Run: 2026-02-20-01KHY9F8FPQJ7Z5PQJBA8Y4TCV

Aurora Carter pushed through the underbrush at the edge of Richmond Park, her boots sinking into the damp earth as the city's distant hum faded behind her. The pendant around her neck thrummed against her skin, a steady warmth like a heartbeat not her own. It had started pulsing that afternoon during her delivery shift, insistent enough to draw her gaze every time she zipped through London's back alleys on her scooter. By evening, the pull had become undeniable—a faint glow seeping through her shirt collar, urging her westward. She'd followed it on instinct, ditching her uniform at the flat above Silas' bar and trading sensible flats for sturdy boots. Quick thinking had always been her edge; this felt like one of those moments where ignoring the signs could cost her more than a bad tip. The air grew cooler as she navigated the park's winding paths, the sodium glow of streetlamps giving way to moonlight filtering through the canopy. Richmond Park sprawled vast and indifferent at night, its deer silent shadows in the gloom, but Rory knew better than to linger on the main trails. The pendant's heat intensified, guiding her off the beaten path toward a cluster of ancient oaks that loomed like forgotten sentinels. She paused at their bases, running her fingers over the bark—rough, etched with patterns that twisted like veins. The standing stones, she remembered from half-forgotten stories Eva had shared over late-night pints. Isolde's Grove, a whisper of folklore from her Welsh mother's tales, a place where the world thinned. She stepped between the oaks, and the shift hit her like a held breath released. The grove unfolded before her, a hidden clearing bathed in an unnatural silver light. Wildflowers carpeted the ground, their petals unfurling in defiant bloom despite the autumn chill—violets and foxgloves mingling with roses that shouldn't thrive here, their scents heavy and cloying, like perfume gone sour. The air hummed faintly, a vibration she felt in her teeth. Rory's bright blue eyes scanned the perimeter, noting the way the oaks encircled the space, their branches interlocking overhead to form a dome of leaves that blocked out the stars. Time moved differently here, or so the stories went. An hour inside could stretch or snap like elastic outside. She glanced at her watch: 11:47 PM. Better not test that tonight. Why had she come? The pendant, of course. It had appeared in her mailbox two weeks ago, no note, just the silver chain and its thumbnail-sized crimson gem. An unknown benefactor, Eva had joked, but Rory's mind raced to darker possibilities—Evan's parting gift from their toxic split? Or something tied to the shadows she'd glimpsed in London lately, flickers at the edge of her vision during shifts. The gem pulsed warmer now, almost hot against her collarbone, and she tugged her jacket closer, the small crescent scar on her left wrist itching under the sleeve. Childhood accident, her mother had always said, but tonight it felt like a warning. She ventured deeper into the clearing, her shoulder-length black hair catching on low branches. The ground was soft, almost spongy, as if the earth breathed beneath her feet. At the center stood a low mound, ringed by flat stones that gleamed wetly in the moonlight. Rory knelt, her cool-headed pragmatism warring with a flicker of unease. Pre-Law dropout or not, she'd learned to trust evidence, and this place reeked of the unexplained. The pendant's glow intensified, casting a faint red halo on the nearest stone. Was this a Hel portal? The word surfaced from Eva's ramblings—some Fae-touched threshold to realms best left alone. Rory's fingers brushed the stone, cool and slick, and for a split second, the world tilted. A whisper of wind, or was it voices? Soft, overlapping murmurs like silk tearing. She straightened, heart quickening despite her resolve. Nothing. Just the park settling. But the wrongness lingered, a subtle discord in the air's rhythm. The flowers shouldn't bloom like this at night; their colors seemed too vivid, edges blurring as if painted in watercolor. Rory paced the mound's circumference, her boots whispering against the petals. The oaks creaked overhead, though no breeze stirred the leaves. She froze. There—a rustle, faint, from the treeline. Deer, she told herself, forcing a logical anchor. Richmond teemed with them. But the sound came again, closer this time, a dry scrape like branches dragging over stone. Not deer. Too deliberate. Her eyes darted to the shadows pooling between the oaks. The standing stones cast long, jagged silhouettes that twisted unnaturally, as if reaching. Rory's breath came steady, but her mind cataloged: no immediate exit blocked, phone in pocket with signal—probably. She turned slowly, scanning the grove. Empty. Yet the certainty gnawed at her, a prickling at the base of her skull. She was not alone. The thought slithered in unbidden, born