Run: 2026-02-20-01KHY9ANGDA53JXFYGDK2SSGTD

Aurora Carter parked her battered scooter at the edge of Richmond Park, the engine's rumble fading into the night's hush. She killed the headlights, and the world sharpened into contrasts of black silhouette against deeper black. The air hung cool and thick, laced with the scent of damp earth and something sweeter, like overripe fruit left too long in the sun. She had come here because of the pendant. It had started pulsing that afternoon during her delivery shift, the deep crimson gem warm against her skin, insistent as a heartbeat not her own. Eva had mentioned whispers in the fae circles—something about a rift in the Grove, a place where the veil thinned enough to slip through. Rory needed answers, not just for the artifact's nagging pull, but for the dreams that now clawed at her sleep: endless woods where faces formed in the bark. She slung her backpack over one shoulder and slipped through the park's iron gates, the chain-link rattling softly behind her. Moonlight filtered through the canopy, casting the deer park in silvered patches. Hoofbeats echoed distant, real animals fleeing into the underbrush. Rory followed the faint path toward the grove's boundary, her boots crunching on gravel that gave way to softer grass. The standing stones loomed ahead, ancient oaks twisted into rough-hewn pillars, their roots clawing at the soil like fingers frozen mid-grasp. She paused at the threshold, the pendant's warmth blooming against her collarbone. This was it—the Fae Grove, Isolde's hidden pocket. Time bent here, or so the stories went. An hour inside could stretch or snap like elastic. She stepped across the boundary, and the world tilted. The air thickened, pressing against her skin as if the night itself exhaled. Wildflowers dotted the clearing, petals unfurling in impossible hues under the moon—violets that glowed faintly blue, roses with thorns like black needles. No wind stirred them, yet their scents coiled around her, heavy and cloying. Rory shook her head, blaming the late hour. She had driven an hour from her flat above Silas's bar, but glancing at her watch, the hands blurred. Five minutes past midnight? Or had it been ten? She pressed on, toward the center where a ring of toadstools encircled a flat stone altar, moss-cloaked and ancient. The first off-note came as a whisper of movement to her left. Leaves rustled, but the branches above hung still, branches like skeletal arms. Rory froze, eyes scanning the treeline. Nothing. Just shadows pooling at the base of oaks, their trunks etched with patterns that might have been faces if she stared too long. She laughed under her breath, a sharp bark to chase the chill. "Get a grip, Rory," she muttered, voice swallowed by the grove's embrace. The pendant thrummed now, a steady rhythm syncing with her pulse. Whatever rift Eva spoke of, it had to be here. She knelt by the altar, fingers brushing the stone's cool surface. Etchings swirled under her touch—runes that pulled at her memory, half-remembered from dusty books in her parents' attic. A snap cracked the silence, like a twig underfoot, but she stood alone. Rory whipped around, heart kicking up. The standing stones encircled her, their bark veined with sap that gleamed wet in the moonlight. Had that vein pulsed? She blinked, and it stilled. Paranoia from the drive, she told herself. London traffic had frayed her nerves, horns blaring like accusations. She pulled the pendant free from her shirt, holding it aloft. The crimson gem caught the light, inner glow flickering like a candle behind stained glass. Warmth spread through her palm, guiding her gaze to a gap between two oaks, where the air shimmered faintly, a heat haze in the cold night. She moved toward it, steps deliberate on the carpet of petals that bruised under her boots, releasing a perfume that stung her eyes. The grove felt smaller now, the trees leaning inward, branches interlacing overhead to form a cage of leaves. Another sound— a low murmur, like voices too distant to parse. Wind through hollows, perhaps, or her imagination stitching shadows into stories. Rory paused, breath clouding before her. The air tasted metallic, like blood on the tongue. She touched the scar on her left wrist, the crescent from that long-ago fall off her bike—grounding herself in the familiar ache. But the pendant's pull urged her forward, past the shimmering gap. There, in the underbrush, something shifted. A flicker at the edge of her vision—a shape, humanoid but elongated, slipping behind a trunk. She turned sharply, blue eyes narrowing. Empty space greeted her, ferns swaying as if brushed by an unseen hand. Her skin prickled, the fine hairs on her arms standing. Not wind. The grove held its breath, the wildflowers closing their petals one by one, as if retiring for a sleep they never woke from. Rory backed away, boots sinking into soil that felt softer, almost yielding like flesh. The murmur returned, closer now, words slurring into nonsense—syllables that tugged at her childhood tongue, Welsh inflections twisted wrong. She spun, facing the altar again. The runes glowed faintly, mirroring the pendant's light. Her backpack slipped from her