Run: 2026-02-20-01KHYA0ZZF11HQ8S1QTRXP5WM7

The rain hadn’t stopped. It wasn’t a deluge, not exactly, but a persistent, clinging wetness that seemed to seep into her bones. Rory pulled her threadbare jacket tighter, the damp wool doing little to combat the chill that radiated from the ground itself. Richmond Park, usually a riot of green and gold, was reduced to a monochrome smudge under the bruised purple of the twilight sky. The ancient oak standing stones, ringed with a ghostly luminescence, marked the entrance to the Grove with an unsettling formality. She’d been walking for what felt like hours, the path beneath her boots soft and yielding, like walking on moss-covered velvet. The Heartstone Pendant, cool against her chest, pulsed faintly—a subtle throb of warmth that was increasingly unsettling in this place. It always reacted to a Hel portal, a beacon of sorts, and there had been a nexus of energy here, a thrumming that she'd felt in her teeth just stepping over the stones. Now, it was just…quiet. Ominously so. She hadn’t told Eva she was coming. Eva, with her practical boots and no-nonsense approach to everything, would have insisted on backup. Rory hadn’t bothered to ask for it. This was something she needed to do alone. The note, slipped beneath her apartment door – a simple, elegant script on thick parchment – had been cryptic, promising a lead, a key. It hadn’t specified *what* key. Just that it was time. The air thickened as she moved deeper into the Grove. The wildflowers, stubbornly blooming even in this gloom, smelled overwhelmingly sweet, almost cloying. Not the delicate fragrance of summer blooms, but a saccharine intensity that prickled at the back of her throat. She adjusted the strap of her messenger bag, the weight of the delivery slips inside feeling suddenly significant, like a burden of mundane normalcy in this increasingly alien space. It started subtly. A rustle in the undergrowth that wasn’t quite the wind. A shadow flickering at the edge of her peripheral vision – gone before she could properly register it. She dismissed them as tricks of the light, the product of exhaustion and the unsettling atmosphere. But the feeling of being watched intensified, a cold, insidious pressure against her skin. She checked the pendant again. The pulse was stronger now, as if reacting to something unseen. It pulled her forward, deeper into the heart of the Grove’s gloom. The oak stones loomed larger, their faces weathered and strangely familiar, like the faces of forgotten ancestors. Then she heard it. A melody. Not a mournful lament, not a joyous tune, but something…wrong. A child’s song, played on a flute, but slightly off-key, stretched out and thin, like a spiderweb vibrating with unease. It seemed to emanate from everywhere and nowhere at once. Rory stopped, her breath catching in her throat. She scanned the trees, the thick undergrowth, searching for the source. There was nothing. Only the rain, the strange flowers, and the insistent, unsettling music. “Hello?” she called out, her voice sounding unnaturally loud in the suffocating silence that followed the song. No answer. She tightened her grip on the messenger bag, a purely instinctive action. It wasn’t a weapon, not really, but holding something solid grounded her, gave her a tiny sliver of control in a place where control seemed utterly absent. As she turned to leave, a single wildflower, a deep crimson poppy, shifted on the ground. It wasn't a gust of wind that moved it. It simply…moved. She stared at it, her breath hitching. Then another poppy, and another. A slow, deliberate arrangement, forming a spiral, pointing directly at the tallest oak stone. A twig snapped behind her. Rory whirled around, her hand instinctively reaching for the small pocketknife she carried. The rain intensified, plastering her hair to her face, blurring her vision. She couldn’t see anything. “Show yourself,” she said, her voice a strained whisper. The air grew colder. The scent of the flowers became overwhelming, almost nauseating. The melody returned, louder now, more insistent, accompanied by a faint, rhythmic tapping—like fingers drumming against wood. She took a step forward, then another. The spiral of poppies led her towards a darker patch of the Grove, where the light struggled to penetrate. As she entered the shadow, she realized the tapping wasn't coming from behind her. It was coming from within the oak itself. A section of the bark, seamlessly blended into the ancient tree, swung inward, revealing a small, dark cavity. Inside, a single, flickering candle cast long, distorted shadows. And sitting on a small wooden stool, its back to her, was a child. It wasn’t a normal child. Its skin was the color of ash, its limbs unnaturally long and slender. It wore a simple, grey tunic, and its hands, resting on the stool, moved with a slow, deliberate rhythm, striking a small wooden flute. The melody was clearer now, laced with a subtle undercurrent of sorrow. Rory felt a strange pull, a yearning she couldn't understand, a desperate desire to approach the child, to comfort it. She wanted to scream, to flee, but her feet were rooted to the ground. The pendant pulsed violently against her chest, a frantic warning. As the child finished the song, it slowly turned its head. Its face was obscured by shadow, but Rory could sense its gaze fixed on her, cold and devoid of emotion. And then, it spoke. “You brought the heartstone,” it said, its voice a dry rustle of leaves. “You brought the key.” Rory’s mind raced, trying to decipher the meaning of its words. The note...the lead…the heartstone. It all seemed to coalesce into a single, terrifying realization. She hadn't come here for a lead. She’d come here to *pay*. The child tilted its head, and for the first time, Rory saw its eyes – two dark, bottomless pits that reflected no light. “It’s been a long time,” it whispered. “A very long time.”