from the way the air thickened, pressing against her skin like an unseen gaze. Another sound—fainter now, a sigh exhaled from the earth itself. Rory's hand went to the pendant, its warmth a small comfort amid the chill seeping through her jacket. The gem's inner glow pulsed in time with her heartbeat, or perhaps something else's. She followed its lead back to the mound, kneeling once more. The flat stone at the center bore faint carvings, spirals that seemed to shift when she blinked. Celtic knots? Or eyes, watching? She traced one with her fingertip, and the whispers returned, clearer this time. Not words, exactly—fragments, like echoes in a shell. "Stay... linger... lost..." Rory yanked her hand back, scar throbbing now. Imagination, her rational side insisted. The stress of the week—Evan's latest harassing texts, the endless deliveries in the rain. But the grove felt alive, watchful. The wildflowers nodded as if in agreement, petals brushing her knees with feathery insistence. She stood, backing away, but the oaks seemed farther apart now, the clearing subtly larger. Time's trick, she thought, suppressing a shiver. Check the watch: 11:49 PM. Only two minutes? Or had she lost track? The rustle came again, from multiple directions now—left, right, behind. Peripheral flickers: a shadow darting behind an oak, gone when she turned. Not a trick of light; too fluid, like ink spilling across paper. Rory's pulse thrummed in her ears, but she moved deliberately, circling the mound with measured steps. Cool-headed, that's what they said about her. Quick out-of-the-box thinking. She needed an out. The pendant burned hotter, a beacon or a trap? She clutched it, willing it to guide her back to the boundary stones. The air grew heavier, laced with a scent like damp earth and something sweeter, rotting honey. The whispers layered, a chorus without source: "Rory... Laila... come play..." Aliases from her past—how? Her breath hitched. Evan had called her Laila once, in a fit of rage, twisting her name to wound. But this voice, these voices, slithered deeper, probing. She spun, boots crunching petals that released bursts of pollen, iridescent in the moonlight. There—another movement, at the edge of vision. A figure? No, just branches swaying. But the certainty swelled, unshakeable: eyes on her, from the trees, the flowers, the stones themselves. Rory's mind raced, piecing fragments. The pendant from the benefactor—tied to this place? Eva had mentioned Fae groves as thresholds, where the veil thinned and things slipped through. Hel portals, gateways to colder realms. The warmth in her hand felt mocking now, a lure. She needed to leave. But as she oriented toward the oaks, the ground seemed to undulate, a gentle wave that set the flowers dancing. The whispers laughed, soft and tinkling like distant bells. "Stay the night... time enough..." She broke into a jog, heart slamming against her ribs. The standing stones loomed closer—no, wait, they receded, the clearing expanding with each step. Illusion? Or the time shift warping space? Rory's scar burned, a phantom pain from that long-ago fall, mirroring the dread coiling in her gut. Another flicker: pale fingers curling around an oak trunk, vanishing like smoke. Not alone. Not alone. The words echoed in her skull, drowning rational thought. She reached the treeline, hands grasping bark that yielded like flesh under her palms. Too warm, pulsing. The rustles converged behind her, a rustling tide of unseen presences closing in. Whispers wove into a song, lilting and mournful: "Aurora... lost child... join us..." Her full name, from her mother's lips, twisted into invitation. Panic clawed up her throat, but she swallowed it, forcing her cool facade. Think. The pendant—follow its heat backward? No, it pulled inward now, toward the mound. A shape materialized at the clearing's heart—a silhouette against the mound, tall and willowy, branches for limbs. It didn't move, but the flowers around it wilted, petals curling black. Rory's eyes locked on it, breath fogging in the suddenly frigid air. Not real. Can't be. But the wrongness peaked, a suffocating weight, as if the grove inhaled, drawing her back. The figure tilted its head, and for an instant, she saw eyes—glowing like the pendant's crimson heart. She bolted through the oaks, thorns snagging her jacket, whispers chasing like hounds. The boundary blurred, trees whipping past in a haze. A final rustle, hot breath on her neck—gone. She stumbled into the park proper, moonlight stark and ordinary, deer scattering from her path. Watch: 11:50 PM. Three minutes inside. An eternity. Rory didn't stop running until the city's lights pierced the trees. The pendant cooled against her chest, glow fading to a sullen ember. But the scar on her wrist wept a single bead of blood, unearned, as if the grove had marked her return. She was out, but the certainty lingered: it had seen her. And it would remember.