shoulder, zipper rasping loud in the quiet. Inside, her phone—dead, she realized, battery icon mocking her when she flicked it on. No signal, no time stamp. How long had she been here? The moon hung high, unchanged, but the stars wheeled wrong overhead, constellations she didn't recognize twisting into unfamiliar patterns. A branch creaked above, though no breeze stirred. Rory looked up, and leaves rained down, slow and deliberate, brushing her face like cold fingers. The certainty crept in then, insidious as fog rolling through the clearing. She was not alone. The grove watched her, its presence a weight on her chest, compressing her breaths to shallow gasps. Edges of things moved now—shadows detaching from trees, pooling at her feet like ink. One tendril reached toward her ankle, coiling but never quite touching. She stomped it away, pulse thundering in her ears. The pendant burned hot, a warning or a lure, she couldn't tell. Voices whispered again, layered and overlapping, calling names that weren't hers: Laila, Malphora—aliases from dreams she shoved down. Rory circled the altar, eyes darting to every periphery. A figure stood at the treeline, tall and slender, skin pale as birch bark, eyes hollows reflecting moonlight. She blinked, and it vanished, swallowed by the oak's gnarled embrace. But the imprint lingered, a afterimage burned into her retinas. Her mouth dried, tongue cleaving to the roof. She needed to leave, find the boundary stones, but the path back twisted, landmarks shifting like a labyrinth redrawn. The standing oaks loomed closer, their roots now snaking across the ground, barring her way. A soft laugh echoed, not hers—high and tinkling, like glass chimes in a storm. It came from behind the altar, where the ferns parted on their own. Rory approached, hands trembling as she gripped the pendant like a talisman. The glow intensified, casting ruddy light on the stone's surface. There, etched deeper now, a new rune pulsed in time with the gem. It pulled at her, promising secrets: the rift, the fae beyond, answers to why the artifact chose her. But the laugh returned, circling her, source impossible to pinpoint. She knelt again, tracing the rune with a fingertip. The stone warmed, vibrating under her touch. Visions flickered at the edges of her mind—flashes of silver chains binding wrists, crimson gems weeping blood, groves where time looped eternally. The whispers coalesced: "Stay, Rory. Join us." Her name, spoken with a lilt that twisted her gut. She jerked back, stumbling into the toadstool ring. Mushrooms crushed beneath her, releasing spores that danced in the air, glittering like dust motes alive. The shapes multiplied now, at every treeline, every shadow's fringe. Tall forms with elongated limbs, faces blurred where features should be, moving in silent synchrony. They didn't advance, but their presence pressed, the air growing denser, harder to draw into her lungs. Rory's scar itched, as if the old wound remembered something vital. The pendant's chain dug into her neck, too tight suddenly, or had she pulled it? She clawed at it, gasping, but the warmth anchored her, rooting her to the spot. Another snap, closer, behind her ear. She whirled, confronting empty air. But the ferns rustled, parting to reveal a footprint—not hers, too long and narrow, toes splayed like roots. The ground around it bloomed with flowers, petals unfurling in frantic bursts. The grove breathed with her now, inhale of windless rustles, exhale of murmurs that shaped her fears. Eva's warnings echoed in her skull: the Fae take what they touch, twist it into their own. Rory backed toward the boundary, but the stones had multiplied, oaks sprouting anew in her path, bark whispering secrets she dared not hear. The moon dipped fractionally, or did it? Time unraveled here, threads pulling loose. A hand—pale, elongated—brushed her sleeve, gone when she slapped at it. Gooseflesh rippled across her arms. The certainty solidified: they surrounded her, invisible until the moment of strike, patient hunters in their domain. The pendant's pulse quickened, a drumbeat urging her deeper, toward the shimmering gap where the veil tore. She resisted, feet planted, but the ground softened further, sucking at her boots like mud with a will. Whispers swelled, a chorus now, names and nonsense blending into a lullaby laced with barbs. Rory covered her ears, but the sound burrowed inside, vibrating in her bones. Shadows lengthened, coiling around her legs, not touching but near enough to feel their chill. The wildflowers closed completely, the clearing dimming as if the night deepened just for her. She reached the altar once more, clinging to it as anchor, the stone's runes flaring bright. In their light, she saw them fully for a heartbeat: fae things, half-formed from wood and mist, eyes like the pendant's glow, circling with deliberate slowness. The air hummed with their approach, tension coiling tighter, the grove's heart beating in tandem with hers. Rory's breath came in ragged bursts, the wrongness absolute—they had waited for her, drawn her here with the artifact's false promise. The gap shimmered wider, inviting, but the figures closed in, silent and inexorable.