Run: 2026-02-20-01KHY9H3R7QXA9KXV1J7S0W61M

The roads to Richmond Park were black with night, the wind whipping her delivery van’s side mirror until it rattled like a loose tooth. Aurora “Rory” Carter cursed under her breath, swerving around a pothole that could’ve swallowed a shoebox. It was 2:17 a.m. by her phone, though the clock on the dashboard had flickered to 2:18 fifteen minutes prior. she’d chalked it up to the van’s faulty wiring—until the Heartstone Pendant, tucked under her collar, had started to pulse. Not the faint warmth she’d grown used to these past three months, when Hel portals drew near. This was *thrumming*, a rapid beat against her sternum, as if the gemstone itself had a pulse. She’d found the pendant tied to her front door one morning, a silver chain twisted around a crimson gem the size of a thumbnail. No note, no sender. Just the pendant, and a niggling sense it was leading her somewhere. Somewhere like the Fae Grove. Eva had warned her about it, drunk on bad wine in their old Cardiff flat. “Richmond Park’s got pockets,” she’d slurred, her green eyes wide. “Pockets where the world goes *wrong*. Don’t you ever—” But Aurora had moved to London that night, fleeing Evan’s hands, and Eva’s words had gotten lost in the shuffle. Until last week, when her latest delivery—an order of black sesame dumplings to a flat above a bar in Camden—had been signed by a man with a scar across his cheek. “Told her you’d come,” he’d said, and pressed a crumpled piece of paper into her hand: a sketch of the Grove, labeled *Isolde’s grove*, with a note scrawled in a script that looked like ink mixed with water: *The Heartstone belongs to Dymas. He waits where the time bends.* Dymas, the codex said—though not by name. The benefactor who’d sent the pendant. A ghost, or a man, or something else entirely. She parked the van at the trailhead, her boots crunching over frost that hadn’t melted since dawn. The air smelled of jasmine, sickly sweet, even though it was November. The park was silent, too silent. No rustle of squirrels, no hoot of an owl. Just the wind, which sounded like a child whispering. The standing stones loomed ahead, ancient oaks hewn into pillars, their bark rough as old bone. She’d recognized them from the sketch—the Grove was hidden by their circle, a veil of mist that moved when she blinked. Aurora unclasped her seatbelt, reached under the seat for her backpack (water, a flashlight, a knife she’d swiped from Yu-Fei’s kitchen the night she’d learned Evan was following her), and stepped into the dark. The pendant’s pulse quickened as she crossed the threshold. The mist clung to her coat, cold as a corpse’s hand, and the stones seemed to *shift*—their trunks leaning closer, their shadows stretching longer, as if waking. She fumbled with her flashlight, but the beam died the second she turned it on, the bulb burning out with a pop. “Great,” she muttered, but her voice came out higher than she meant it to. The Grove was larger than the sketch had suggested, a clearing ringed with trees whose leaves glowed faintly, even in the blackness. Wildflowers—pansies, lilies, a cluster of bluebells—pushed through the frost, their petals velvety, *alive*. They shouldn’t be here. Not in November. Not in a place that felt like it should’ve been forgotten. Aurora took a step forward, and the world *stuttered*. Her breath hitched. The flowers had stopped moving. The trees stood still, their shadows frozen mid-stretch. The pendant’s pulse had slowed to a steady *thump*, as if the grove itself were breathing. She checked her phone again—2:41. But her watch, the cheap leather one she’d stolen from Evan’s flat, read 2:12. Time bends, she thought. Eva’s words finally clicked into place. She moved faster, the stones growing larger as she neared. When she reached the circle, she pressed her palm to the nearest trunk. It was warm, *too* warm, like a body left in the sun. The pendant’s gem flared, a crimson burst that cast her shadow onto the stones. For a second, she saw faces in the rock—faint, distorted, whispering her name. “Hello?” Her voice cracked. She sounded younger, softer, the girl who’d once cried into her mother’s lap over a spilled cup of tea. “Dymas? Are you here?” No answer. But the air shifted—thinner, colder, like the space between worlds. And then she saw it: a flicker of light, deeper in the grove, beyond the circle. Not a star. Not a fire. *A door.