Run: 2026-02-20-01KHY9GCP8G2AR3B0DZG2PG0KF

The air in Richmond Park bit at Aurora’s cheeks as she shouldered her delivery bag, the last slush of winter clinging to the edges of autumn. She should have turned back at the first sign of mist—thick, unseasonal, coiling around the trunks of the oaks like old sheets—but the Heartstone pendant had pulsed under her shirt, warm as a living thing, and Eva’s voice in her head—*“It leads you”*—had been too insistent to ignore. She found the standing stones an hour past curfew, their gnarled forms half-visible through the fog. They loomed like sleepers, each stone a trunk of ancient oak, their rings weathered until the trees themselves seemed to have forgotten their age. Aurora pressed a hand to the nearest bark; it was cold, damp, as if the stone had drunk the night. The pendant burned now, a hot spot between her ribs, and when she fumbled it out, the crimson gem glowed like a smoldering coal, its light seeping through her fingers. *Hel portal*, a whisper in her memory—though she’d never been to Hel, not really. Just the ghost of her ex, Evan, and the way he’d laughed as he’d held a knife to her throat, *“You’ll never outrun me, Rory.”* The trees parted before her, a natural arch of gnarled branches, and she stepped through. The world *shifted*. Not the fog lifting, but something deeper—a thickening of the air, a weight on her chest that made breathing a labor. Her watch, a cheap thing from Tesco, ticked once, then froze. The time read 11:17. She’d left the bar at 10:59. *An hour inside could be minutes outside*, the Grove’s lore had said. She swallowed, her throat dry. *Bullshit*, she wanted to say. *It’s just a trick of the light.* The clearing hit her like a wave. Wildflowers—crimson poppies, purple lupine, white daisies—bloomed in a riot around her, their petals dewy as if the night had just begun. But it was November. The grass beneath her boots was soft, almost *spongy*, as if the earth itself were breathing. Somewhere, a bird sang—*a lark*, clear and true—but Aurora’s phone, in her pocket, had no signal, and there were no larks in London at night. The pendant jumped. She dropped to her knees, ignoring the thorns that snagged her jeans. The gemstone blazed now, so bright she had to squint, and the chain bit into her palm. *Not Hel*, she thought, her voice high and shaky. *It’s Fae. The Grove—Rory, you dumbass, you read the story.* Her backstory, when she’d been bored during a delivery break, had included a half-memorized tale of a Fae healer, Isolde, who’d hidden a grove in the park, a place between worlds where time frayed. *“Beware the one who comes seeking,”* the old book had said. *“The Grove remembers.”* A sound—*a rustle*—came from the trees. She spun, heart slamming, but the underbrush was empty, the branches still. The stone that had been so solid a moment ago now looked like shadow, as if the Grove were *blinking*, erasing itself to test her. The wildflowers seemed to lean toward her, their stems bending as if drawn by a current only she could feel. “Hello?” Her voice came out as a croak. Too loud. *Too* human. Nothing. But the pendant burned hotter, and now she saw it: a flicker at the edge of her vision, a movement behind a tree. She’d been trained to ignore such things—Evan’s taunts, the way he’d make her jump at shadows—but this was different. *Wrong*. Her scar, the crescent on her left wrist, tingled, a familiar prickle from childhood when she’d sliced it on a rusted gate. *Stupid kid*, she thought, *stupid to let yourself get hurt*. But the tingling spread, up her arm, into her shoulder, and suddenly she was seven again, lying in a hospital bed, her mother’s hands pressed to her wrist, her father muttering, *“Moss from the old graveyard—must’ve had healing properties.”* The pendant’s light flared, and the shadow moved. It was behind the nearest oak, a shape no taller than a man, but wider, as if stretched over a frame that didn’t fit. Its edges blurred, rippling like water, and for a second she saw teeth—sharp, yellow, too many—before it shifted, and her brain registered only *wrong*. *Not human*, a voice in her gut hissed. *Not alive.* Aurora scrambled to her feet, the pendant dangling from its chain. She ran, her boots slipping on the spongy grass, but the clearing didn’t get smaller. The flowers seemed to part, then snap back, as if laughing. The shadow moved beside her, a step for every step she took, and now she could hear it—a low, wet *sizzle*, like a match struck in honey, coming from its direction. She turned, and it was *there*, close enough that she could feel its heat, thick and clammy, like a dead man’s hand. Its form was a void, but the area around it rippled, and in the gaps, she saw faces—Evan’s, twisted cruelly; her father, dead at 42, a look of confusion on his face; Eva, younger, before the fire, screaming, *“You left me to burn!”* “I didn’t—” She gagged, the words turning to ash in her mouth. The shadow *smiled*, and its teeth were daggers. The pendant blazed white, searing her palm. The shadow shrieked, a sound that pierced her eardrums, and when Aurora opened her eyes, it was gone. But the air was colder now, the flowers wilting, turning to black, crumpling into dust. The standing stones loomed, their oak bark cracking, revealing something beneath—pale, tendril-like roots, pulsing with a sickly green light. She ran. The Grove didn’t want her to leave. Brambles snaked across the path, thorns as thick as her fingers, and when she pushed through, they bit, deep, drawing blood. Her arm burned, but she didn’t stop. The pendant’s light dimmed, now a faint glow, and she realized with a jolt that the fog was lifting, the sky brightening. The first stars winked out, and she saw the park again—familiar, gray, unforgiving. The standing stones were just trees now, twisted and gnarled, but she knew they’d been there. She knew *it* had been there. Her watch ticked again, slow and steady. The time read 11:22. Aurora collapsed at the edge of the path, her chest heaving. She pressed her hand to her wrist, the scar throbbing, and saw the blood—fresh, red, soaking through her fingers. The pendant hung between her knees, the gemstone now dark, cold as stone. A car horn honked in the distance. She looked up, and there was a taxi, headlights cutting through the mist. She stood, swaying, and flagged it down, her voice a hoarse mess. “The Golden Empress,” she said, nodding at the delivery bag at her feet. “Please.” Silas raised an eyebrow when she stumbled through the bar door, but he didn’t ask questions. He handed her a towel, a glass of whiskey, and she drank it neat, the burn chasing the chill from her bones. When she went upstairs to her flat, she locked the door, then the window, then the additional chain she’d installed after Evan. She sat on the bed, the pendant in her hand, and stared at it. For a second, it glowed. Not bright—just a flicker, like a candle in the wind—but enough that she saw it. And then, in the dim light, she thought she saw a face in the gemstone. Not Evan, not her father, not even Eva. A woman, with silver hair and skin like moonlight, her eyes sharp as flint. Isolde. The storyteller in the book. Aurora crushed the pendant in her hand. It didn’t break. It seeped, black and sticky, into her skin. She screamed, but no sound came out. Her arm seized, the scar stretching, splitting, and out of the wound grew a tendril of light—pale, warm, *alive*. It coiled around her hand, around the pendant, and then it was gone, and the pendant was cold, and her scar was a thin line again, no more pain. But when she looked in the mirror, her eyes—bright blue, as striking as ever—now had a hint of silver, at the corners. She turned on the lamp, but the light didn’t reach the far corner of the room, where something moved. A shadow, long and thin, stretching across the wall. She didn’t scream. Not anymore. She just sat, and waited. And in the silence, she heard it—a low, wet *sizzle*, like a match struck in honey—coming from the dark. And she knew it was coming. Again.