Run: 2026-02-20-01KHYA0R0YEZ8K6D46HGB4ZXF5

The air in Richmond Park smells of damp earth and something sharper, sweeter—like overripe peaches left in a hot car. Aurora Carter, her hood pulled tight against the night chill, pauses three hundred yards from the ancient oak standing stones that mark the Grove’s boundary. Her sneakers crunch over a bed of leaves, and the noise echoes, *too* loud, as if the forest itself is listening. She tightens her grip on the duffel bag slung over her shoulder; inside, the Heartstone Pendant presses against her spine, a warm, insistent weight. The codex—Eva’s handwriting, smudged and trembling, scrawled on the back of a Golden Empress takeout menu—said *this is the threshold. It will answer for you*. *For us*. Rory left London at 2 a.m., her flat above Silas’ bar still dark, the hum of the fridge the only sound. She hadn’t packed. Just grabbed the pendant (a gift, she still didn’t know from whom—once, a woman in a silver coat handed it to her on the street, said *“It finds those who need it”*), her phone, and the takeout bag with a borrowed map and a thermos of chamomile tea Eva had slipped her. *“If you’re there, it’s because you can fix it,”* Eva had said, her voice breaking. *“And if you’re not… I need to know if it’s worth the price.”* Rory’s throat tightens. Eva was her sister, by choice—three years older, with a laugh like broken glass and a temper to match. They’d grown up together in Cardiff, fighting in rain-soaked parks, stealing chips from corner shops, swearing they’d never let anything come between them. Then Evan… Evan who’d choked her once, said *“You’ll never leave me, pretty girl,”* said it like a promise. Rory had left with a single suitcase, a signed restraining order, and Eva’s number on speed dial. Now, seven months later, that number had pinged *once*: a video of the Grove, wildflowers blazing in the dark, a voice whispering *“Laila,”* then static. *“Laila”* was Aurora’s childhood nickname, given by their Irish grandmother. Rory hadn’t answered. She couldn’t. The standing stones loom now, their trunks gnarled and black, bark splitting to reveal cracks that glow faintly, like something alive beneath the surface. The air grows colder, even through her jacket, and Rory’s breath fogs. She steps closer, and the pendant in her bag pulses—once, twice, a slow, deliberate rhythm. The codex had warned: *“Time bends. Do not trust what you see or hear. The Grove lies.”* A creak. Not the wind. Not the trees. A *flicker*, of sound, like fabric dragging over stone. Rory freezes. The park is usually empty at night—dog walkers scurry home when the clocks change, joggers vanish into the gloom—but here, in the heart of the trees, everything is *still*. Too still. She pulls out her phone; the screen reads 2:17 a.m. Battery: 12%. No signal. “Hello?” Her voice comes out thinner than she means it to. She clears her throat. “Eva? If you’re here, it’s fine. I… I’m here. Let’s talk.” Silence. Then—*a rustle*—not in the trees, but *behind* her. Rory spins. The trees are black silhouettes, their branches weaving patterns in the moonlight. Nothing. She swallows. “Great. Uh. I brought tea. And a map. If you want—” Another sound: a *hum*, low and thrumming, like a bass string plucked too hard. It vibrates in her bones, making her teeth ache. The pendant pulses again, brighter this time, and when she glances down, she sees a crack in the duffel bag’s fabric, just above the stone. The fabric is stretching, as if something inside is pushing outward. “No,” she says, too sharp. She fumbles with the zipper, yanking it open. The pendant glows now, a deep, crimson light that seeps through the gap, turning the grass below blue. Rory stares at it, its surface rippling like liquid. *“It finds those who need it,”* the silver-haired woman had said. *“It sings to the lost.”* “Laila.” The voice is soft, breathy, *familiar*. Rory freezes. It’s Eva. Or… a version of her. The words hang in the air, warm, cooing, and Rory feels a hand on her shoulder—pale, cold, the fingers long and tapering, nails black as pitch. She whips around. No one. But the grass where her hand had been is crushed, flattened, as if a body had been lying there. “Laila, come play,” the voice says. It’s closer now—behind her, to her left, all around. “The flowers are hungry. They want to meet you.” Rory steps back, tripping over a root. Her elbow hits the stone, and she hisses. The standing stones—they’re moving. Not much, but *slowly*, their trunks rotating, cracks glowing wider. The wildflowers, which she hadn’t noticed before, are clustered at the base: red, white, purple, petals glistening with dew that