Run: 2026-02-20-01KHY9GFG602E5PKKH2NHH9B1D

Rory Carter slipped through the iron gate of Richmond Park long after dusk swallowed the city skyline. The pendant hung heavy against her chest, its crimson gem no longer cool silver chain but a insistent throb, like a second pulse syncing with her own. Eva's cryptic note had dragged her here—*Meet me at the grove. Midnight. Trust no one else.*—but Eva never showed. Rory checked her phone: no signal, battery draining faster than it should. She pocketed it, gripped the torch tighter, and plunged into the treeline. Deer paths twisted underfoot, brambles snagging her jeans. Richmond Park sprawled vast and empty at this hour, a relic of old kings where stags roamed free and joggers feared the dark. She knew the spot from Eva's drunken ramble weeks back: past the Isabella Plantation, skirt the ancient oaks till the ground dipped. The air thickened as she walked, carrying a sweetness that cloyed the throat, like honey left too long in the sun. Wildflowers shouldn't bloom now—November chill nipped at her knuckles—but petals glowed faint phosphorescence under her torch, nodding in a breeze she barely felt. The path ended abrupt at a circle of oaks, trunks gnarled into shapes mimicking menhenge stones, bark etched with spirals that caught her light wrong. Too smooth, those grooves, as if carved yesterday by unseen hands. Rory crossed the boundary, boots sinking into moss that cushioned like fresh carpet. The grove unfolded: a clearing no bigger than her flat above Silas's bar, ringed by those oaks, floor carpeted in flowers that pulsed soft light—violets, foxgloves, blooms defying season. Moonlight filtered through branches overhead, but stars wheeled wrong above, constellations she half-recognised twisted into unfamiliar huntsmen. She stood alone. Heartstone warmed further, a steady heat now, not the frantic pulse from that alley near the Thames last month. Eva swore this place held answers—about the shadows chasing Rory since Cardiff, since Evan’s fists left that crescent scar whitening on her wrist. *Fae-touched, she called it. A door.* Rory snorted into the quiet, breath fogging. Superstition. But the delivery runs had piled up strangeness: packages vanishing mid-shift at Golden Empress, Yu-Fei’s wary glances, whispers of portals in the kitchen steam. A rustle stirred the far oaks. Squirrel, maybe. She swung the torch. Nothing. Beam swept empty air, flowers undisturbed. The rustle came again, closer, from behind—like fabric dragging over thorns. Rory spun. Her light carved shadows that stretched too long, oak trunks leaning inward as if listening. She backed to the centre, gravel crunching underfoot—no gravel here, just moss. Footprints? Her own, sure, but laced with others, faint impressions blooming where she'd stepped. "Okay, Eva," she muttered, voice flat in the hush. "Joke's over. Show yourself." Silence answered, thick as fog off the Thames. The flowers dimmed, then brightened in rhythm, a slow heartbeat matching the pendant's warmth. Rory touched it, chain slick under fingers. Too warm. She yanked her collar, scanned the ring. One oak differed: bark split wide, a vertical maw leaking sap that gleamed like tears. Inside, darkness swirled, not empty but layered, depths folding on themselves. Wind sighed through the grove—no, not wind. Whispers layered it, voices too soft to parse, overlapping in languages that tugged memory. Irish lilt from Da's courtroom tales? Welsh cadences from Mam's lessons? Rory shook her head, blue eyes narrowing. Tricks of the ear. She edged toward the split oak, torch probing. Sap dripped rhythmic, plink-plink on moss. Each drop birthed a flower, stem uncurling instant, petals unfurling to mirror the moon's face. The whispers sharpened. *Rory.* Her name, exhaled from the leaves. She froze. Torch beam jittered. Leaves rustled without breeze, fronds brushing her shoulders though the nearest oak stood paces off. Something skittered peripheral—dark shape darting behind the stone-oaks, low to ground, elongated limbs folding wrong. She whipped the light. Empty. But the moss showed prints now: clawed, splayed toes overlapping hers, leading inward. Heartstone burned. Rory clawed it free, held it aloft. Crimson glow bloomed, illuminating the circle in bloody wash. Flowers recoiled, petals folding shut like eyes. The whispers laughed, tinkling bells edged with thorns. *Carter. Laila. Malphora.* Aliases from shadows past, names Evan hissed in rages, names Eva flung in warnings. How? She pivoted slow, torch carving arcs. The grove shrank—or did she? Oaks loomed closer, trunks inching with each blink. No. Imagination. Breathe. Count the stones: eight, nine? Ten now, encircling tighter. One sapling sprouted mid-clearing, trunk twisting upward in seconds, branches clawing sky. Rory retreated. Her back hit bark—solid, but pulsing under palm like flesh. Scratch. From the split oak, nails on wood, deliberate. She aimed the torch. The maw yawned wider, edges writhing with rootlets that probed air. A shape resolved within: slender, pale limbs unfolding, joints bending reverse. It paused at the threshold, eyes—too many—glinting wet. Rory's breath caught. Not Eva. Taller, elongated, skin marbled like oak veins. It tilted head, flowers blooming along its arms in her torch's glare. Run. Legs locked. The thing stepped forward, moss parting silent. Whispers swelled: *Stay. Play.* Pendant scalded skin. Rory flung it—chain snapped, gem arcing to land amid flowers. Glow erupted, crimson flare banishing shadows. The thing recoiled, limbs folding inward, but others stirred now—edges of vision crawled with motion. Shapes peeled from oaks, silhouettes mimicking deer but heads crowned thorns, antlers dripping nectar. She bolted for the boundary. Oaks blocked seamless, trunks merged into wall. Claws scraped behind, gaining. Rory slammed shoulder into bark—gave way, sap slicking her jacket. Through. But the grove followed, flowers sprouting in her wake, whispers chasing. *RoryRoryRory.* Prints multiplied, circling her path. Torch died. Darkness absolute. She fumbled phone—dead screen. Heat bloomed chest: pendant, back around neck? No time. Shapes closed, breaths hot on nape—multiple, ragged. One brushed her hair, fingers twig-thin, plucking strands. Rory swung wild, fist connecting soft yield. Squeal pierced night, not animal. She ran blind, brambles real now, tearing skin. Richmond Park? Trees thinned, but stars still wrong, moon bloated low. Footfalls dogged—patter of claws, rustle of leaves mimicking feet. Heartstone throbbed guide, pulling left. Glow faint through shirt, lighting path in pulses. Cleared the treeline. Grass underfoot, open park. Distant sodium lamps flickered London's edge. Safe? No. Shapes halted at treeline, eyes winking from oaks—dozens now, watching. Whispers faded to sigh, but certainty rooted: they waited. She'd return. The grove called home. Rory stumbled toward the gate, pendant cooling slow. Phone buzzed—signal back, Eva's text: *Where r u? Missed u at grove.* Timestamp: five minutes past midnight. She glanced back. Oaks swayed. Flowers bloomed gate-side, defying frost. The gate clanged shut behind her. Streetlights buzzed welcome. But in pocket, phone warmed. New message, unknown number: *Play again soon, Malphora.* She deleted it. Walked faster. Night deepened. Rustle in the hedge beside the pavement. Claws? No. Leaves. Her wrist scar itched, crescent moon mocking. Torch reignited somehow—flicker in her grip. Beam caught reflection: in a puddle, her eyes gleamed not blue, but marbled crimson. She blinked. Blue again. Footsteps echoed hers, just out of sight. The pendant pulsed once more.