Run: 2026-02-20-01KHYA15EW7E72MDWJNJQ13SAG

Aurora stepped through the ring of ancient oak standing stones, the night air thick with the scent of blooming wildflowers that had no business unfurling in the chill of a London autumn. The stones loomed like silent sentinels, their bark twisted into shapes that might have been faces if she stared too long—eyes hollowed by centuries, mouths gaping in perpetual warning. She paused just inside the boundary, her breath misting in the faint moonlight that filtered through the canopy overhead. Richmond Park lay behind her, its vast expanse of deer-haunted grassland now distant, muffled, as if the world had drawn a veil across itself. She'd come here for answers. The Heartstone Pendant hung heavy against her chest, its deep crimson gem pulsing with a warmth that had grown insistent over the past week, like a heartbeat not her own. It had arrived in an unmarked envelope at the flat above Silas' bar, no note, no explanation—just the silver chain and the thumbnail-sized stone with its faint inner glow. Yu-Fei at the Golden Empress had joked it was a secret admirer's gift, but Rory knew better. This wasn't romance; it was a pull, a summons. And tonight, after another shift dodging traffic on her delivery scooter, the pendant had led her here, its warmth flaring as she neared the park's hidden grove. A place she'd only heard whispers of in Eva's old stories—Isolde's grove, a pocket between worlds where time bent like a reed in the wind. The ground under her boots felt soft, unnaturally springy, carpeted with petals that glowed faintly underfoot. Wildflowers dotted the clearing: foxgloves nodding in a breeze she couldn't feel, bluebells clustering like forgotten secrets. It was beautiful, in a way that made her skin prickle. Too beautiful for midnight, when the rest of the city shivered under frost. Rory adjusted the strap of her backpack, the weight of a flashlight and a half-eaten takeaway container from the restaurant a small anchor to the ordinary. She was alone, or so she'd thought. The park gates had locked hours ago; she'd scaled the fence, heart pounding from the thrill of trespass more than fear. Now, standing in the grove's heart, that thrill curdled into something else. A faint rustle stirred the leaves to her left. She froze, bright blue eyes scanning the shadows. Just wind, she told herself. But the air hung still, heavy as a held breath. No owls hooted, no distant traffic hummed from the A roads beyond the park. The silence pressed in, absolute, like the grove had swallowed sound itself. Rory reached for the pendant, fingers brushing the warm gem. It throbbed once, gently, as if reassuring her. Or warning her. She moved deeper into the clearing, her straight black hair swaying against her shoulders with each careful step. The scar on her left wrist itched—a small crescent from a childhood fall off her bike in Cardiff, a reminder that accidents happened when you weren't paying attention. She was paying attention now, every sense sharpened by the cool-headed focus that had gotten her through law lectures she hated and out of Evan's grip in one piece. Out-of-the-box thinking, her father called it. Survival, she knew. The standing stones encircled a central glade, perhaps thirty paces across, with a single ancient oak at its core, its branches sprawling like arthritic fingers. Rory approached it, drawn by an instinct she couldn't name. The pendant warmed again, its glow seeping through her shirt, casting a faint crimson tint on the bark. She traced a hand over the tree's rough surface, feeling for carvings or clues—anything to explain why this trinket had chosen her. Her mind raced: the unknown benefactor, the way it pulsed near certain alleyways in London, as if sniffing out hidden doors. Fae-touched, Eva would say with a laugh, but Rory didn't believe in fairy tales. Not until tonight. Another rustle, this time behind her. She whirled, heart kicking against her ribs. Nothing. Just the wildflowers, their petals stirring as if brushed by invisible hands. She exhaled slowly, forcing calm. "Get a grip, Rory," she muttered, her Welsh lilt soft in the quiet. Dialogue with herself—Evan had hated that habit, called it crazy. But it grounded her, made the world feel less empty. She knelt by the oak's roots, digging out her flashlight from the backpack. The beam cut through the dark, illuminating clusters of blooms that seemed to lean toward the light, petals unfurling like they were waking. Odd, but not impossible. Flowers reacted to stimuli; she'd read that in some botany elective back at uni. Still, the wrongness nagged at her, a whisper at the edge of thought. Time moved differently here, the old tales said—an hour inside could stretch or shrink outside. She checked her watch: 11:47 PM. Fine. She'd give it fifteen minutes, poke around, then head back to the flat before Silas locked up downstairs. As she stood, a sound slithered