Run: 2026-02-20-01KHYATA2DY2PSZ56FBAYQZF3C

Rory fumbled with her phone, the glow of the screen illuminating her scar—crescent-shaped, silvery—where Evan had grabbed her wrist three years back. The barometer on the wall of Silas’ pub had read 72 degrees, but the air in Richmond Park bit through her jacket. 11:17 PM. She’d left with a thermos of black coffee and the Heartstone Pendant clutched in her palm, its chain digging into her throat the way Evan’s fingers used to. *Not this time*, she’d thought. *This is different*. The path to the Grove had been a straight line on Yu-Fei’s map—two miles from the pub, through the old arboretum. But her boots had crunched over dead leaves for 45 minutes, and the trees had thickened, their branches weaving a canopy so dense she could barely see the moon. Now, the trees thinned. Up ahead, the standing stones loomed: six ancient oaks, their trunks gnarled as witches’ fingers, their roots coiled over the ground like sleeping snakes. Yu-Fei had said the Grove was “between here and gone,” a pocket where the earth held its breath. Rory had scoffed at the old woman’s tales—until the pendant had started pulsing three nights ago, a dull thrum that matched the rhythm of her heartbeat. *Hel portals*, Yu-Fei had mumbled over a bowl of noodles, her hands shaking. *They don’t just open. They call. Someone’s trying to fix what was broken.* Rory pushed through a curtain of ivy. The clearing hit her like a hand over the mouth—silent, but not empty. Wildflowers bloomed in every color, their petals so vivid they looked painted: blood-red poppies, indigo irises, sunshine-yellow daisies. But they moved. Not in a breeze, which didn’t stir. A bloom turned toward her as she watched, its center a black hole that contracted and relaxed. She froze. The pendant buzzed again, hotter this time, its crimson gem flaring like a dying star. She fumbled it out, its warmth seeping into her palm, and the flowers stilled. Too still. A twig snapped. Rory spun. The trees were empty. The oaks stood, their shadows stretching long, but no one ducked behind bark or crouched in the undergrowth. She walked to the center, the grass soft underfoot, almost moldy. The pendant burned now, a white-hot point in her hand. *Here*, it seemed to say. *Under the stones*. She knelt, digging at the soil. It clumped in her fingers, dark and wet, like rotted leaves. The pendant throbbed harder, so hard her bones ached. *Under the stones*, it whispered. Not with words, but with a pressure behind her eyes, a memory of a woman’s voice: *“Water binds worlds. Soil holds the dead.”* Rory’s back went rigid. The air smelled like iron—coppery, thick—and something sweeter, like overripe peaches. She stood, turning. A figure was at the edge of the clearing, between two oaks. It was tall, taller than her, with a frame that shifted, like water in a mirror. She squinted. No face, just a void where eyes should be, and a smile that stretched too wide, lips painted red. Rory took a step back. The pendant slipped from her hand, clattering to the ground. It lay there, a still pool of crimson, and the figure moved. Not walked. *Shifted*, like smoke. It came closer, and the flowers around it bent, bowing, their petals fluttering upward. “Laila,” it said. The voice was a chorus—thousands of voices, high and low, overlapping until it hurt. “You came.” Laila. She’d used that name once, in a fight with Evan. *You’re not Laila*, he’d hissed, and then his hand had broken her wrist. *You’re Aurora. And Aurora’s mine.* But here, no one called her Laila. Not since Eva had dragged her to London, sobbing, *Run before he finds you*. Rory backed into a tree. The trunk was warm, almost alive, its bark pulsing with a slow, steady rhythm. The figure loomed over her, and now she saw the antlers—thin, branching, not bone but wood, like branches stripped of leaves. Its fingers ended in twigs, sharp as needles. “You *felt* it,” the voice said, and the flowers around them rustled, their black centers staring. “The pull. The wrongness. He let it loose, you know. Evan. He couldn’t control it, and he *hated* that you could. That you *saw*—” “Stop,” Rory said. Her voice shook, but she kept it low, steady. *Don’t show fear*, her father had told her, when she was six and froze in front of a bully. *Fear is a language they understand. Don’t speak it.* The figure tilted its head. The antlers creaked, like old doors. “You think you’re smart. You run. You hide. But he *always* finds his toys, Laila. He *loves* his toys.” Rory’s hand brushed the ground. She grabbed a fistful of dirt and hurled it at the figure. It didn’t flinch. The dirt fell away, like smoke. “Isolde,” Rory said. The name came from somewhere deep, a memory of a story Eva used to tell—about a queen who made a pact with the Fae, who cursed her lovers and her children, who lived in a grove where time forgot. “You’re in the Grove. But you’re not the queen anymore. You’re a ghost.” The figure flinched. The flowers around it shrieked. “You *know* the stories. Idiot. You think you can *solve* it? You think the Heartstone—” “My stone,” Rory corrected. The pendant had started glowing again, a faint, warm light, and now she realized why. The ground beneath it was cracking, a thin black line snaking outward. “Stay away from it.” The figure laughed, and it was Evan’s laugh—high, cruel, familiar. “It’s *mine*, Aurora. You can’t keep what he gave you.” Rory stepped away. The crack spread, and the ground *sank*, a little, like the earth was breathing. The flowers around the figure withered, their petals turning to ash. “You’re not him,” she said. “You’re a echo. A mistake.” The figure roared. Antlers split, branches exploding outward, and now she saw it—the face, formed from bark and thorns, its eyes glowing with the same crimson light as the pendant. *Evan’s eyes*, cold and hungry. “He’ll *find* you. And when he does—” A sound cut through the air: a low, guttural growl, coming from the trees. The figure tensed, its antlers trembling. Rory heard it again, closer, and this time, she saw it—a shadow, moving between the trees, something tall and hunched, with claws like broken glass. The figure whirled. The shadow lunged. There was a sound like splitting wood, and then silence. The figure was gone, its place a pile of ash. The shadow turned, and Rory saw its face—pale, gaunt, with eyes like empty sockets—and it smiled, showing teeth that were too many. Rory stumbled back, tripping over a root. The ground was tilting now, the crack widening into a chasm. She grabbed the pendant, its chain tight in her hand, and looked up. The sky was wrong—dark, but not night, with a second moon hanging low, its surface pockmarked like a wound. The flowers were gone, replaced by black grass that writhed under her boots. The shadow spoke, its voice a whisper in her ear. “You shouldn’t have come.” Rory ran. She didn’t stop until she reached the standing stones, her lungs burning, the pendant throbbing in her palm. The shadow followed, its footsteps echoing like thunder. She stumbled through the ivy, into the park, and kept going, her phone’s torch flickering on the path—until the trees closed in, and the world went dark. When she woke, she was on the ground, the pendant in her hand, the scar on her wrist stinging. The park was quiet, the moon high, the stars bright. No shadow, no flowers, no second moon. Just the crickets, and the distant hum of a car. She stood, brushing dirt from her jeans. The pendant was still warm, its gem glowing faintly. Rory smiled, cold and sharp. *Evan*, she thought. *You forgot how to run. But I never will.* She kept walking. The shadow watched from the trees, its face a mask of ash and thorns. It turned, and vanished into the dark, where the Fae Grove waited, hungry. A clock tower chimed 2:07 AM. Somewhere, a baby cried. The flowers in the Grove bloomed again, their petals red as blood, their centers black as coal. And the Heartstone Pendant pulsed, twice, then stopped. For a moment. Then it began to glow. And the Grove breathed.