KHY97NN5503K7R8X9C2SENGJ

The gate of Richmond Park loomed, a wrought-iron arch choked with ivy. Rory adjusted the strap of her delivery bag, the weight of the Golden Empress’s duck and plum noodles a dull ache against her side. She’d told Eva she was working late, but Eva knew her better than to believe that. She knew Rory wouldn't deliver to Shepherd's Bush at eleven o'clock at night. Eva knew she was hunting something. She pulled the gate open, the hinges protesting with a rusty groan that echoed in the stillness. The park was deserted, the paved paths dark and empty under a sky bruised with twilight. Her breath puffed out in white clouds, briefly illuminating the crescent-shaped scar on her left wrist. It throbbed faintly, a familiar discomfort she barely noticed anymore. The Fae Grove wasn’t marked on any maps. She’d found it by accident, a few months ago, chasing a lead that ended up being a dead end. But something about the place had snagged her, held her. Its existence felt…wrong, somehow, a ripple in the fabric of reality. It was a feeling she’d learned to trust. She consulted the small, silver chain around her neck, the Heartstone Pendant warm against her skin. It was smooth, cool silver, the crimson gemstone deep and unsettling. It had appeared in her flat, a week after she’d escaped Evan, left with a cryptic note: *“They will find you. This will guide you.”* She hadn't asked who “they” were, or who had sent the pendant. She hadn’t wanted to know. She'd just begun to listen to it, to follow its faint pulse toward places that hummed with an uncanny energy. The standing stones were harder to find in the dark. She’d memorized their arrangement from previous visits - four ancient oaks, their branches gnarled and twisted like grasping fingers, forming a rough square. As she stepped between them, the air shifted. The familiar scent of damp earth and pine needles intensified, overlaid with something else—something cloyingly sweet, like rotting fruit. The Grove itself was smaller than she remembered, the wildflowers that bloomed year-round impossibly vibrant even in the growing darkness. It was a riot of color – crimson, violet, gold – under the silver wash of the moon. An hour outside, she'd estimated, could be minutes, or days, inside. She didn't intend to stay long. Just a quick scan, a confirmation. She activated the Heartstone, focusing on its warmth. It pulsed steadily, a slow, rhythmic throb. Until now. Now, it flared, a sudden surge of heat that made her gasp. The crimson stone glowed brighter, casting dancing shadows amongst the wildflowers. It was definitely a stronger reading than she’d ever gotten before. Rory scanned the clearing. Everything *looked* the same. The trees, the stones, the riotous flowers. But the silence felt different. Thicker. Oppressive. She’d noticed it before – a subtle dissonance, a quiet that absorbed all sound instead of containing it – but tonight, it was amplified. She took a step, and a twig snapped under her boot. The sound seemed to echo endlessly, bouncing off the trees, magnifying until it felt like an explosion. She froze, listening. Nothing. Just the quiet. The heavy, swallowing quiet. She started to walk again, her hand instinctively tightening around the delivery bag. Unease coiled in her stomach. It wasn’t a rational fear, not like the terror she’d felt when Evan had cornered her in their cramped flat. This was something deeper, something primal. The feeling of being watched. A flicker of movement. At the edge of her vision, between the trees. She whirled around, heart hammering against her ribs. Nothing. “Hello?” she asked, her voice sounding small and fragile in the stillness. “Is anyone there?” Only silence answered. She told herself it was the shadows, playing tricks on her eyes. The Grove was known to affect perception. Time wasn't linear here; perhaps neither was space. But then she heard it. A rustling in the undergrowth, too deliberate to be the wind. A soft, scraping sound, like something dragging itself across the ground. Rory held her breath, straining to hear over the frantic beat of her own heart. The Heartstone pulsed again, more rapidly now, a frantic warning. She moved toward the sound, her footsteps cautious and silent. The scent of rotting fruit was stronger here, cloying and suffocating. She passed a patch of phosphorescent mushrooms, their caps glowing with an eerie luminescence. And then she saw it. A single, perfect white flower lay on the forest floor, near the base of one of the oaks. It hadn’t been there before. It was strikingly out of place amongst the vibrant colors of the Grove. And it was… wrong. The petals seemed too smooth, too flawless, the scent emanating from it not the sweet fragrance of a flower, but something metallic, faintly acrid. As she bent to examine it, a sound made her jump back. A sigh. Long and drawn out, like the rustling of dry leaves. Rory spun around, searching the shadows. “Who’s there?” she demanded, her voice sharper this time. The only response was another sigh, closer now. And then, a glimpse. A flash of white, disappearing behind a thicket of brambles. She took a hesitant step forward, then another. The Heartstone burned against her skin, radiating a painful heat. She pushed her way through the brambles, ignoring the stinging scratches on her arms. The clearing beyond was different. Darker. The wildflowers were gone, replaced by a tangled mess of thorny vines and decaying leaves. The air was thick with the scent of decay. And there, in the center of the clearing, was a figure. She couldn’t make out any details, only a vague outline shrouded in shadow. It was tall and slender, almost impossibly so. It didn’t move, didn’t speak. It simply stood there, radiating an aura of profound stillness. Rory’s mind screamed at her to run. To turn and flee back through the standing stones, back into the relative safety of Richmond Park. But something held her rooted to the spot. A morbid curiosity. A sense of inevitability. The figure slowly began to turn, its movements languid and deliberate. As it turned, she could see more of it. Just enough to understand the source of the metallic scent. It was human-shaped, roughly. But its skin was the color of bone, stretched taut over a skeletal frame. Its limbs were too long, too thin. And its eyes… its eyes were empty sockets, black and bottomless, reflecting the moonlight like pools of ink. It raised a hand, impossibly long and slender, and beckoned. The Heartstone on her chest flared with blinding intensity, and Rory knew, with a certainty that chilled her to the bone, that she wasn't just hunting something in the Fae Grove. Something had been hunting her.