through the silence: a low, murmuring hum, like voices overlapping in a language she almost understood. It came from the stones, or beyond them—impossible to pinpoint. Rory clicked off the flashlight, plunging the grove into moonlit gloom. Listening. The hum faded, then returned, softer, weaving through the air like smoke. Words? No, not quite. More like echoes of words, remnants of conversations long ended. She strained to catch them, but they dissolved just as she focused, leaving her with the certainty that someone—something—had been speaking. Her pulse quickened. She wasn't alone. The thought hit her not as panic, but as cold fact, intelligence piecing together the clues: the rustles, the humming, the way the shadows at the grove's edge seemed denser now, clotting like ink. She backed toward the central oak, eyes darting. There—a flicker at the periphery, a shape darting between two standing stones. Too quick to identify, but tall, elongated, gone before she could blink. Deer? The park was full of them, but this felt wrong. Deer didn't whisper. The pendant burned hot against her skin now, its pulse erratic, like a frantic signal. Rory gripped it through her shirt, willing it to quiet. Instead, the glow intensified, bathing her hand in crimson light. And in that light, she saw them: footprints in the petal-strewn earth, not hers. They circled the glade, faint impressions that hadn't been there when she arrived. Small, like a child's, but elongated, toes splayed unnaturally. Her mind flashed to Eva's stories—fae folk, tricksters who lured the unwary into their realms. Ridiculous. She was twenty-five, not some wide-eyed girl from Cardiff fairy tales. Yet the footprints led toward the stones, vanishing into shadow. The humming grew louder, resolving into fragments: a laugh, high and tinkling, cut off abruptly. Then a sigh, drawn out and sorrowful. Rory's breath caught. Not alone. The certainty bloomed in her chest, spreading like frost. She turned slowly, scanning the grove. Movement again—at the edge of vision, a pale hand withdrawing behind a stone. Or was it a branch? She blinked, and it was gone, but the afterimage lingered, fingers too long, skin like moonlight on water. She should leave. The thought pounded in her skull, urgent. But the pendant tugged her forward, its warmth a compulsion. Just a bit more, it seemed to say. Answers waited here, in this fae-touched pocket where Earth bled into something else. Rory took a step, then another, toward the stones. The wildflowers brushed her ankles, petals clinging like insistent fingers. The air thickened, carrying scents that didn't belong: honeyed sweetness undercut by decay, like fruit rotting in summer heat. It was autumn, she reminded herself. Night. Cold. A whisper brushed her ear, close enough to feel breath—though there was no one. "Stay," it murmured, the word slithering into her mind. Rory spun, arms raised defensively, her quick thinking kicking in. No one there. Just the empty glade, the humming voices swelling now into a chorus, overlapping, insistent. Laughter mingled with sobs, pleas with giggles. They pulled at her, these sounds, drawing her attention to the shadows where shapes flitted—just out of sight, always just out of sight. Her watch beeped softly: midnight. But when she glanced down, the hands spun wildly, forward then back, as if time itself unraveled. Panic edged in, but she shoved it down. Cool-headed, remember? She backed away from the stones, toward the grove's exit—the ring she'd entered through. But the stones seemed farther now, the glade stretched, wildflowers blooming thicker, choking the path. Another flicker: a face peering from behind the central oak, eyes gleaming like polished stones, mouth curved in a smile that stretched too wide. Not alone. The realization sank roots, deep and unshakable. Whatever lurked here had been waiting— for her, perhaps, drawn by the pendant's glow. The humming voices crested, words forming now: "Aurora... stay... ours..." Her name, twisted into melody. She bolted then, legs pumping, but the ground tilted, petals rising like a tide to snag her boots. A hand—cold, insubstantial—brushed her wrist, right over the scar, sending ice through her veins. She burst through the standing stones, tumbling onto the frost-kissed grass of Richmond Park. The night air slapped her face, ordinary, chilled. Behind her, the grove's boundary shimmered once, then steadied. Rory scrambled to her feet, chest heaving. Her watch read 11:52 PM—five minutes since she'd entered, though it felt like hours. The pendant cooled against her skin, its pulse steadying to nothing. But as she hurried toward the park's edge, the whispering followed, faint on the wind: "Come back... Aurora..." She didn't look back. Not yet. But she knew, with bone-deep certainty, that whatever dwelled in the grove wasn't finished with her. The night stretched long ahead, and the shadows seemed to watch her go.