Run: 2026-02-20-01KHY9QDTNMAGGJ0DA7VFE15VY

Rory slipped through the ancient oaks at the edge of Richmond Park, the silver chain of the Heartstone Pendant cool against her collarbone despite the humid night air. It had been pulsing faintly all evening, that deep crimson gem warming like a live ember against her skin, drawing her here like a compass needle to true north. Eva's cryptic text had sealed it: "Grove's calling. Pendant lit up last night. Go alone." Rory wasn't one for fairy tales, but after the shitshow with Evan and the unexplained bruises that faded too fast, she'd learned to trust the pull of unknowns. Besides, her delivery shift at Golden Empress had ended early, leaving her with too many hours in the dim flat above Silas' bar, replaying shadows that didn't belong. The boundary stones loomed ahead, gnarled oaks twisted into rough-hewn pillars, their bark etched with patterns that caught the moonlight wrong—too deliberate, like veins under skin. She ducked between them, breath steady, her straight black hair sticking to her neck in the sudden drop of temperature. The park's distant rumble—cars on the A307, a dog's bark—faded as if muffled by cotton wool. Inside the grove, wildflowers bloomed riotously under the stars, petals unfurling in shades of violet and gold that no night should host. Petals? At midnight in October? Rory's bright blue eyes narrowed, scanning the clearing. The grass whispered under her boots, soft as a lover's sigh, but she chalked it up to dew. She'd come to test the pendant. Last week, during a drop-off in Kew, it'd throbbed hot enough to burn through her shirt, pointing vaguely southwest. Isolde's grove—Eva's wild tales called it that—matched the direction, a Fae-touched pocket hidden in plain sight. Rory wasn't buying the realm-between-Earths bollocks, not fully, but anomalies piled up: clocks skipping in her flat, dreams of silver-eyed figures. If the stone reacted here, maybe it was a map to whatever benefactor had slipped it into her jacket pocket months ago. She crouched by a cluster of moonlit blooms, thumb brushing the thumbnail-sized gem. It warmed instantly, a faint inner glow pulsing like a heartbeat. Not burning, just... insistent. The first wrongness hit as a rustle, too deliberate for wind. Rory froze, left wrist itching where the crescent scar pulled tight—a phantom ache from that childhood tumble off her da's garden wall. Her pulse ticked up, but she breathed even, cool-headed as always. Probably a fox, or one of those deer Richmond was lousy with. She straightened, boots sinking slightly into the turf, and paced the clearing's edge. Thirty feet across, maybe—oaks ringing it like silent sentinels, flowers carpeting the center in a bed that seemed to breathe, stems swaying without breeze. Another rustle, closer, from the shadows beyond the stones. Leaves? No, drier, like parchment scraping stone. Rory's hand dipped to her jeans pocket, fingers closing on her phone. No signal, of course. Battery at half, clock reading 12:17 a.m.—same as when she'd entered. She flicked on the torch, beam slicing the dark. Nothing. Just flowers nodding innocently, a faint mist coiling at ankle height. The pendant throbbed warmer, syncing with her heartbeat now, or was that her imagination? She killed the light, ears straining. Silence, thick and pressed, like the grove held its breath. She walked the perimeter, fingers trailing bark. The oaks felt alive under her touch—pulsing faintly, sap sticky. One trunk bore a gouge, fresh, oozing clear resin that smelled of honey and rot. Rory's stomach twisted, but she pressed on, quick mind cataloging: unnatural blooms, time glitch, pendant glow. Hypothesis: geological anomaly, magnetic field screwing with the stone. Reassuring, scientific. Except the air tasted sweeter here, laced with something metallic, like blood pennies. Halfway around, movement flickered at vision's edge—a pale shape darting between stones, too tall for deer, too fluid for human. Rory whipped around, heart slamming. Empty. She blinked hard, blue eyes watering in the starlight. Peripheral glitch, low light playing tricks. But the rustle returned, multiplied—soft footfalls circling, just beyond the oaks. Not footsteps. Patter, like bare feet on moss, or... claws tapping? No. Restrain it. Think. The pendant burned now, hot enough to sting. She yanked it free, holding the silver chain taut. The crimson gem glowed brighter, casting ruby shadows that danced across petals, making them writhe like worms. Time to leave. Rory pivoted toward the boundary, but the stones had shifted—or had they? The gap she'd entered through gaped narrower, flanked by oaks that leaned inward, branches interlacing like fingers. She pushed forward, shoulders brushing bark that yielded, warm and spongy. A whisper slithered through the flowers, wordless, sibilant. Wind? No, shaped—her name? Rory. Laila. Echoes of aliases from old lives, Evan's snarls. She spun, boots crunching blooms that bled milky sap. Nothing. But the mist thickened, tendrils curling up her calves, cool as grave silk. The air hummed, low frequency vibrating in her teeth. Her scar itched fiercer, skin crawling as if ants marched beneath. Faster now. She broke into a jog, pendant swinging, glow pulsing erratic—warm, hot, scalding. A shape loomed at the corner of her eye: slender, elongated, white as bone, vanishing when she turned. Laughter? No, chittering, like wet leaves under teeth. The grove shrank, oaks crowding, flowers rising to her knees, tugging at her jeans with thorns that weren't there seconds ago. She stumbled, righting on a stone that wasn't stone—mossy, pulsing. Her hand came away sticky, glowing faintly crimson. "Not alone," the realization hit like ice water, certainty coiling in her gut. Eyes watched from the dark—many, unblinking, silver-pinprick pupils in voids where faces should be. The whispers multiplied, a chorus: Rory-Carter-Malophora-stay-play-time-twists. The pendant shrieked heat, chain searing her palm. She dropped it, gem thudding into flowers that snapped shut over it like mouths. Panic clawed, but Rory shoved it down—think, out-of-box. Time moves different here, Eva said. An hour inside, days out. Phone clock: 12:17 still. Stuck? No. She bolted for the stones, mist parting reluctantly, tendrils whipping her ankles. Shapes flitted now, bolder—elongated limbs brushing her hair, breath hot and sugared on her neck. Claws? Fingers? Grazed her scar, drawing a bead of blood that sizzled on the grass. She burst through the narrowest gap, bark raking her arms, emerging into Richmond Park's proper dark. Gasping, she whirled. The stones stood innocent, oaks straight, no glow, no whispers. Phone: 12:20 a.m. Three minutes? Her palm blistered red, chain dangling empty—the pendant gone, swallowed. Flowers inside the boundary wilted visibly, curling black. But the rustle followed. Soft patter on the path behind her, circling wide. Eyes gleamed from the treeline—silver, hungry. Not alone. Never alone again. Rory ran, heart thunderous, the grove's wrongness a stain on her skin. The night deepened, stars winking out one by one, and the whispers rode the wind: Come back, Rory. Time waits. She didn't stop until Silas' bar lights flickered distant, but even then, the patter echoed in her bones. The pendant's heat lingered, a promise. Or a curse. (Word count: 1127)