Run: 2026-02-20-01KHY9B0E8YSRNKRYHR7975WFH

The air tasted of damp earth and something else, something floral and cloying. Rory pulled her jacket tighter, the collar scratching against the back of her neck. Richmond Park at midnight was hardly a surprise, but the Fae Grove… the Fae Grove felt like stepping into a held breath. She’d been here before, with Eva, daylight chasing away the uneasy feeling, but tonight, swallowed by darkness, the grove pressed in. She’d followed Isolde’s directions, the cryptic scribbles on the back of a napkin from the bar. *‘Past the Isabella Plantation, towards the old oaks. Listen for the water, but don’t follow it.’* Easy enough, during the day. Now, every rustle of leaves sounded like footsteps. The standing stones, those ancient oaks gnarled with centuries, marked the periphery. They weren’t imposing, not in the way a cathedral was, but they felt...aware. Like they’d seen things. Things they weren’t sharing. Rory touched the silver chain around her neck, her fingers instinctively finding the cool, smooth surface of the Heartstone pendant. She hadn’t felt it pulse in weeks. It had been a comfort, a silent guardian after… after Evan. Now, it felt like a cold weight. She’d come looking for answers, of course. Old Man Hemlock, the antique dealer, had been insistent. *‘The pendant… it reacts to breaches. And I’ve felt a coldness in the air, child. Something’s opening.’* A Hel portal. Hemlock's words, thick with the scent of dust and regret, echoed in her mind. A Hel portal meant trouble, the kind of trouble that wasn't solved with a strongly worded letter or a quick phone call to the police. She walked deeper, the wildflowers underfoot strangely vibrant even in the moonlight. They shouldn’t be blooming in November. That was the first thing that felt truly wrong, a discord in the natural order. She should be crunching through frosted leaves, not brushing against velvety petals. A twig snapped to her left. She froze, breath catching in her throat. It was just a deer, she told herself. Richmond Park was full of them. But the sound hadn't been the clumsy crack of an animal moving through undergrowth. It had been… deliberate. A branch cleanly broken. Rory scanned the trees, her eyes straining to pierce the darkness. Nothing. Only the deep, unyielding blackness. She kept walking, forcing herself to focus on her steps, on the scent of damp earth and cloying sweetness. Then came the music. It wasn't loud, not at first. A faint, lilting melody carried on the breeze. Flute and strings, delicate and mournful. A folk tune, perhaps, but one she didn’t recognize. It sounded… distant, ethereal. And wrong. It didn’t belong. She stopped again, listening. The music swelled slightly, then faded, replaced by a new sound. Water. She remembered Isolde's warning. *‘Don’t follow it.’* But the sound wasn’t coming *from* the direction Isolde had warned against. It was behind her, subtly closer now than it had been a moment before. A trickle, a gurgle, like a small stream meandering through the trees. There wasn't a stream on any map of Richmond Park. Rory’s hand tightened around the pendant. It remained stubbornly cold. She opened her mouth to call out, to shatter the silence, but found her voice caught in her throat. The air felt thick, resistant. Movement. A flicker at the edge of her vision, just beyond the circle of moonlight. Something pale, fleeting. A trick of the light, she thought. But she couldn’t shake the feeling that she’d seen a shape, something tall and slender, partially obscured by the trees. The music returned, louder this time. It was no longer mournful. It was… teasing. A playful, unsettling melody that seemed to slither around her ears. And underneath the music, she became aware of a new sound. A soft, rhythmic rustling. Like fabric brushing against leaves. She turned slowly, her gaze sweeping across the trees. Again, nothing. But the feeling of being watched intensified, a prickling sensation on the back of her neck. It wasn’t the casual observation of a deer or a fox. This was… scrutiny. Intense, focused, and utterly alien. A patch of wildflowers directly in front of her stirred, though there was no wind. The blossoms dipped and swayed as if responding to an unseen hand. Then, one by one, they began to close, their petals curling inward, the vibrant color fading to a dull gray. Rory took a step back, her heart hammering against her ribs. The temperature had dropped, a sudden chill that seeped into her bones. She could see her breath misting in the air. The music stopped. Silence descended, heavier and more oppressive than before. The only sound was the frantic beating of her own heart. And the faint, rhythmic rustling. Closer now. Much closer. She risked a glance over her shoulder. Standing between the ancient oaks, partially hidden in the shadows, was a figure. Tall and pale, impossibly slender. It was humanoid in shape, but… elongated. Distorted. Rory couldn't make out any features, only the impression of impossible angles and a shifting, shimmering outline. It wasn’t looking *at* her, not exactly. It was looking… *through* her. As if she wasn’t there. As if she were merely an inconvenience. The rustling stopped. The figure tilted its head, a slow, deliberate movement that made Rory’s stomach clench. And then she felt it. A wave of cold, draining energy that seemed to suck the warmth from her very core. It wasn't a physical sensation, not exactly. It was something deeper, something that resonated with a primal fear buried deep within her. The pendant. Finally, she felt the slightest tremor against her skin. A faint pulse, barely perceptible. It wasn’t a warming glow, not like before. It was a panicked throb, like a tiny, frightened heart. The figure took a step forward, and the shadows around it seemed to deepen, to coalesce. Rory wanted to scream, to run, but she was frozen, paralyzed by a terror she hadn’t known existed. Another step. The Heartstone began to vibrate more strongly, a desperate warning. And Rory, finally, understood. This wasn’t just a breach. This wasn’t just a portal opening. Something was *coming through*. And it had been waiting for her.