Run: 2026-02-20-01KHY9CF378N3BP50GKN804XNE

The park gates clanged shut behind her with a finality that didn't sit well. Rory checked her watch—11:17 PM. Stupid to come alone, even for a quick look. Eva had warned her, of course. “Richmond Park at night? Rory, that’s where people go to… disappear.” She’d brushed it off. Needed to see for herself. The pendant, cool against her skin beneath her worn leather jacket, hadn’t pulsed all day, but the anxiety coiled in her gut felt like a premonition. She’d been tracking these fluctuations for weeks, ever since the old woman on Portobello Road had pressed the Heartstone Pendant into her palm with a cryptic warning about “thin places.” This grove, Isolde’s Grove, was supposed to be one of them. A nexus. A tear. The map Silas had sketched on a napkin was surprisingly accurate. Winding paths led between skeletal winter trees, the ground softening underfoot with a thick carpet of damp leaves. The air grew colder as she moved deeper, the city sounds of London fading until only the rustle of the wind remained. She found the standing stones easily enough – three ancient oaks, their branches gnarled and reaching like arthritic fingers, encircling a clearing bathed in an unnatural moonlight. It felt…wrong. Not menacing, exactly, but undeniably *off*. A misplaced note in a familiar melody. The wildflowers Silas mentioned blooming regardless of the season were there, a riot of color in the gloom, but they didn't smell of anything. Usually, even in winter, there was a faint floral scent. This was just…stillness. Sterile beauty. Her boots crunched on the gravel path as she passed between the oaks, stepping into the clearing. The pendant remained stubbornly inert. Disappointing. She’d hoped for a reaction, a sign. A confirmation. Instead, nothing. Rory pulled out her phone, switching on the flashlight. The beam cut through the darkness, revealing a perfect circle of moss, and beyond that, the woods pressing in close. Too close. She swept the light along the tree line, a habit she’d picked up from years spent trying to avoid dark alleys. Nothing. Just trees. But she *felt* watched. She told herself it was the isolation, the late hour, the stories Silas had been telling behind the bar about the Fae and the creatures that slipped through the cracks. He’d always been a teller of tales, Silas. Rory took a deep breath, trying to center herself. Focus. She walked to the center of the clearing, tracing a finger over the smooth, cool surface of the moss. It yielded slightly under her touch, almost like…flesh. She snatched her hand back, a prickle of unease crawling up her spine. A twig snapped to her left. She whipped around, flashlight beam dancing wildly. Nothing. Just the trees, swaying gently in the wind. “Hello?” she called out, her voice sounding thin and reedy in the vast darkness. Silence. She was being ridiculous. It was probably a deer. Or a fox. Or just her imagination. She lowered the flashlight, trying to appear calm, rational. Examined the ground around her. It was neatly cleared, almost…too neatly. No fallen branches, no loose leaves. As if someone – or something – deliberately maintained it. Another sound. This time, a faint rustling, like silk brushing against silk. It came from the woods directly in front of her. Rory aimed the flashlight, her hand trembling slightly. The beam landed on a patch of wildflowers, swaying in a breeze she couldn’t feel. But beyond the flowers, at the very edge of the light, something moved. A fleeting glimpse of white, a shape too tall, too slender to be human. She blinked, and it was gone. “Okay,” she whispered to herself. “That was…something.” She started to walk around the perimeter of the clearing, scanning the trees, trying to get a better sense of her surroundings. The pendant warmed slightly, a faint throb against her skin. Not a strong pulse, but enough. There was something here. Something close. The air grew heavy, thick with a cloying sweetness that made her stomach churn. The wildflowers seemed to swell, their colors becoming unnaturally vibrant. Rory coughed, covering her mouth with her sleeve. Then she heard it. A melody. Faint, ethereal, sung in a language she didn't recognize. It seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere at once, weaving its way into her thoughts, tugging at something deep inside her. She stopped, straining to listen. The song wasn't quite beautiful. It was haunting, melancholic, laced with a subtle undercurrent of sorrow. It felt ancient, older than the trees, older than the stones. The pendant warmed again, this time more noticeably. A steady pulse, like a heartbeat. She looked down at it, the crimson gemstone glowing faintly in the darkness. It was definitely reacting to something. A third sound joined the rustling and the song. A soft, rhythmic tapping, like fingernails drumming on wood. It was coming from behind her, near one of the standing oaks. Rory slowly turned, her heart hammering against her ribs. She swept the flashlight beam across the tree trunk. Nothing. Just the bark, rough and textured under the light. But as she focused on the bark, she noticed something that hadn't been there before. A pattern. Carvings. Intricate, swirling designs that seemed to shift and change as she looked at them. They weren’t etched into the bark. They *were* the bark. The surface of the tree itself was forming the designs, growing and evolving before her eyes. And then she saw the eyes. Two pinpricks of light, glowing a pale, icy blue, embedded within the carvings. They weren't reflecting her flashlight beam. They were emanating their own light. The tapping grew faster, more insistent. The song swelled, louder now, almost deafening. The pendant burned against her skin. Rory took a step back, her breath catching in her throat. She tried to speak, to scream, but no sound came out. The eyes widened, and a voice, cold and clear as glacial ice, echoed in her mind. *“Welcome, Aurora Carter. We have been expecting you.”* Rory finally found her voice, a strangled whisper. “Who…who are you?” The carvings on the tree began to move, twisting and contorting until they formed a face. A face that was both beautiful and terrifying, with skin like polished ivory and eyes that held the weight of centuries. And as the face fully formed, Rory realized with a chilling certainty that she wasn’t in Richmond Park anymore.