Run: 2026-02-20-01KHYAC4M80P979GSTEX47W3NK

The chipped porcelain of the mug warmed Rory’s hands. Earl Grey, lukewarm now. She’d brewed it back above Silas’ bar, hoping the steam would chase away the chill settling into her bones. Didn’t work. Richmond Park, even in late May, held a dampness that seeped through layers. She adjusted the strap of her messenger bag, the weight of textbooks a familiar discomfort. Finals were looming. Law felt like a distant, ill-fitting costume, but Eva insisted. *Something solid, Rory. A fallback.* A fallback from what, precisely? From chasing whispers and strange gifts? The Fae Grove. Isolde’s Grove, some called it. Locals mostly steered clear, mumbling about tricksy folk and lost time. Rory hadn’t believed the stories, not until the pendant. The Heartstone. Cool against her skin under her sweater, it hadn’t warmed since she’d entered the park. Usually, a subtle thrum against her chest, especially when she neared the standing stones. Tonight, nothing. The air tasted different within the grove itself. Thick, floral, cloying. Wildflowers, a riot of color, bloomed with impossible vibrancy even under the bruised twilight. Ancient oak standing stones, gnarled and moss-covered, formed a rough circle around the clearing, their shadows stretching long and distorted. Rory walked towards the center, gravel crunching beneath her boots. “Hello?” Her voice sounded too loud, brittle against the oppressive quiet. Silence answered. Except… a rustle in the undergrowth. Not the scurrying of a rabbit. Too deliberate. She paused, scanning the perimeter. Just trees. Just shadows. Damn London nerves, she told herself. Too many late nights, too much caffeine. She’d come because of the readings. A concentration of… *something* had been pulling at the Heartstone all week. A subtle tug, almost imperceptible, but enough to make the gem’s usual warmth stutter. And the dreams. Fragmented images of tangled roots and crimson light. Rory pulled out her notebook, flipping to a page covered in frantic scribbles. Coordinates, sketches of the stone circle, notes from old texts. She was looking for patterns, anything to explain the Hel portal she suspected was opening nearby. Another rustle, closer this time. From beyond the stone to her left. “Probably a deer,” she muttered, but her hand instinctively tightened around the mug. She took a sip, the tea doing little to settle her jumpy nerves. She started tracing a line on her map, checking the alignment of the stones. The pendant remained stubbornly cold. Something was wrong. Terribly wrong. It wasn’t just the lack of warmth, it was… a feeling. Like being watched. Not with curiosity, but with hungry attention. A twig snapped. Clear as a pistol shot. Rory whipped around. Nothing. “Right,” she said, her voice shaking slightly. “Time to go.” She turned to leave, but a shape flickered at the edge of her vision. Between two of the standing stones. Tall, slender, indistinct. It vanished before she could properly focus. “What the…” She took a step back, her heart hammering against her ribs. The air grew colder, the floral scent turning sickly sweet. The wildflowers seemed to pulse with a faint, phosphorescent glow. “Is someone there?” she asked, her voice barely a whisper. Silence. The rustling had stopped. Everything was still, too still. Rory reached for her phone, fumbling with it in her trembling hands. No signal. Of course. The Grove always scrambled signals. She cursed under her breath. She risked another glance toward the stones. The shape was gone, but she could feel its presence, a weight in the air. A pressure against her chest. A low hum began to vibrate through the ground, resonating in her bones. The Heartstone remained icy. It should have been screaming, pulsing with warning. Its silence was the most terrifying thing of all. “This isn’t right,” she breathed. The shadows between the trees deepened, swirling and coalescing into amorphous forms. They didn’t seem to obey the rules of light and shadow, twisting and writhing like living things. Another sound. A soft, melodic chime, like distant bells. It seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere at once. “Who’s there?” Rory demanded, her voice gaining a shaky edge. The chime grew louder, closer. And with it, a new sound. A whisper. Just on the edge of hearing. Like leaves skittering across pavement. But it wasn't the wind. “Lost, little one?” The voice wasn’t male or female, old or young. It was simply… *other*. It echoed inside her skull, bypassing her ears entirely. Rory spun around, searching for the source. But there was nothing there. Only the trees, the stones, the glowing wildflowers. And the shadows, which were growing bolder, reaching out like grasping claws. “Show yourself!” “Patience.” The voice was closer now, right behind her. She could feel a cold breath on the back of her neck. Rory didn’t dare turn. She squeezed her eyes shut, her fists clenched so tight her knuckles ached. “What do you want?” “What anyone wants,” the voice purred. “A little company. A little… warmth.” She felt a touch on her shoulder. Not a hand, not exactly. More like… a pressure. Cold as ice. “The Heartstone is quiet,” the voice observed. “It doesn't recognize…home.” Rory forced her eyes open, slowly turning her head. Still nothing directly in front of her. But the shadows… they were moving differently. Almost… deliberately. Forming shapes. Mimicking faces. “You shouldn’t be here,” she managed to stammer. “Oh, but I think you are the one who shouldn't be.” The voice chuckled, a brittle, rasping sound. "You're trespassing.” The chime resonated again, louder than before. And this time, Rory didn't need to look to know that she wasn't alone.