Run: 2026-02-20-01KHY9HAR1Z5EJXHPCNYS9SAYN

The air in Richmond Park was too thick, too still, like the world had paused to watch her pass. Aurora Carter—Rory to her friends, though she hadn’t had one in years—pushed through the gnarled branches of the ancient oaks, her breath fogging in the unnaturally crisp night. The pendant at her throat, the one she’d found tucked into her coat pocket after that night in the pub, pressed against her skin. It was warm. Too warm for this time of year. She shouldn’t have come. But the note had been clear: *Find the grove. Before they do.* Eva’s voice, frantic and slurred, still echoed in her mind. *They’re coming for me. They’re coming for all of us.* Rory had laughed then, because that was what you did when someone whispered about fae and portals and things that didn’t belong in the real world. But now, as she stepped past the last of the standing stones—those twisted oaks with their bark blackened as if scorched by something older than fire—she knew better. The grove opened before her like a wound in the earth. Wildflowers bloomed in defiance of the season, their petals glistening with dew that hadn’t fallen in hours. The air smelled of damp earth and something metallic, like old blood. Rory’s pulse hammered in her throat. She should turn back. She *should*. But the pendant burned against her ribs, a slow, insistent throb. She took a step forward. The first wrongness was the silence. No crickets. No rustling leaves. Not even the distant hum of London, the city that had swallowed her whole. Just… quiet. The kind that made your skin prickle. Rory exhaled sharply, forcing herself to move. The path narrowed, the oaks pressing in like spectators at a funeral. Her fingers twitched toward the pendant, but she kept her hand at her side. If she pulled it out now, what would she see? A vision? A warning? Or just more of this. A twig snapped. Not under her boot. Not behind her. *To her left.* Rory froze. The sound had been too deliberate. Too *intentional*. She turned slowly, her breath shallow. The grove was empty. The flowers swayed in the nonexistent wind, their stems bending as if touched by an unseen hand. She told herself it was the breeze. But the breeze didn’t make the shadows stretch. A flicker of movement at the edge of her vision—just for a second, a blur of dark against dark. Rory’s stomach twisted. She swallowed hard, forcing her voice steady. “Hello?” Her own words sounded wrong in the stillness, too loud, too small. No answer. Only the pendant, pulsing now, its warmth seeping into her skin. She reached up, fingers brushing the silver chain. The gemstone was smooth, cool despite the heat radiating from within. When she pulled it free, the glow inside flared, casting long, wavering fingers across her palm. And then— A sound. Not a rustle. Not a snap. A *laugh*. Low and wet, like something dragging itself through mud. Rory’s blood turned to ice. She whirled, scanning the grove, but the trees remained silent, their branches bare of any movement. The laughter came again, closer this time, and her breath hitched. “Who’s there?” she demanded, her voice cracking. The pendant burned against her palm. The glow intensified, casting her shadow onto the ground in jagged, unnatural shapes. She could almost see it *moving*, twisting, stretching toward something unseen. Then— A whisper. Not in her ear. Not in her mind. *On the wind.* *“You shouldn’t have come.”* Rory’s skin prickled. The voice was familiar. Too familiar. It slithered into her bones, familiar like a childhood nightmare she’d tried to forget. She turned in a slow circle, her pulse roaring in her ears. The grove was too still. Too *wrong*. The flowers swayed in time with her breath, their petals closing like lips around nothing. And then she saw it. A figure. Tall. Too tall. Its limbs were elongated, its joints bending in ways that made her stomach clench. Its skin was the color of damp earth, streaked with veins of something darker, like old bruises. It stood at the edge of the clearing, its head tilted just so, as if listening. Rory’s breath came in ragged gasps. She should run. She *should*— The figure lifted a hand. Not a hand. A *thing*. Too many fingers. Too many joints. It waved lazily, and the air around it *rippled*, like heat off pavement, but colder. Colder than death. *“You’re late,”* it said, its voice a chorus of whispers and hisses. *“They’ve been waiting.”* Rory’s mind raced. Eva’s warning. The pendant. The *wrongness* of this place. She had to get out. She had to— The ground trembled beneath her feet. Not an earthquake. Not a storm. Something *moving*. The figure tilted its head, and the grove seemed to hold its breath. The flowers wilted. The shadows deepened. And then— A sound like tearing fabric. Like something *unfolding*. Rory’s eyes locked onto the pendant in her hand. The glow was no longer just inside the gemstone. It was *spreading*, creeping up her arm, up her shoulder, like liquid fire. She gasped, jerking back, but the figure was already moving—no, *sliding*—toward her, its form shifting, its edges blurring. *“You don’t belong here,”* it murmured, its voice now a single, smooth whisper. *“But you will.”* Rory stumbled back, her heel catching on a root. She fell to her knees, the pendant still clutched in her fist. The glow was everywhere now, seeping into her skin, into her *bones*. She could feel it, hot and insistent, like a second heartbeat. And then— A hand. Not the figure’s. *Hers.* Her fingers twitched. Her wrist—her *scar*—burned. The pendant slipped from her grip, clattering onto the ground. The gemstone shattered against the earth, and the glow *exploded*, a burst of crimson light that seared her vision. When she could see again, the grove was different. The figure was gone. The flowers were dead. And the air smelled like iron. Rory’s breath came in ragged gasps. She pressed a hand to her chest, feeling the pendant’s warmth still there, but different. *Changed.* She looked down. Her skin was marked. Not a scar. Not a wound. A *pattern*. Lines, deep and jagged, like roots beneath bark. They spread from her wrist up her arm, up her shoulder, twisting around her collarbone. The pendant—now whole again—hung from her neck, its glow steady, pulsing in time with something inside her. She stood slowly. The grove was silent. Too silent. And then— A voice. Not the figure’s. Not the wind’s. *Her own.* *“I’m here,”* she whispered. The trees swayed. The shadows *moved.* And somewhere, in the distance, something *laughed.*