isn’t dew—thick, sticky, like blood. “Eva?” she says, louder. “If this is a prank, I swear—” A flower moves. Not a petal unfurling. A *curl*, a *twist*, like a finger curling. Rory’s blood runs cold. She scrambles to her feet, but her legs are wobbly, her breath coming in short gasps. The pendant in her hand is hot now, searing through the duffel fabric, and when she yanks it free, it pulses *violently*, a beam of light shooting into the sky. The grass around her ignites—no, not fire. The flowers are climbing, their stems slithering like snakes, wrapping around her ankles, her wrists, her neck. “No!” she screams. She fumbles for the pendant, trying to yank it away, but the chain burns her fingers. It’s not just a stone anymore; it’s a live thing, thrumming with a pulse that matches her heartbeat, growing faster, faster, until she can’t tell if it’s in her chest or theirs. The standing stones have circled her now, forming a cage, and the hum is deafening, making her ears bleed. “Laila, you ran,” the voice says, and it’s not Eva’s. It’s *her own*, warped, twisted, like a record skipping. “You left us. The Grove *feels* it. The flowers *feel* your fear.” A petal touches her cheek. It’s soft, but underneath, Rory feels *teeth*, tiny and sharp, gnawing at her skin. She falls to her knees, the pendant still in her hand, and sees movement in the flowers—shapes, fragments of faces, all screaming, all smiling, all *staring*. One of them is Eva, but her eyes are black, her mouth stretched too wide, teeth like shards of glass. “Come,” the voice says. “Stay. Let the flowers *feed* you. You’ll never be lost again.” The pendant glows white-hot, and Rory drops it. It hits the ground, and the flowers recoil, hissing. But the standing stones are closing in, their trunks pressing against her ribs, the cracks splitting wider, revealing a darkness inside—something with eyes, with too many teeth. Rory crawls backward, but there’s no escape; the grass is closing in, smothering her, the flowers wrapping tighter, tighter. The voice is now in her head, *singing*, a lullaby in a language that isn’t Welsh or English or anything real, a language that burrows into her brain, making her want to *stay*, to let go, to be *found*. “Eva,” she whimpers, tears freezing on her cheeks. “I’m sorry. I’m here. Please—” The stone at her feet splits open. It’s not just a crack. It’s a portal, a black hole of light, and from it spills a warmth that burns, that *heals*, that makes her forget Evan, forget the flat above Silas’, forget the weight of the world. The flowers retreat, screaming, and the standing stones recoil, their bark cracking, revealing a trunk that isn’t oak at all—something sinuous, scaled, with eyes like embers. “Laila,” the voice says, and it’s Eva again, but this time, it’s *pleading*. “Come through. It’s safe. Please—” Rory stands. Her legs don’t shake. The pendant is in her hand again, glowing softly, and the portal is getting bigger, brighter, a beacon. She takes a step forward. “Rory,” the voice corrects. “You’re *Rory* now. Not Laila. But it’s okay. The Grove doesn’t mind. It loves you.” Rory smiles. She takes another step. The flowers try to wrap around her, but the pendant burns them away, leaving only ash. The black, scaled trunk hisses, retreating, but Rory doesn’t care. She steps through the portal, and the world turns white. When she opens her eyes, the sun is rising. She’s on the ground, in the middle of the park, the duffel bag beside her, the pendant gone. The standing stones are silent, their cracks sealed, their bark smooth and brown. Her phone is in her hand, screen cracked, showing a time of 3:02 a.m. Battery: 100%. A text message sits on the screen, unread: *I’m sorry I scared you. It’s not too late to come home. —E* Rory stands. Her left wrist burns. She looks down. The crescent-shaped scar is still there, but it’s glowing, faintly crimson, like the surface of a stone. Somewhere in the distance, a bird sings. She walks toward the park exit, her shoes crunching over leaves. The pendant is gone, but she can feel it—warm, insistent, *singing* in her blood. And somewhere, deep in the trees, a flower blooms. --- The scene leans into slow-burn horror through sensory escalation (sound, temperature, texture) and psychological tension, grounding Aurora in her codex details (cool-headedness, childhood scar, attachment to Eva) while weaving in The Fae Grove's time-bending and supernatural flora. The Heartstone's behavior ties the artifact to both character motivation and the realm, leaving its threat ambiguous—leaving Aurora (and the reader) uncertain of her fate or the cost of "fixing" what's broken.