Run: 2026-02-20-01KHY9MDY5R1C4DAC7S1A5QZTV

The wrought iron gate groaned open like a disturbed beast, reluctantly granting her passage into Richmond Park after dark. Rory hadn’t been back to the Grove since… well, since she’d sworn she wouldn’t, but Eva’s cryptic message had overridden every rational thought. *‘The stones. Tonight. It’s waking up.’* She adjusted the strap of her messenger bag, the weight of the Golden Empress thermal bag inside a familiar comfort. Beneath that, though, cold metal pressed against her sternum. The Heartstone Pendant. A gift. From whom, she still couldn’t recall. A hazy memory of a woman with eyes like smoke and a voice that tasted of heather and rain. The park’s usual nighttime sounds—the rustle of unseen animals, distant city hum—felt muted, swallowed by something thicker. The air hung heavy, laced with a sweetness that bordered on cloying. Not the scent of late-blooming wildflowers, but something manufactured. Artificial. She shivered, pulling her jacket tighter. The path narrowed, twisting away from the maintained trails and into a denser knot of trees. The ancient oaks stood like silent sentinels, their branches gnarled and interlocked, blotting out the already meager moonlight. Finding the entrance to the Grove wasn’t difficult. Even after all this time, the standing stones felt… magnetized to her. They loomed, three weathered monoliths rising from a circle of stubbornly blooming wildflowers. The boundary. She remembered Isolde, the woman who’d first brought her here years ago, whispering about the veil thinning, about the ‘other side’ breathing closer. Isolde, who'd vanished without a trace a year later. A twig snapped behind her. Rory whirled, heart hammering against her ribs. Nothing. Just shadows playing tricks. She exhaled slowly, berating herself. Nervous. That was all. "Hello?” she called out, her voice tight. It sounded too loud, a disruption in the unnatural stillness. Silence answered. She stepped inside the circle, immediately feeling the shift. Not a dramatic change, not at first. More… a subtle disorientation. The air grew warmer, the sweet scent stronger. The wildflowers underfoot felt strangely plush. The Heartstone warmed against her skin. A faint throb, barely perceptible, but definitely there. She hadn't felt it pulse like this before. Not even when she’d first received it. “Eva?” The name felt lost, absorbed by the trees. She walked deeper into the Grove, toward the central clearing where Isolde used to… well, whatever Isolde *did*. Rituals, she'd called them. Nonsense to Rory then, and still seeming like nonsense now. But Eva wasn't one for nonsense. A flicker of movement caught her eye—a dark shape at the periphery of her vision. She turned, focusing, but it was gone. A deer, maybe? Though deer didn't normally move like *that*. They didn’t glide. The clearing was exactly as she remembered, a small haven bathed in an ethereal, internal light that had nothing to do with the moon. A single, ancient hawthorn stood at the center, its branches draped with ribbons and strange, bone-like charms. Something was wrong. It wasn’t a sudden, shocking realization. More a slow, creeping dread that settled in her bones. The air felt… expectant. Like the Grove itself was holding its breath. The floral scent had become overpowering, suffocating, and underneath it, a metallic tang. Like blood. She ran a hand across her wrist, unconsciously tracing the crescent-shaped scar. A childhood accident. Or so she’d always been told. Another sound. This one closer. A soft rustling in the undergrowth, like something dragging itself along the forest floor. Heavy. Purposeful. “Eva, this isn’t funny.” No answer. She reached inside her messenger bag, her fingers brushing against the familiar bulk of the thermal containers. Comfort food suddenly felt useless. Her hand closed around the handle of a small torch she kept for late deliveries. Flicking it on, she swept the beam across the clearing. The light danced across the hawthorn, illuminating the charms. They weren’t bone. Not exactly. More like… teeth. Small, pointed, and perfectly white. “Right,” she muttered, her voice trembling slightly. “That's new.” The Heartstone pulsed again, more insistently this time, almost painfully hot against her skin. It was directing her, she realized. Pulling her toward the hawthorn. She took a tentative step forward, then another. The rustling sound came again, closer still. She spun around, the torch beam cutting through the darkness, but found nothing. “Show yourself,” she demanded, her voice stronger now, fueled by rising panic. “Whatever you are.” A low chuckle echoed through the Grove. Not a human sound. Too resonant. Too… ancient. “Looking for someone, little Rory?” The voice seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere at once, wrapping around her like a shroud. She lowered the torch, scanning the trees, the shadows. “Who’s there?” “Someone who remembers you. Someone who's been waiting.” A figure materialized from the darkness, slowly coalescing from the shadows. Tall. Slender. And impossibly pale. It wasn't quite human. Its eyes—large, black, and utterly devoid of pupils—fixed on her with unsettling intensity. The Heartstone felt like it was burning a hole through her chest. It throbbed in time with the figure’s slow, deliberate steps. “You’ve grown, Aurora Carter,” the figure said, its voice a silken rasp. “But some things never change.” It extended a hand, long, skeletal fingers tipped with claws that gleamed in the ethereal light. “Come now. Don't be shy.”