Run: 2026-02-20-01KHYAS3A3BTBT2CYXDA8MK45P

Aurora stepped through the veil of twisted oaks, the ancient standing stones brushing her shoulders like silent sentinels. The air shifted as she crossed the boundary, thickening with the scent of wildflowers that shouldn't have bloomed in the chill of a London autumn night. Richmond Park lay behind her, its vast meadows swallowed by darkness, but here in the Fae Grove, an unnatural hush reigned. She'd come because of the pendant—the Heartstone, that thumbnail-sized crimson gem on its silver chain, given to her by some faceless stranger months ago. Lately, it had begun to pulse against her skin, a faint warmth that tugged her toward this hidden pocket between worlds. Answers, she hoped. Or at least a clue to whatever force had upended her life since fleeing Cardiff. Her boots crunched on fallen leaves, the sound unnaturally loud in the stillness. Rory paused, bright blue eyes scanning the clearing. The grove was smaller than she'd imagined, a circle of grass ringed by those gnarled oaks, their branches interlacing overhead like a cage. Wildflowers dotted the ground—violets, daisies, bursts of color defiant against the night. No wind stirred them. No insects buzzed. Even the distant hum of city traffic from beyond the park had vanished, as if the grove existed in its own sealed bubble. She adjusted the strap of her backpack, feeling the weight of the flashlight and notebook inside. Research, that's all this was. A quick look around, jot some notes, and back to her flat above Silas's bar before dawn. But something felt off. The moment her foot had crossed the stones, a prickle had crawled up her spine, like the air itself resisted her presence. She shook it off—nerves, probably, from too many late-night deliveries through sketchy alleys for Yu-Fei's restaurant. Rory was cool-headed, always had been. Quick thinking had gotten her out of Evan's grip, out of that suffocating pre-law track her father had pushed her into. This was just another puzzle. She fingered the pendant, its deep crimson surface cool now, no longer pulsing. Odd. It had led her here, hadn't it? Why stop? She moved deeper into the grove, the wildflowers brushing her jeans with a softness that felt almost deliberate, like fingers grazing her legs. The moon filtered through the canopy in silver shafts, casting elongated shadows that stretched across the grass like dark veins. Time moved differently here, she'd read in some obscure forum post—the only hint she'd found about this place. An hour inside could be minutes outside, or days. She checked her watch: 11:47 PM. Fine. She'd set a timer on her phone for thirty minutes. No risks. A faint rustle broke the silence. Rory froze, heart skipping. Leaves? But there was no breeze. She strained her ears, but the sound didn't repeat. Just her imagination, amplified by the isolation. She continued forward, toward the center of the clearing where a cluster of larger stones hunkered like forgotten altars. The pendant hung heavy against her chest, its faint inner glow barely visible in the moonlight. She lifted it, examining the gem. Still dormant. Frustration gnawed at her. Why bring her here if not to reveal something? Another rustle, this time to her left. Closer. She whipped her head around, but saw only shadows dancing between the oaks. The wildflowers swayed gently, as if something had passed through them. A fox, maybe? Richmond Park teemed with wildlife—deer, rabbits, the occasional badger. But foxes didn't move without sound, and this grove felt too... contained. She pulled out her flashlight, clicking it on. The beam sliced through the dark, illuminating petals that gleamed unnaturally bright, their colors vivid even in the artificial light. No eyes reflected back at her. No movement. "Get a grip, Rory," she muttered to herself, voice swallowed by the air. Talking helped sometimes, grounded her. Eva would laugh if she could see this—her childhood friend who'd dragged her to London, insisting on fresh starts. But Eva wasn't here. No one was. That's why she'd come at night: solitude, no interruptions from joggers or tourists stumbling into the park's hidden corners. She knelt by one of the central stones, running her fingers over its rough bark-like surface. Not stone at all—petrified wood, ancient as the oaks around it. Carvings etched the surface, faint spirals and runes that twisted under her touch. The pendant warmed slightly in her palm, a subtle pulse. Finally. She leaned closer, notebook out, sketching the symbols by flashlight. This was progress. This was why she'd come. A whisper of movement behind her. Not a rustle