Run: 2026-02-20-01KHY9DJDKEXR6W9BKCJ910QTA

The wrought iron gate groaned as Rory pushed it open, the sound strangely loud in the stillness of Richmond Park. It was late, almost midnight, and the park was deserted save for the rustling of leaves and the distant hum of city traffic. Familiar, yet tonight, alien. She’d chosen this spot deliberately, knowing the rumors, dismissing them as folklore. But the air here already felt heavier, colder than it should. She adjusted the strap of her delivery bag, the weight of the Golden Empress order a mundane anchor in the unsettling atmosphere. Yu-Fei would be furious if she was late, but the urgency of her task – the reason she’d sought out the Fae Grove – trumped a scolding. The standing stones were easy to find, gigantic oaks gnarled with age, their branches intertwined like skeletal fingers. They marked the boundary, the locals said, between the world and… something else. Rory hadn’t paid much attention to the stories growing up in Cardiff, attributing them to overactive imaginations. Now, staring at the ancient wood, she felt a prickle of unease crawl across her skin. She’d come for the Heartstone. The pendant, a deep crimson gem nestled in a simple silver chain, pulsed warm against her chest. She clutched it, the familiar heat a small comfort. It had been left for her, anonymously, with a cryptic note: *“Where the veil thins, the stone will guide.”* She'd initially dismissed it, thinking it some elaborate prank, but her friend Eva had insisted, her usually jovial face unusually serious. "Something's happening, Rory. Something old." Rory stepped beyond the stones. The park vanished. The manicured lawns and formal flowerbeds dissolved into a riot of wildflowers, impossibly vibrant, blooming under the moonlight. The scent was overwhelmingly sweet, bordering on cloying. The trees here were different too, taller, older, their bark a strange, silver-grey. This was the Fae Grove, a pocket of ancient wilderness tucked away within the sprawling London park. It was beautiful, undeniably so, a landscape pulled straight from a fairytale. And utterly wrong. Rory's breath caught in her throat. The air tasted thick, almost syrupy, clinging to the back of her throat. The silence wasn't the peaceful quiet of a deserted park; it was an expectant hush, a stillness so profound it made her ears ring. She scanned the clearing, the delivery bag feeling suddenly cumbersome. The moonlight filtered through the canopy, dappling the ground in shifting patterns. The Heartstone pulsed faster, a subtle throb against her ribs. It always did when she was close to… something. A twig snapped. She froze, every muscle tense. It could have been an animal, a squirrel or a rabbit. But the sound had been too deliberate, too *sharp*. She held her breath, listening. Nothing. “Probably just the wind,” she muttered under her breath, the sound swallowed by the heavy air. She started to walk, heading towards the centre of the clearing, the Heartstone drawing her forward. The wildflowers brushed against her legs, their petals strangely soft, almost velvety. As she moved, she noticed details she hadn't seen before. The flowers weren't uniform. They were… arranged. Deliberately placed in patterns she couldn't quite recognize, intricate spirals and looping designs. As if someone—or something—had been tending to them. Another snap. Closer this time. Rory spun around, heart hammering against her ribs. The shadows stretched long and distorted in the moonlight, playing tricks on her eyes. She saw a flicker of movement at the edge of the clearing, a dark shape disappearing behind a thicket of silver-barked trees. “Hello?” she called out, her voice sounding thin and reedy in the oppressive silence. “Is anyone there?” No answer. Only the rustling of leaves, which now sounded less like a natural breeze and more like… a sigh. She took a hesitant step forward, then another. The Heartstone pulsed steadily, a warm beacon in the growing darkness. She focused on it, grounding herself in its familiar warmth. “It’s just nerves,” she told herself. “Eva’s probably winding me up.” But the feeling of being watched intensified, a tangible weight on her shoulders. She felt eyes on her, assessing, observing. The feeling was subtle, insidious, creeping into her mind like a tendril of ice. A low humming started, almost imperceptible at first. It vibrated through the ground, through her bones. It wasn’t unpleasant, not exactly. It was… mesmerizing. Like a lullaby sung in a language she didn’t understand. She glanced up at the trees. The silver bark seemed to shimmer, reflecting the moonlight in an unnatural way. And then, she saw it. At the base of one of the oldest oaks, partially obscured by trailing vines, was a figure. It was tall, impossibly so, its form indistinct, shrouded in shadow. All she could make out were the vague outlines of limbs and a head tilted slightly as if studying her. She blinked, trying to clear her vision. When she opened her eyes, the figure was gone. “It's the shadows,” she insisted to herself, but her voice lacked conviction. The humming grew louder, weaving itself into a complex melody. The wildflowers began to sway, their petals trembling as if caught in an invisible current. Rory stumbled backward, bumping into one of the standing stones. The rough bark scraped against her arm, leaving a faint red mark. She didn’t notice the mark. She was too busy staring. Something was different about the trees now. The shadows weren’t just stretching; they were *shifting*, coalescing into shapes. Vague, unsettling shapes that resembled… faces. Distorted, twisted faces with hollow eyes and gaping mouths. They weren't carved into the bark. They *were* the bark. She backed away slowly, her hand instinctively going to the small crescent-shaped scar on her left wrist, a relic of a childhood accident. It throbbed with a sudden, sharp pain. The air grew colder, the cloying sweetness intensifying, suffusing the clearing with a sickly, almost nauseating aroma. A voice, whisper-thin and utterly devoid of emotion, echoed in her mind. *“You shouldn’t have come here, little mortal.”* Rory whirled around, desperately searching for the source of the voice. But there was nothing. Only the trees, the flowers, the shadows. And the growing certainty that she was not alone. She began to run.