Run: 2026-02-20-01KHYANGN1XM7ET57YFMMVY23S

Aurora stepped through the veil of ancient oaks, their gnarled trunks twisting like forgotten sentinels under the moon's pale gaze. The air shifted as she crossed the boundary, a subtle thickening that pressed against her skin, as if the world had drawn a breath and held it. Richmond Park stretched vast and empty behind her, its paths swallowed by night, but here in the Fae Grove, the wildflowers bloomed defiantly, their petals unfurled in colors that shouldn't persist in autumn's chill—vibrant reds and purples glowing faintly in the darkness. She clutched the Heartstone Pendant tighter, its deep crimson gem warm against her palm, pulsing like a distant heartbeat. It had led her here, that much she knew. The unknown benefactor who'd slipped it into her mail slot weeks ago hadn't included a note, but tonight, as she'd lain awake in her flat above Silas' bar, the stone had thrummed insistently, drawing her out into the cold London streets. A compulsion, almost. Rory wasn't one for whims, but after Evan, after fleeing Cardiff and rebuilding in fragments, she'd learned to trust the odd pulls in her gut. This pendant felt like a key to something larger, something that might explain the dreams of shadowed realms and whispering voices that had plagued her since she'd put it on. So she'd come, alone, under the cover of night, hoping the grove's legends held truth—that it bridged worlds, that answers waited in its hidden folds. The clearing unfolded before her, a perfect circle ringed by those oak standing stones, their bark etched with runes that seemed to shift when she blinked. No wind stirred the flowers, yet their stems swayed gently, as if breathing. Rory paused at the edge, her boots sinking into moss that felt unnaturally soft, like flesh yielding underfoot. She shook off the thought—silly, that. It was just a place, fae-touched or not. Time moved differently here, the stories said; an hour inside could stretch or shrink outside. She'd set a timer on her phone, just in case, but as she checked it now, the screen flickered, the digits blurring for a second before snapping back. Odd, but not alarming. Yet. She moved deeper into the grove, the silver chain of the pendant cool against her collarbone. The stone's warmth had steadied since she'd arrived, its faint inner glow casting a reddish tint on her fingers. Rory scanned the clearing, her bright blue eyes narrowing. No one else here, of course—she'd slipped past the park's gates after hours, evading the occasional ranger's patrol. The isolation had seemed appealing in the cab ride over, a chance to think without the clamor of London pressing in. But now, standing in the heart of it, a prickle danced along her spine. The night felt heavier here, the stars above the canopy dimmer, as if the grove hoarded its own sky. A rustle broke the silence, faint and distant, like leaves brushing against stone. Rory froze, head tilting. The oaks stood motionless; no breeze to blame. She waited, breath held, but it didn't repeat. Probably a deer, she told herself, though Richmond Park's herds rarely ventured this deep into the wilder sections, especially at night. Shrugging it off, she knelt among the wildflowers, their scents rising sweet and cloying, almost intoxicating. She traced a fingertip over a petal, marveling at its velvet texture, but as she did, the flower's color deepened, shifting from purple to a bruised indigo. Her hand pulled back instinctively. Imagination, surely. The pendant pulsed once, warmer now, as if in response. Rising, she circled the clearing, her straight black hair swaying against her shoulders. The small crescent scar on her left wrist itched faintly, a reminder of that childhood fall from the apple tree in her parents' garden—Brendan's stern lectures on caution, Jennifer's worried fussing. Rory had always been the quick thinker, the one who dodged trouble with a clever pivot. But here, logic felt slippery. She stopped near one of the standing stones, running her palm over its rough bark. It hummed under her touch, a vibration so subtle it could be her own pulse echoing back. "What are you?" she murmured to the pendant, lifting it to eye level. The crimson gem stared back, its glow steady, unblinking. Another sound—a soft crunch, like footsteps on dry leaves. Rory whipped around, heart kicking up. The grove remained empty, the flowers undisturbed. But there, at the edge of her vision, a shadow flickered between two oaks, gone before she could focus. She blinked hard, rubbing her eyes. The moonlight played tricks, that was all. Still, she backed toward the center, scanning the perimeter. The standing stones seemed taller now, their runes more pronounced, twisting like veins under skin. Minutes passed, or what felt like minutes. Her phone's timer showed only five had elapsed, but the night outside the grove—visible through gaps