Run: 2026-02-20-01KHY9XRYZZFV93JHH08JC2MYC

Aurora found the standing stones at midnight, the third oak in Richmond Park's northern edge bent low, its bark scored with runes that weren't there when she'd mapped them at dusk. The air smelled of iron and jasmine, thick like wet wool, and her boots sank into moss that *moved*—not the slow heave of forest floor, but a quick, skittering pulse. She paused, hand hovering over the Heartstone Pendant at her neck. The crimson gem had started glowing when she crossed the park's perimeter, faint at first, now bright enough to cast a red flicker on her face. "Yu-Fei's instructions . . ." she muttered, though she wasn't sure who she was reassuring. The restaurant owner had pressed the pendant into her palm that morning, her hands shaking, eyes darting to the kitchen where Evan—Evan with his knuckles split from punching a waiter—cleaned a pan. "Hel's gate," Yu-Fei had said. "In the Grove. Don't leave until you close it. Or burn it. Just close it." Aurora had fled London with a backpack, the pendant warm as a hand in her pocket, and now she stepped between the stones. The world *ripped*. — silence, first. No crickets, no wind, no distant train. Her breath hitched, loud in her ears. Then, a sound: not a bird, not a branch. A *whisper*, high and thin, like static through a bad radio. She fumbled for the phone in her pocket—screen cracked, dead. Of course it was dead. Yu-Fei had warned her about that, too. "Time here bends. Don't rely on tools." The Grove was a clearing, but not the kind she'd imagined. No sunlight, even though it was still night outside; the moon was a sliver, and the sky glowed with a sickly green light, as if the stars had been smothered in paint. The trees were older than any in the park, their trunks thick enough to need two arms to wrap around, their leaves a deep, unnatural purple that absorbed what little light there was. Wildflowers bloomed everywhere—orchids, lilies, daisies—but they didn't look real. The petals were too perfect, edges sharp as glass, and when Aurora knelt to pick one (stupid, she knew it, but the movement felt normal), the flower *screamed*. Not a sound, exactly. A *feeling*—like a nail scraping down her spine, like someone whispering *stop* into her skull. She dropped it, scrambling back, and saw it then: the ground beneath the bloom wasn't dirt. It was a web, fine as hair, strung between the roots of the trees, glinting with a faint, silver light. When she touched it, it *bit*. Ice ran down her spine. She'd heard stories, as a kid, about the Fae—about how they took what wasn't theirs, how a glance too long could unravel a soul. Her father had laughed them off, but her mother had touched a trinket once, a clay rabbit she'd found in a London market, and come home muttering about "a debt not owed." "Some places," she'd said, "are sorry to see you." Aurora pressed the pendant harder into her neck. It pulsed, warm against her skin, and for a second, she saw it: a flicker of Hel, a rift in the air where the web met the trees, a blackness so deep it seemed to *eat* light. Then it was gone. The whisper came again, closer this time. She spun, heart thudding, and saw nothing but trees. But the web had shifted. Where it had been a tangled mess, it now formed a shape—a figure, thin as a blade, with limbs that bent wrong, fingers ending in claws like needles. Aurora's throat went dry. She'd run from Evan's fists, from a landlord who'd broken her window, but this was different. Evan had wanted to *hurt* her; this thing wanted to *unmake* her. She took a step back. The ground squelched. Not dirt. Not moss. *Flesh*. She fell onto her ass, scrambling away. The web stretched, its silver threads glowing brighter, and the figure took shape. It was tall, taller than she was, with a face that was *nothing*—no eyes, no mouth, just a black pit where features should be—but she could *feel* it looking at her, drilling into her skull. The pendant burned. "Leave," it said. The voice was a chorus, a thousand voices at once, all male and all female, all laughing and all screaming. "The Gate is ours. She who carries the Heartstone cannot close it. She cannot even *bind* it." Aurora fumbled with the pendant's chain, the silver links cold against her palm. "I'm not here to close it," she said, though her voice shook. "I'm here to *see* it. To show someone. Yu-Fei—she knows—" "Yu-Fei is a worm," the voice spat. "She feeds us scraps, and we let her live. But *you*—you carry the stone. It belongs to us. The stone *hungers* for the Gate. It will not let you leave until you feed it." Aurora scrambled to her feet, backing toward the standing stones. The figure took a step, and the web rippled, pushing through the grass like water, closing the distance. She could smell it now—rot and roses, sickly sweet—and the hair on her arms stood on end. The pendant blazed, crimson light spilling over her neck, and the figure recoiled, its black pit of a face warping. "Go back," it hissed. "This is not your place. The Fae Grove does not *welcome* humans. It *consumes* them." Aurora reached the stones. She placed her hand on the oldest oak, its bark rough, its runes glowing faintly now, as if waking. The ground shook. Not a rumble, but a *thrum*, like a heart beating far underground. The web stopped, hovering a foot from her, as if unsure. "I'm not a human," she said, though it wasn't true—not anymore. She'd run so far, from Cardiff to London, from Evan to the edge of the world, and now she was something else: a girl with a scar and a pendant, a girl who knew how to fight. "I'm a *runner*. And runners don't stop when things get scary. They keep going." The figure screamed. It was a sound like shattering glass, like metal grinding on stone, and the pendant burned so hot Aurora thought it might melt through her skin. The web lunged, but Aurora stepped *between* the stones. The world *ripped* again. When she hit the park, it was dawn. The sun rose over the trees, casting long shadows, and the grass was normal, the flowers real, the air fresh. Aurora fell onto her back, gasping, her hand pressed to her neck. The pendant was cool now, no longer glowing. She looked at her wrist, the crescent-shaped scar, and felt it: a faint, burning touch, like the figure's claws had brushed her skin. A car honked in the distance. Aurora stood, her legs wobbly, and looked back at the park. The standing stones were just stones, silent, unmarked. The trees were trees, their leaves green. But in the corner of her eye, she saw it: a flash of purple leaves, a web of silver light, a black pit where a face should be. Then it was gone. Aurora clutched the pendant to her chest. Her phone buzzed—one bar of signal. She scrolled through the missed calls: Yu-Fei, five of them. She dialed, her hands steady. "Yu-Fei," she said, when the woman answered. "I found the Grove." There was a long silence. "Did you see it?" Yu-Fei asked. Aurora looked over her shoulder at the park. The trees swayed, as if laughing. "I saw *it*." Another silence. "Can you close it?" Aurora touched the pendant. It warmed, just a little. "Not yet. I need more time." "Time's a luxury we don't have," Yu-Fei said. "It's feeding. Every day it's here, it grows. Soon it won't be contained. Soon it'll—" Aurora hung up. She looked at her watch—it was seven-thirty. She needed to get back to London. To Evan's old flat, to the box under the floorboards where Yu-Fei had told her the truth, the whole truth. She'd left it behind when she fled, but now she needed it. The rest of it. The pendant pulsed again, faint but insistent. Aurora started walking. Somewhere behind her, in the park, the trees whispered. And the figure waited.