this time—more like fabric brushing against grass, or breath exhaled too close. Rory's skin prickled, the small crescent scar on her left wrist itching as it always did when adrenaline surged. She didn't turn immediately, forcing her breathing steady. Slow. Methodical. Like piecing together a case in those pre-law classes she'd hated. Count to three. One... two... three. She pivoted, beam sweeping the perimeter. Nothing. But the wildflowers to her right lay flattened in a narrow path, as if something low to the ground had slithered through. Not a fox—too deliberate, too straight a line leading toward the standing stones at the edge. Her pulse quickened. The grove's time-weirdness, maybe? Echoes of past visitors? But no, the flowers sprang back slowly, resilient, blooming eternally as the lore suggested. The certainty crept in then, slow as fog rolling over the Thames. She wasn't alone. Eyes on her, unseen but palpable, like the stare of a stranger in a crowded tube car. Rory stood, backpack slung over one shoulder, flashlight gripped like a weapon. She scanned the oaks, their trunks twisting into shapes that mimicked faces in the dim light—knotted eyes, gaping mouths. Pareidolia, that's what it was. The mind filling in patterns where none existed. Yet the rustle came again, from multiple directions now. Left, then right, then behind. Soft, insistent, like bare feet padding over earth. She spun, light jittering. A shadow flickered at the edge of her vision, gone before she could focus. Too tall for an animal, too fluid for a branch swaying. Her mouth went dry. The pendant throbbed against her skin, warmer now, its crimson glow intensifying like a heartbeat. Near a portal, it was supposed to do that—whatever "Hel" meant in the cryptic notes she'd found with it. But portals to where? And why did the air feel heavier, pressing in as if the grove itself breathed? She backed toward the center, away from the encroaching shadows. The wildflowers seemed to multiply underfoot, vines curling subtly around her ankles, not trapping but... guiding? No, that was madness. She stomped them down, the petals crushing with a wet pop that echoed unnaturally. Another sound layered beneath it—a low murmur, like voices overlapping in a language she couldn't parse. Welsh? No, older, guttural, twisting like the runes on the stones. Panic clawed at her edges, but Rory clamped it down. Think. She'd fled an abusive ex, navigated London's underbelly on a delivery bike— this was just a trick of the light, the isolation playing on her nerves. She checked her watch: 11:52 PM. Only five minutes? It felt like hours. Time dilation. That explained the disorientation. She needed to leave, regroup, come back in daylight. As she turned toward the boundary stones, the murmurs grew. Not wind, not imagination—distinct syllables now, weaving through the air like smoke. "Malphora," one seemed to say, an alias she hadn't heard since... no, that was her mind again. The pendant burned hot, its glow casting red hues over the grass. Shadows elongated, detaching from the oaks, slinking closer. One resolved into a shape at the periphery—humanoid, elongated limbs, features blurred as if viewed through water. It vanished when she looked directly. Her breath came in shallow bursts. Not alone. Definitely not. Something watched, waited, circled. The flattened paths in the flowers multiplied, converging on her position. She bolted for the exit, flashlight beam bouncing wildly. Branches clawed at her hair, straight black strands whipping across her face. The standing stones loomed ahead, but the grove seemed to stretch, the boundary retreating just out of reach. A hand— or what felt like one—brushed her shoulder, cold and insubstantial. Rory yelped, spinning, but nothing there. Only the whispers, louder, insistent, calling names: Rory, Laila, Aurora, Malphora. Aliases she'd used, some buried deep in her past. How? The pendant seared her skin, its pulse syncing with her racing heart. She stumbled through the stones at last, bursting into the chill night of Richmond Park. The city hum returned, distant but real. She gasped, leaning against a normal oak, not twisted like those inside. Her watch read 11:55 PM. Eight minutes total. But the scar on her wrist throbbed as if hours had passed, and the whispers lingered in her ears, faint but persistent, promising return. No, not promising. Warning. Whatever hid in the grove wasn't done with her. And as the pendant cooled against her chest, Rory knew she'd be back—drawn, compelled, despite the terror coiling in her gut. The wrongness hadn't ended with her escape; it had followed her out.