Run: 2026-02-20-01KHY9S85J1KCJNS4C19WTMMDD

The rain tasted of iron. It slicked the cobblestones of Richmond Park, reflecting the sickly yellow glow of the streetlights in distorted puddles. Rory pulled her thin jacket tighter, the damp already seeping through the cotton. She’d been walking for an hour, the air growing colder with each step, the trees thickening into a claustrophobic wall. The map, crumpled and damp in her pocket, offered no comfort. It showed a small, unremarkable patch of woodland – The Fae Grove – marked with a single, unsettling question mark. She hadn’t told Eva she was coming. Not really. Just a hurried text: “Need to clear my head. Be back soon.” Eva would have argued. Eva always argued. But Rory needed solitude, a space where the ghost of Evan didn't cling to the air like a particularly persistent fog. The Grove wasn't marked on any official map. Locals dismissed it as a legend, a trick of the light, a place where the old ways still held sway. Rory had found it through a contact – a whispered rumour, a cryptic note slipped into her tip jar at Golden Empress, a small, heavy silver pendant etched with a swirling crimson stone. The Heartstone. It had pulsed against her skin the moment she’d touched it, a strange warmth that had both comforted and terrified her. The standing stones, ancient oaks with gnarled branches reaching like skeletal fingers, materialized abruptly from the gloom. They weren’t a grand, imposing circle like she’d imagined. Just five, weathered and moss-covered, huddled together in a shallow depression. A strange stillness settled over the air, deeper than the rain’s silence. She hesitated, the pendant warm against her chest. It wasn’t a frantic heat, but a slow, deliberate thrum, like a heartbeat struggling to maintain its rhythm. Something pushed against her, a subtle pressure against her mind - not a voice, not a command, just a definite *presence*. “You shouldn’t be here,” a voice whispered, too close for comfort, yet seemingly originating from everywhere and nowhere at once. Rory froze. She swung her head, searching the thickening darkness. Nothing. Only the rain, the trees, and the oppressive sense of being watched. She dismissed it as the rain playing tricks on her ears. She pressed on, navigating through a tangle of ferns and undergrowth. The air grew thick with the scent of damp earth and something else – something floral, sweet, and unsettlingly cloying, like overripe lilies. A twig snapped behind her. She didn’t turn. She forced herself to breathe. It was probably a deer. Richmond Park was full of deer. But the feeling persisted, a prickling unease that crawled beneath her skin. The rain intensified, drumming against the leaves, a frantic, insistent rhythm. The trees seemed to lean closer, their branches interlocking to blot out the remaining light. She pulled out her phone, attempting to get a signal. Nothing. Of course. “Lost, little one?” the voice returned, softer this time, laced with amusement. She spun around, scanning the shadows. Still nothing. "Who's there?" she asked, her voice tight. "Someone who has been waiting a very long time." A flicker of movement caught her eye. A rabbit, white as bone, darted across her path, disappearing into the undergrowth. But as she watched it go, she noticed something else – a flash of crimson amongst the leaves, a brief, unsettling glimpse of the Heartstone pendant. It wasn’t hanging around her neck. Panic tightened its icy grip around her chest. She frantically patted her jacket, her hands searching desperately. The pendant was gone. “Don't bother searching,” the voice said, a hint of malice creeping into its tone. “It doesn’t belong to you.” Another twig snapped, closer this time. She risked a glance, and saw it—a figure partially obscured by the trees, tall and impossibly slender, almost dissolving into the shadows. It wasn’t human. Its limbs were too long, its movements too fluid, its face obscured by a cowl of woven leaves and vines. She didn't scream. She couldn't. Her throat felt constricted, paralyzed by a primal fear she hadn't known she possessed. “You came seeking refuge,” the figure said, its voice a rustle of leaves. “But refuge here demands a price.” The ground beneath her feet began to vibrate, a subtle tremor that grew with each passing second. The standing stones shimmered, their surfaces blurring, as if viewed through disturbed water. The scent of lilies intensified, overwhelming her senses, making her head spin. She tried to move, to run, but her legs felt heavy, rooted to the spot. The figure glided closer, and she could now make out details—eyes that glowed with a faint, internal light, a mouth that was a thin, cruel line hidden beneath the foliage. “The Grove remembers.” It reached out a hand, long and skeletal, and gently brushed the pendant from the ground. The crimson stone pulsed with a blinding light. “You were told it was a gift. A guide.” The air around her shimmered. The trees seemed to twist and contort, their branches reaching out like grasping claws. The rain intensified, now accompanied by a strange, high-pitched whine. She felt a shift, a subtle alteration in the flow of time. An hour she spent battling an unseen terror, could have been mere minutes, or an eternity. "Hel portals," the figure whispered. "They crave warmth. They crave memory." Rory’s mind flooded with fragmented images—Evan’s face, contorted in rage; the sharp sting of the carving on her wrist; the suffocating pressure of his control. Memories she’d buried deep, resurfacing with terrifying clarity, fueled by the pendant’s pulsing energy. The figure leaned closer, its glowing eyes fixed on hers. “You carry the echoes of your pain,” it said. “And the Grove thrives on sorrow.” She realized then that the 'reason' she had come here wasn't to escape Evan, but to bury him, to sever every last connection to that darkness. She had hoped the Grove’s strange temporal properties might offer a reset, a clean slate. “The pendant served its purpose, little one,” the figure continued, a hint of satisfaction in its voice. “Now, you belong to us.” The ground beneath her feet dissolved into swirling mist. The trees closed in, their branches intertwining to form a cage of thorns. She felt herself being drawn downwards, into a darkness deeper than any she had ever known. A single, crimson flower bloomed at her feet, its petals unfolding with agonizing slowness. It smelled of lilies and iron, and as she stared at it, she understood. The Grove wasn't a sanctuary. It was a collector. A patient predator that lured lost souls into its embrace, feeding on their regrets, their fears, their pain. The last thing she saw before the darkness consumed her was the figure, its face still hidden beneath the veil of leaves, a single, crimson eye gleaming in the gloom. It raised a hand, and with a final, chilling whisper, said, “Welcome home.”