Run: 2026-02-20-01KHYAS31HYVHMKKW8TGHA78R7

Aurora Carter gripped the steering wheel tighter as she navigated the winding paths of Richmond Park, the MINI Cooper's headlights carving thin tunnels through the ink-black night. It was past midnight, the kind of hour when Londoners huddled in their flats, oblivious to the wild fringes where deer roamed and ancient secrets festered. The Heartstone Pendant throbbed against her chest, tucked beneath her denim jacket—a steady pulse like a second heartbeat, warmer than it had any right to be. It had started that afternoon during a delivery run, flaring crimson through her shirt as if scenting blood. No Hel portal nearby, she'd thought, but the pull dragged her here anyway, an itch she couldn't ignore. Eva had mentioned rumors once, a hidden grove where time twisted like smoke. Worth a look. Quick in, quick out. She killed the engine near a deer stand, the sudden silence amplifying the distant hoot of an owl. Grabbing her torch from the glovebox—small crescent scar on her left wrist catching the faint dashboard glow—she stepped out, boots crunching on frost-kissed grass. The air bit sharp, winter's edge lingering despite the calendar's insistence on spring. Richmond Park sprawled vast and empty around her, sodium lamps flickering like dying stars along the perimeter roads. No joggers, no dog-walkers. Just her, chasing a bauble's whim. The pendant warmed further as she trudged toward the coordinates Eva had texted—a vague pin drop amid the bracken. Her breath fogged in the beam of her torch, straight black hair whipping across her face in a gust that smelled faintly of honeysuckle. Wrong season for that. She pushed through a thicket of brambles, thorns snagging her jeans, until the oaks loomed. Not ordinary trees—these rose like sentinels, trunks twisted into rough-hewn slabs etched with knots that mimicked runes. Standing stones, ancient oaks marking... what? A boundary. Her skin prickled. The pendant burned now, a coal against her sternum. Beyond them, the clearing unfolded. The Fae Grove, if Eva's stories held truth. Wildflowers carpeted the ground in defiant bloom—foxgloves nodding purple bells, bluebells spilling like spilled ink, primroses glowing faintly under moonlight that seemed too bright, too steady. No frost here. The air hung thick, warmer, laced with that cloying floral rot, as if the petals masked something decomposing beneath. Rory swept her torch across the space: a perfect circle, maybe fifty paces wide, ringed by those oaks. No paths in or out. Just grass, flowers, and a massive central stone, weathered smooth, veined with quartz that shimmered unnaturally. She stepped over the threshold. The world muted. Her torch beam dulled at the edges, as if the light feared spilling too far. The pendant's pulse synced with her own heartbeat—thump-thump, thump-thump—faster now. "Okay, Rory," she muttered, voice flat in the stillness. "What now?" Pre-Law brain kicked in: observe, catalog, don't panic. She circled the central stone, fingers brushing its surface. Cool, slick like river rock, but humming faintly under her palm. Vibrations climbed her arm, settling in her teeth. Phone check: no signal, battery frozen at 11:47 PM. She'd left at 12:03. Impossible. She tapped the screen, willing it to life. Nothing. A glance at her watch—same time. The owl's hoot echoed from outside the oaks, but warped, stretched into a low keen that faded too slowly. Wind rustled the leaves overhead, yet the flowers below stood motionless, petals frozen mid-bloom. She pressed on, torch probing shadows. The grove felt smaller now, the oaks leaning inward like conspirators. A flicker at the periphery—something skittered behind a cluster of ferns. Rabbit? Deer? She froze, beam snapping that way. Empty. Just swaying fronds, though no breeze stirred them. Her pulse matched the pendant's rhythm, a drumbeat urging flight. But why run? She came for answers. The pendant's donor—unknown, slipped into her pocket weeks ago after that bar fight above Silas's. A warning? A lure? Deeper in, near the far oaks, she knelt by a patch of violets. Their scent punched her—overripe, meaty. She pinched a petal, crushed it between fingers. Sticky sap, warm as blood. Wrong. All wrong. The ground here dipped slightly, forming a shallow basin. Her torch caught indentations in the soil—footprints? Bare, elongated, toes