Run: 2026-02-20-01KHYAKZ02246Z6HG8M05TDW0H

The rain smelled like iron and something else, something ancient, rising from the ground. Rory pulled her threadbare coat tighter, the damp chill seeping through the wool. Richmond Park, even in daylight, felt… wrong. Tonight, it was a bruised purple under a sky choked with clouds. The air hung thick and still, a suffocating blanket woven with the scent of wet earth and that metallic tang. She’d followed the instructions – three oaks, aligned like crooked fingers, a stream whispering a forgotten name – and arrived at the Grove. It wasn't a dramatic entrance. No shimmering veil, no sudden flash of light. Just a subtle shift in the air, a slight darkening of the sky, and then, the trees. The standing stones, moss-slicked and gnarled, marked the boundary with an almost aggressive stillness. Rory felt a prickle on the back of her neck, the instinctive warning of someone who’d spent too long navigating dangerous shadows. She checked the Heartstone Pendant nestled against her chest, a tiny, pulsing warmth against the clammy fabric of her shirt. It was a ridiculous thing to rely on, a small piece of crimson stone whispering of some unknown benefactor, yet it was the only tether she had to this unsettling place. It pulsed a little faster now, a faint, insistent throb. The rain intensified, drumming a hypnotic rhythm on the leaves. The wildflowers, stubbornly blooming in a riot of color despite the gloom, seemed to watch her with unnervingly bright eyes. They shouldn't be flowering this late, not in this weather. Rory shivered, not entirely from the cold. She’d come to the Grove seeking answers, a desperate attempt to understand the escalating nightmares – images of a twisting, shadowed forest, a voice that didn’t belong to anyone she knew, and the persistent, chilling awareness of being hunted. The benefactor, a man named Silas who ran a grimy bar just off Holloway, had offered a cryptic lead: “Find the Grove. The stone will guide you.” He’d given her the pendant with a disconcerting, almost pitying look in his eyes. Now, surrounded by the silent, watchful trees, Rory wasn’t finding answers. She was finding a deepening sense of dread. A twig snapped. Not a natural sound, not the brittle crack of a dry branch. It was too deliberate, too close. She froze, her hand instinctively reaching for the small, worn knife she carried in her pocket. The rain plastered her hair to her face, blurring her vision, and the scent of the forest intensified, becoming almost overwhelming. "Hello?" Her voice sounded thin and reedy, swallowed by the rain and the silence. Only the drumming of the rain answered. She moved slowly, cautiously, scanning the shadows beneath the trees. The standing stones seemed to lean inward, pressing against her, as if trying to contain her. The Heartstone pulsed again, quicker this time, and she felt a strange pressure behind her eyes, a faint, unsettling distortion of her perception. Another sound. A rustle in the undergrowth, followed by the soft pad of something moving just beyond the periphery of her vision. She strained to see through the rain, but the darkness was absolute. It wasn't an animal. Too deliberate, too… weighted. She started to walk, sticking to the path, a narrow ribbon of muddy earth winding through the trees. It felt like a terrible choice, a surrender to whatever was out there, but the alternative – stopping, turning back – was unthinkable. The air grew colder, the scent of iron stronger. The wildflowers seemed to shift, their faces turning, tracking her with an unsettling intelligence. A low hum began to resonate through the ground, vibrating through her boots and up her legs. The Heartstone burned against her chest, its warmth almost painful. She thought she saw something move in the shadows again, a fleeting glimpse of grey, impossibly tall, moving with a fluid, unnatural grace. She squeezed her eyes shut, willing it to be a trick of the light, a figment of her exhausted mind. When she opened them, it was closer. Not close enough to see clearly, but close enough to feel the weight of its presence, a suffocating blanket of cold and stillness. It smelled like wet stone and decay, like something that had been buried for centuries and was now slowly, patiently, returning. The humming intensified, coalescing into a whisper, a voice just on the edge of hearing. It wasn’t speaking words she understood, but it resonated deep within her bones, a primal, unsettling chord that vibrated with an ancient malice. Rory backed away slowly, her hand tightening around the knife. She needed to get out. Now. But something held her back, a strange, compelling inertia. It was as if the Grove itself didn’t want her to leave. She turned and ran, blindly crashing through the undergrowth, branches tearing at her coat and skin. The rain plastered her clothes to her body, blinding her with its relentless onslaught. The whispering followed her, growing louder, closer, laced with a subtle, mocking amusement. Behind her, she heard a footstep. Not the measured tread of a man, but something heavier, something that moved with a deliberate, predatory grace. It was gaining on her. She risked a glance over her shoulder. Nothing. Just the rain, the trees, the oppressive darkness. But the feeling of being watched, of being hunted, was absolute. The Heartstone flared with an urgent, crimson light, pulling her forward, deeper into the Grove. She realized with a sickening certainty that it wasn’t guiding her *out* of the Grove. It was leading her *into* it. Another footstep. Closer now. She could feel the presence behind her, cold and impossibly vast. Then, a voice – clear, sharp, and utterly devoid of emotion – spoke directly into her mind. *“You shouldn’t have come looking.”* She didn’t turn. She couldn’t. She knew, with a terrifying clarity, that whatever was pursuing her wasn't interested in a chase. It was interested in something else, something hidden within her, something buried deep beneath the carefully constructed facade of cool intelligence she presented to the world. The Heartstone pulsed violently, and Rory felt a sharp, searing pain in her wrist. She looked down and saw a thin, silver line blooming across her skin, tracing the outline of the scar she’d carried since childhood. It wasn’t a scar from an accident. It was a mark. A gateway. The last thing she saw, before the darkness consumed her, was a figure emerging from the trees – tall, impossibly thin, wreathed in shadow and rain. It didn’t move towards her. It simply *looked* at her, and in that gaze, Rory saw not malice, but a profound, ancient sadness. And the chilling realization that she hadn't escaped the Grove. She'd merely become part of it.