in the trees—had deepened, the moon's position unchanged. Time's quirk, she reminded herself. Nothing more. Yet the air grew thicker, pressing in, carrying a whisper of scent she couldn't place—something metallic, like old blood mixed with earth. The pendant warmed again, its pulse quicker, syncing with her own accelerating heartbeat. She paced, trying to shake the unease. This was why she'd come: to understand the artifact, to see if the grove amplified its power. Legends spoke of portals here, bridges to the fae realm. If the stone reacted to Hel portals—whatever that meant—maybe it would reveal something. Rory closed her eyes, focusing on the warmth in her hand, willing it to guide her. But instead of clarity, a low murmur filled her ears, indistinct, like voices conversing just beyond hearing. Her eyes snapped open. The grove was silent, but the murmurs lingered, echoing in her mind. There—at the corner of her sight, another movement. A shape, slender and indistinct, darting behind a stone. Rory spun, breath catching. "Who's there?" Her voice cut through the night, sharper than she'd intended. No answer came, only the sway of flowers that shouldn't move in still air. She took a step forward, then another, approaching the stone where the shadow had vanished. Up close, the bark felt warmer, almost alive, pulsing faintly under her fingers. The scar on her wrist throbbed now, a dull ache. The murmurs returned, clearer this time—not words, but a cadence, like chanting in a language forgotten by time. Rory pressed her back against the stone, scanning the clearing. Empty. Utterly empty. But the certainty bloomed in her chest: she was not alone. Something watched, waited. The wildflowers bent toward her, their blooms turning like faces following her movement. She retreated a step, boots crunching on moss that now felt brittle, like fragile bones underfoot. A chill wind finally stirred, unnatural in its suddenness, carrying with it a scent of decay—rotting leaves, perhaps, or something older. The pendant burned hot now, its glow illuminating her hand in crimson light. Rory glanced down; the stone's inner fire swirled, as if alive. When she looked up, the shadows between the oaks had deepened, pooling like ink. And there, in the periphery, forms shifted—elongated silhouettes that melted away when she turned her gaze directly. Her mind raced, piecing together fragments from old tales Eva had shared over pints at Silas'—fae beings that lured the unwary, groves that trapped souls in eternal twilight. But those were stories, not reality. Still, the wrongness built, layer by layer. A twig snapped to her left, deliberate, close. She whirled, seeing nothing but the undulating flowers. Another snap, behind her now. Then laughter—soft, tinkling, like wind chimes made of glass shards. It came from everywhere and nowhere, wrapping around her. Rory's cool head frayed at the edges. She fumbled for her phone, the screen's light piercing the dark. The timer read fifteen minutes, but the moon outside hadn't budged, while her watch claimed an hour had passed. Time unraveling. The murmurs swelled, resolving into fragments: "Carter... Malphora..." Her aliases, whispered like secrets. How? No one here knew her as Malphora—that was a name from her university days, a pseudonym for anonymous essays on fae lore. Panic clawed up her throat, but she swallowed it down. Think, Rory. Out-of-the-box. The pendant— it had brought her here, but maybe it could lead her out. She gripped it tight, focusing on the pulse, willing it to point the way. But the warmth spread, unnatural, climbing her arm like vines. Shadows detached from the oaks, slinking closer, their edges blurring into mist. One brushed against her ankle, cold as frostbite, and she jerked back, heart slamming. The laughter grew, a chorus now, mocking and melodic. Forms solidified at the grove's edge—tall, ethereal, with eyes that gleamed like distant stars. Not human, not animal. They didn't advance, but their presence pressed, a weight that bent the air. Rory backed toward the center, the standing stones looming like judges. The flowers reached higher, petals brushing her calves, soft as fingers. She ran then, or tried to—dashing for the boundary where she'd entered. But the oaks had shifted, the path twisted. The pendant scorched her skin, its glow flaring bright, illuminating faces in the shadows: pale, elongated, with smiles too wide. "Stay," the whispers urged, "join us." Her scar burned white-hot, a brand. Stumbling, she broke through a gap, tumbling onto the cold grass of Richmond Park proper. The night air rushed in, normal, unthickened. She gasped, rolling to her knees, the pendant cooling in her grasp. Behind her, the grove's entrance shimmered and faded, the oaks just ordinary trees now. But as she staggered away, the laughter echoed faintly in her ears, a promise that the grove remembered her name.