splayed unnaturally. Fresh. She rocked back on her heels, breath shallow. No one else in the park. She'd seen no cars, no lights. A soft snap echoed from the opposite side of the circle. Twig underfoot? But the ground was flower-soft, no twigs in sight. Rory whipped around, beam slashing the dark. Nothing. Yet the flowers quivered now, a ripple passing through them like water disturbed by a stone. She stood slowly, ears straining. Silence, thick as treacle. Then, a whisper. Faint, layered, like voices murmuring in a distant room. "...carter... rory..." Her name? No. Imagination. Cool-headed, remember? Quick thinking got her out of Evan's grip, out of Cardiff. This was just isolation playing tricks. The pendant flared hot, crimson glow seeping through her shirt. She yanked it free, the thumbnail-sized gem pulsing like a heart ripped from a chest. Its light bathed her hands in red, casting long shadows that writhed at the edges. Something moved there—a silhouette, tall and thin, folding itself behind an oak trunk. Gone when she blinked. Heart hammering, she backed toward the center stone. The whispers grew, not words now but a susurrus, like silk dragged over stone. Leaves overhead pattered down, though the branches stood bare of them moments ago. Time. Her watch still read 11:47. Outside, the owl cried again—sharper, closer, as if the grove compressed the sound. She bolted for the oaks, boots sinking into the turf that clung like wet fingers. The boundary stones loomed, but the gap she'd entered through... narrowed? No, trick of the light. She squeezed between two trunks, thorns raking her jacket. The park should sprawl beyond—open fields, distant road hum. Instead, the thicket re-formed seamlessly, brambles knitting shut. She slashed at them with her torch, beam frantic. They parted, but only to reveal more grove—identical flowers, identical oaks, central stone mocking her. "Bloody hell," she gasped, spinning. The whispers chased her, circling now: "...stay... malphora... ours..." Aliases from her past—Laila, the false name she'd used fleeing Evan. How? Footsteps. Hers, echoed a beat behind. She halted; they halted. Listened—soft pad, pad, mirroring her stance. Nothing in the torch beam. Sweat beaded her brow despite the chill seeping back in. The flowers pulsed with her pendant's glow, veins of light threading petals, blooming wider, faces almost forming in their centers—eyes? No, shadows. Restraint clawed her: don't look too long. She ran circuits now, testing the edges. Each oak boundary looped her back to the center. The air thickened, pressing her ribs, tasting of copper and petals. Peripheral darts: a hand withdrawing from ferns, pale fingers curling; a shape hunched low, slinking deer-like but upright; eyes—bright, unblinking—in the undergrowth, vanishing when pursued. The pendant scorched, chain biting her neck. She clawed it off, hurled it toward the stone. It landed with a wet thud, glow intensifying, drawing the shadows inward like moths. The whispers coalesced: "...heart... stone... home..." Her scar itched, childhood memory flashing—fall from the Cardiff swings, blood crescent on skin. Here, it burned anew. The central stone cracked faintly, quartz veins spidering out. Something stirred beneath the flowers—a bulge, rising slow as breath. Rory dropped to her knees, torch skittering away. The ground heaved gently, petals parting to reveal... soil? No, flesh-toned earth, pulsing. Footprints multiplied around her, circling tighter. The echoed steps closed in—pad, pad, pad—breath hot on her neck, though alone. She was alone. Had to be. The owl scream warped into laughter, high and tinkling, from every oak at once. Time fractured: her phone flickered—12:05 now? Or days? Flowers climbed her boots, stems wrapping ankles like lovers' grasps. Shadows coalesced at the edges, tall forms with too-jointed limbs, faces blurred but grinning. They didn't advance. Just watched. Waited. She lunged for the pendant, fingers closing on its warmth. It seared, yanking her vision inward—crimson vortex, whispers promising truths. The grove held its breath. She wasn't alone. Never had been. The boundary oaks creaked, bending to enclose. Home, they murmured. Stay. Rory screamed, voice swallowed by petals. The glow consumed her hands, the circle, the night. Outside, Richmond Park slumbered. Minutes passed. Or days.