* It was a ripple, really, in the mist, shaped like an arch. The pendant burned her skin through her coat, a searing pain that made her drop to her knees. When she looked up, the door was closer, the edges of it warping like water. Dymas was on the other side, she thought. She could see his face: a man with silver hair, eyes like storm clouds, smiling. “Rory,” he said, his voice not in her ears but in her bones. “You came.” “You’re the one who sent the pendant,” she panted, her hand trembling as she unclasped it. The gem pulsed brighter, its glow seeping into her palm. “Why?” “To show you the truth,” he said. “The one they’ve hidden.” A noise behind her. A rustle, soft as a sigh, in the undergrowth. Aurora spun. Nothing. Just the flowers, their petals now closed, as if ashamed. But the hairs on the back of her neck stood up, and the pit of her stomach shifted, cold and tight. She’d felt this before—when Evan had followed her into the alley, when he’d grabbed her wrist and left that crescent scar. *Presence*. A hungry, knowing thing. “Dymas?” she called again, but her voice was a whisper, hollow in the clearing. The door was gone now, the mist rolling back over the rocks. She stood, her legs unsteady, and took a step toward the trees. The pendant’s chain dug into her skin, the scar flaring, red as a fresh wound. The woods loomed, their branches twisting like skeletal fingers, and for a second, she saw a flash of movement: a child, small and pale, hanging from a low-hanging limb, their dress a tattered white thing. Aurora froze. There was no one in the trees. No child. Just the dark. But the pendant was *screaming* now, its gem blazing so bright she had to shield her eyes. She fumbled in her backpack, found her knife, and held it out in front of her. “What are you?” she asked the air. “What do you want?” The sound came again—softer this time, a laugh, high and tinny, like a music box wound too tight. It echoed from the trees, then from above, then from behind her. Aurora turned. Nothing. But the flowers were *moving*—slowly, tentatively, their petals unfurling as if drawn by the sound. One by one, they rose from the ground, floating into the air, forming a spiral around her. She backed away, tripping over a root, and the knife slipped from her hand. The laughter turned to a chorus, a hundred voices now, all singing the same word: *Dymas, Dymas, Dymas*. And then the mist returned, thick and cold, swallowing the clearing. Aurora tried to scream, but her throat closed up. The flowers pressed in, their petals slick and slimy, coating her face, her hands, her wrists. The scar on her left wrist burned, white-hot, and she felt something *crawl* under her skin, a worm-like thing, moving toward her pulse. “No,” she whispered, tears freezing on her cheeks. The pendant’s glow was a white-hot beacon now, lighting up the mist, and she saw it then: a face in the fog, pale and featureless, with eyes that were just two black holes. It moved closer, and she smelled iron, and rot, and something sweet, like overripe fruit. “It’s time,” the thing said, its voice a thousand voices at once. “You belong to Dymas. You *always* have.” Aurora’s vision blurred. The flowers were gone, replaced by the stone circle, the trees towering above her. Her phone lay in the dirt, its screen cracked, showing 2:41. The pendant was still in her hand, the gem dim now, its warmth a memory. She stood, her legs shaking, and looked back. The mist had rolled away, leaving the grove empty. No door. No child. No music box laughter. But as she turned to leave, she heard it again—a soft, *familiar* rustle, behind her. The same rustle she’d heard when Evan had grabbed her, when he’d dragged her into the alley, when he’d *broken* her wrist. Aurora reached for her knife, but it wasn’t there. Her backpack was gone. The ground rumbled, just once, and the standing stones shifted. She stared at them, wide-eyed, as one of them fell, crashing to the earth with a sound like thunder. The earth split, a jagged crack opening up between the stones, and from it poured a light—pale, blue, *wrong*. And then she saw it: a hand, reaching up from the chasm, its skin gray and papery, its nails black as pitch. It grabbed her ankle, and she screamed, but her voice was silent. She fell, her body hitting the dirt, and the hand dragged her down, into the chasm, into the light. The last thing she saw was the Heartstone, still in her hand, pulsing once, twice, three times, as if saying goodbye. And then the world went black. The park slept on, silent, save for the wind. Somewhere in the trees, a branch creaked. Somewhere in the dark, a child’s laugh echoed. Somewhere else, a gemstone glowed, buried deep in the earth.